A Bouquet of Love (4 page)

“You look sad.” Eva's nose wrinkled as she stared at me.

“Not really sad,” I responded. “Just . . . confused.” An awkward silence rose up between us. My sister continued to towel her long, dark hair. I finally finished my thought aloud. “Have you ever just wished you had a different life?”

“Like, wished you could trade places with someone else, you mean?” Eva slung the towel over the bed's footboard, then walked to the vanity mirror and gave her reflection a pensive look.

“Not really that.” I rose and stood alongside her, staring at our dual reflections. “Just wished that things were different. Like maybe wished you had the courage to stand up to someone who micromanaged your every move.”

“Oh,
that
.” My sister groaned and turned to face me. “Why didn't you just say this was a conversation about Babbas?”

I sat in front of the vanity, frustration gripping me. “Because I'm twenty-three. I'm a skilled floral designer, but no one would ever know it, thanks to him. He doesn't think I can cross the street by myself without getting hit by a car.”

“Well, there was that one time in Santa Cruz where you—”

“Why does everyone have a story about the way I was as a kid?” I slapped myself on the forehead. “The point is, I'm so tired of being treated like a child. I'm not. I'm responsible. Have I ever given him any reason to think otherwise?” My sister opened her mouth to respond, but I added, “Recently?”

“Not
recently
.” She grinned and gave her reflection another look.

I rose and walked to the window. Peering outside, I surveyed the Strand under the glow of the setting sun.

“I'm twenty-three. Other girls my age are married. Have babies. They're not stuck at home under their father's thumb. They're chasing their dreams.”

Across the street, something caught my eye. The door to Parma John's opened and that woman—the one with the gorgeous curly hair and svelte physique—stepped outside onto the sidewalk. The handsome cowboy followed with the
adorable little girl in his arms. Behind him came the feisty little boy. I watched as they all made their way toward a truck parked nearby.

I envied her—the girl with the picture-perfect figure and flawless hair. No doubt she had a perfectly sane life, one not riddled with overbearing parents and wacky family members who were always in her business. Clearly she got to eat all the pizza she liked on top of that. Oh, and that dreamboat of a cowboy who always kissed her at every turn? I envied her for that too. Where did a girl have to go to find a guy like that?

My thoughts shifted to Alex, the guy in the flower shop. Apparently a girl didn't have to go far. Just up the street. At Patti-Lou's Petals, I could sneak away from my everyday life and spend a little time with a handsome Greek guy from . . . what was that small town called again? Oh well, it didn't matter where he came from. The conversation we'd shared almost gave me hope that I could one day settle into a happy relationship like the girl across the street had done.

I couldn't help the sudden burst of happiness that took hold of me as I thought about him. What a dreamy life that would be!

My sister tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned to face her, she grinned and said, “‘The Boy Next Door.'”

“Huh?”

“You're humming ‘The Boy Next Door.' It's one of my favorites. Could've guessed it would be a Judy Garland tune. You've been on a kick lately with her music, haven't you?”

“Oh, sorry. Didn't realize I was humming.”

“I know. You never do. But don't let that stop you. I love that you've got a song in your heart.” Eva dove into the lyrics of “Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart” and sang it
in multiple keys. Not that I minded. A Judy Garland song sounded great, no matter the key. Or keys.

I eventually worked up the courage to tell Eva my secret about taking a new job. Just when I'd fully unloaded on her, I heard a sound coming from the doorway and looked over, horrified to discover Yia Yia standing there with little Gina at her side, listening in.

Oh no.

My grandmother hobbled into the room, her stooped frame causing her to appear even tinier than usual. She gestured for me to sit on the bed and I did. Then she took the spot next to me and reached for my hand.

“Your father, he is a good man.” Yia Yia patted my arm. “I raised him right.”

“He's a
tough
man.” I sighed as I thought it through.
Too
tough.

Yia Yia's wrinkles softened like a bar of chocolate left sitting in the sun. “He wants what's best for you, Cassia. Always. Like every parent.”

“What's best for me is doing what I was created to do, working at the flower shop.”

“Yes. Flowers. You always make them beautiful. And God . . .” She leaned over to whisper in my ear, “He makes all things beautiful, child, in his time.” A pat of her wrinkled hand on my shoulder nearly brought me to tears.

All right then. God would make all things beautiful—like a fragrant bouquet—in his time. If I could just hang on for the ride.

You might be Greek if you were as tall as your grandmother (Yia Yia) by the age of seven.

T
he day after I landed the new job, chaos broke out between the Greeks and the Italians. It all started when the photographer—a very pregnant woman named Hannah—showed up to shoot some images of my father wearing his superhero costume. The shoot was supposed to take place outside our shop. Hannah suggested long shots of my “superhero” father in front of our newly installed Super-Gyros sign so that the Santorini-blue coloring in his tights would—as she put it—force the eye to gaze upward at the blue store sign above.

Unfortunately, complications arose at every turn.

For one thing, the lunch crowd across the street made things difficult. Hannah couldn't really figure out a good place to stand to get a long shot from the opposite side of the Strand. With the mob of people coming and going from Parma John's, she simply couldn't find a safe spot to stand for more than a second or two at a time.

“Sorry, Mr. Pappas,” she called out from in front of the crowded pizzeria's door. “I'm doing the best I can. Could you scoot a little bit to the left so I can get your shop in the picture?”

Babbas tried to move, but a passing tourist nearly knocked him down. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, he sputtered and spewed like an '87 Chevy with bad gas.

A Parma John's customer got into his car and pulled away from the curb, and Hannah snagged the spot right away. She set up three orange cones to mark the area so that no one else could pull in, then gave Babbas a thumbs-up.

Apparently this decision didn't sit well with the elderly gentleman who ran the pizzeria. He came storming out into the middle of the street, waving his walking cane in the air.

It took a minute, but I finally recognized him as Laz from the TV show
The Italian Kitchen
. Oh, wow. Talk about starstruck. I wanted to rush his way and tell him just how much I loved his show. After he finished yelling at my father, anyway. Then I remembered . . . Rossi. Marcella. Flower shop. I hid behind a lamppost and peeked out to watch the rest of the goings-on.

In spite of the need for the cane, Laz carried himself with a commanding air of self-confidence. “What is this?” he hollered. His jaw tensed visibly as he gestured to the coned-off area.

“This is necessary for my photo shoot,” Babbas responded.

“And what is
this
?” Laz pointed to my father's costume.

“This”—Babbas pointed to himself in his ridiculous costume—“is how you market a business.”

“By looking like a schmuck in the middle of the street?” Laz spouted.

“I'm not the one standing in the middle of the street,” Babbas countered.

I had to give it to him there. He was standing on the sidewalk, after all.

Okay, maybe he wasn't. My father had taken several angry steps toward Laz. Wow. I hadn't seen him move that fast since the Texas-size cockroach scurried across the kitchen floor a few days back. I pinched my eyes shut, unwilling to watch.

Only, who could look away at a moment like this? I opened one eye just a bit as Hannah hurried to the middle of the two men and did her best to calm things down, to no avail.

“Someone help that poor pregnant girl.” My mother twisted a dishcloth in her hands. “Oh, I can't watch this!”

At this point Yia Yia began to pray in Greek. I couldn't make out much, but I got the part about delivering us from demonic spirits. Alrighty then.

I peeked out from behind the pole just in time to see Gina run into the street. My mother let out a scream as my little sister came within feet of a passing horse and buggy loaded with tourists.

“You nearly killed my daughter!” Babbas shouted at Laz as he pulled Gina to safety.

“I did no such thing!” Laz shouted, his face growing redder by the moment. “I just came out here to tell you that you people cannot cone off the area in front of my store. You are
using my designated parking spots.” He pointed at two spots marked “Designated Parking for Parma John's.” Yep. Hannah's cones were clearly blocking the man's designated parking spots. Still, why the fuss? Couldn't we all just get along?

“Cool your jets.” Babbas swept Gina into his arms and gave her a hug, then gestured for her to join us on the Greek side of the street. “We'll be done soon. Just go back inside and try to come up with a plan to save your business once all of your customers fall in love with my gyro.”

“Your gyro.” Laz spat on the ground. “That's what I think of your gyro.”

Yikes. Babbas might be okay with someone criticizing his children, but not his sandwiches. Slam-dunking the man's gyro was nothing short of culinary blasphemy.

Babbas hollered something in Greek. Laz reacted in fluent Italian, cane waving in the air. This went back and forth for a couple of minutes until they both stood face-to-face in the center of the road in a foreign-language duel.

Laz finally stopped and shook his head. “If you don't pick up those cones, I will call the police. This is a zoning violation. You are affecting my lunch crowd.”

Babbas puffed his chest and squared his shoulders. “I'll show you a lunch crowd!”

Laz pointed at our shop devoid of customers. “Starting when? I don't see a lunch crowd. All I see is a pathetic excuse for a sandwich shop and a grown man wearing tights.” He doubled over in laughter and the cane slipped out of his hand.

“These aren't tights!” Babbas pointed down at his Santorini-blue tights. “They are . . . are . . .”

“Skinny jeans?” my sister Eva offered from our side of the street.

This got another laugh out of Laz. He reached down to get his cane, then with a wave of his hand, he muttered something in Italian and walked back to his side of the street. “I'll give you five minutes and then I call the police,” he called out in final warning. “They will set you straight.”

Babbas walked our way and snagged the dishrag from Mama's hands. He wiped his sweaty face, straightened his twisted tights, and then signaled for Hannah to start snapping photos of him. Minutes later, just as an officer arrived, they wrapped things up.

Turned out the officer, a jovial fellow named O'Reilly, loved Greek food. Babbas invited him inside our unopened restaurant for a tour and a free gyro sandwich. “As a thank-you for protecting our community from crazy people!” Babbas proclaimed.

O'Reilly didn't argue. He followed my father into the kitchen and minutes later emerged with the largest gyro I'd ever seen. Go figure. Judging from the loopy grin on the fellow's face, we'd be seeing more of him. He gave my father a wave, thanked him, and headed off on his way.

Mama paused in the open doorway of our shop to give Parma John's a final look. Then she offered me a weak smile and said, “I think that went well.”

Mama might cover her feelings with a fake grin, but I knew better. Situations like this broke her heart. She wanted friends. Needed friends. Especially in a new home. But Babbas's erratic behavior always seemed to isolate her from those most likely to connect with us—our neighbors. Sure, we'd eventually earn the respect of some customers, but customers and friends were two different things. Wouldn't it be lovely to sit and visit with the folks next door or across the street?
Now we'd never get that chance, thanks to the man in tights. Er, skinny jeans.

Mama did what she always did when she needed to pacify herself. She went into the kitchen and baked. A couple of hours later we had several large trays of baklava and a few other yummy-looking desserts ready to sell on opening day. My mother's mood appeared to have lifted with the process.

She offered me a tantalizing piece of baklava from the plate in her hand. I gobbled it down in no time with a dreamy “Yum!”

“Thank you, sweet girl.” She looked around the empty shop, then back at me. “Where is your father? Still bribing the police force?”

“No.” I couldn't help but chuckle. “He's upstairs. Said he needed to work on the computer.”

“The computer?” Her painted-on brows arched in perfect unison. “Interesting.”

“I know, right?” Babbas never used it, at least to my knowledge. Might be fascinating to see him try.

Mama climbed the steps up to our apartment, still carrying the plate of baklava, and I followed behind her. She stopped as we reached the living room, and I nearly ran into her from behind.

“What are you doing, Mama?” I asked.

“As I live and breathe,” my mother whispered as she gestured to the living room on our right. “Never thought I'd see the day.”

I followed her pointed finger and saw Babbas seated on the sofa, laptop in hand. Open. I didn't even realize he knew how to turn it on, let alone use it.

Turned out he didn't.

He glanced our way and grunted. “Cassia, come and help me.” He gestured to the spot on the sofa next to him. “We need a plan.”

I took a seat and took the laptop in hand. “A plan? For what?”

“I need to get on the internet and research advertising tips. Maybe come up with a slogan, a new way to promote the business. Something we can use in the commercial I'm writing.”

Mama took a seat in the recliner on the opposite side of the living room, and against my better judgment, I focused on the laptop, scrolling from one site to another. We examined other restaurants' marketing strategies, but most seemed impractical for Super-Gyros. Too elaborate. Too costly.

One thing did seem doable, though, so I pointed it out. “It seems like they all have celebrity endorsements.” I pointed at one site that featured a pro football player. “Customers show up because they trust the word of the endorser.”

“Exactly. That's what we need.” Babbas leaned back against the sofa, his eyes narrowing. “Someone big. A name that everyone recognizes.”

“We don't know any famous football players,” I said. “Or basketball, for that matter. So we'll have to come at this from a different angle.”

“Right. The sports thing doesn't really work, anyway.” My father released a slow breath. “Maybe what we need—or who we need—is someone from Hollywood.”

“Hollywood?” Mama and I spoke in unison.

“Yes. Hollywood has produced all sorts of superheroes over the years. Superman. Spiderman. A million more. Why not use Hollywood to promote Super-Gyros? It's the perfect idea!” Babbas rubbed his hands together and his voice took
on a joyous tone. “I've got it! The answer was right under our noses the whole time. We have connections.”

“We do?” I asked.

“Yes.” He looked at me, his eyes now gleaming. “Your cousin Athena knows people.”

“Athena?” My cousin might be an award-winning sitcom writer, but I doubted she would hand over the contact information for her Hollywood co-workers. No way.

“She knows famous people because of her job,” Babbas said. “Maybe she could get what's-her-name from the sitcom to help us out. What's that one lady's name again? The blonde? Or maybe that fellow who plays the part of her husband. He might be good. I could see him as a superhero, couldn't you?”

Babbas began to list others from the sitcom, but he'd lost me completely. I still couldn't get past the idea that he thought my cousin might be willing to connect us with these people.

“Brock Benson!” From across the room, Mama's voice roused me from my ponderings. “If you want to get people's attention, that's who you need. Brock Benson.”

“B-Brock Benson?” I quivered like gelatin as I spoke the name of my favorite TV and movie star. “How would we get him here?”

“We will call Athena and invite her to come to Texas for a visit.” Babbas stood and paced the room. “Once she comes we will mention—in a subtle way, of course—that we would like to meet with Brock to discuss a plan.”

Like my father had a subtle bone in his body.

“When he arrives we will show him the commercial idea and ask him to star in it.”

“Sounds dreamy, but we can't pay him,” Mama said. “That's
a problem. A big star like Brock Benson will expect to be paid a lot of money.”

“Of course we can pay him,” Babbas argued. “We'll offer him a lifetime supply of sandwiches. No one in his right mind would turn that down.”

“But if he's friends with Athena, then he probably gets all of the gyros he wants from your brother's shop,” Mama countered.

This garnered a couple of grunts from Babbas, as well as some mumbled words in Greek. “We will figure it out, Helena. The point is, we need to get Athena here. She and her husband can come for a visit to see our new place. Cassia will like that.” He gave me a “please go along with me” look. “Won't you, Cassia?”

I would love to see Athena again. Very much. And meeting Brock Benson in person sounded pretty appealing. Still, I hated the idea of bringing my cousin here just to use her. She would never forgive me, and I'd never forgive myself.

“I've always loved spending time with Athena,” I said. “But maybe we should wait until we have a real plan, Babbas. You know? We don't want to appear desperate.”

“Waiting is good,” Mama said. “We're not ready for visitors yet. Besides, where would they stay? Our little apartment isn't company ready. It's filled to the brim with people and boxes.”

“Athena and her husband are famous Hollywood writers. They have money. They can stay at a hotel.”

“Niko!” My mother looked horrified by this suggestion. “We can't put family up at a hotel. It's just not done. Imagine what your brother would think!” She began to argue the point, insisting that she'd never heard of such a thing.

I had a feeling Athena and Stephen wouldn't mind staying
at a hotel. In fact, I felt pretty sure they would prefer that idea to staying in our tiny little apartment that was already crammed full. If we could talk them into coming. I still couldn't see why they would want to leave California and come to Texas just because Babbas asked them to.