A Bouquet of Love (6 page)

“You know about the ongoing feud between the Capulets and the Montagues? It spoiled everything, and all because of family pride.”

“Are you telling me you're Juliet and you've got a Romeo hiding in the wings somewhere?” Bella asked. “Some guy your family hates?”

For whatever reason, my gaze drifted to Alex, who'd reached for the bucket of red roses.

“No. Not exactly that. But my father is . . . is . . . different.”

“I thought we already covered the family thing,” Bella said with a wave of her hand.

Alex glanced our way as if to ask, “What did I miss?”

“We promised not to judge each other based on wacky family members,” Bella explained. “And I never go back on a promise.”

“She's telling you the truth,” Alex said as he opened the refrigerator case. “And besides, have you met the Rossi family? No offense to Bella, but they're some of the craziest people I've ever known, and I grew up in Splendora.”

Again with the Splendora reference? Where was this place? And were the people there really nuttier than the Rossis? If so, they might just rival my dad, the wackiest of all. Surely one day all of these awesome people would see the truth for themselves, and when they did my Romeo and Juliet reference would make perfect sense. Until then, I would relax and enjoy their company . . . while they were still speaking to me.

You might be Greek if you were surprised to discover the FDA recommends you eat three meals a day, not seven.

O
n the morning of Super-Gyros' grand opening, the tantalizing smells of lamb, cumin, and garlic filled the air. Mmm. I'd always loved a gyro in the making. Apparently so did our new customers, who pressed through the front door in rapid succession. I watched as they made their way through our various selections of fresh hummus and pita bread to imported cheeses and kalamata olives. Yum. Who could even think of pizza on a day like today?

Apparently, no one on the island, judging from the slew of customers that streamed into our shop. Of course, many
had come to redeem their free gyro coupon, but others were just here to sample the breakfast goodies and Greek coffees.

Mama smiled at a customer, an elderly woman with soft blue eyes. “Try the loukoumades,” my mother said. “You'll never taste anything sweeter.”

The woman reached for one of the tasty nibbles. “Mmm.” She grabbed another, then another, finally buying two dozen to take home with her.

Mama turned my way and held out the platter of loukoumades. Oh, yum. I loved them more than anything else. Well, anything except baklava. Making my way behind the counter, I reached for the plate of golf ball–sized fritters and popped one in my mouth, savoring the gooey honey and cinnamon topping. Yum. A second bite revealed another tasty treat.

“I love the extra walnuts,” I said after licking my fingers clean. “They're my favorite.” I reached for another, gobbling it down.

Off in the distance my father took the opportunity to extend the welcome mat to Officer O'Reilly, who'd shown up with three of Galveston's finest. Babbas offered them each a free gyro and a cup of Greek coffee. Black, of course. Within a minute, the officers were seated at one of the tables in the corner, laughing and talking.

Customers came and went for the entire morning, keeping us busy and excited. We couldn't provide the breakfast sweets fast enough, and by eleven o'clock the sandwiches were being snapped up right and left. Apparently my father's advertising campaign was working. And from what I could judge as I glanced out the window, the crowd on the Greek side of the street far outweighed the crowd on the Italian side. Not that Parma John's appeared to serve breakfast, but whatever.

The midmorning crowd finally thinned, and I worked up the courage to approach Babbas about my new job at the flower shop. I explained my reasoning and shared the plan I'd come up with to balance my hours between Super-Gyros and Patti-Lou's Petals. All of this I did at warp speed, hoping to spit it out before he could comment. And I left out the part where my boss and all of my new friends happened to be Rossis.

“I don't understand it, Cassia.” Drops of moisture clung to his damp forehead. “You've always worked for the family. This is important. We're just starting out and we need you at Super-Gyros.”

“I understand, Babbas, but with so many other children in the family, you have all the workers you need. To cover most of the shifts, anyway. I can still come and go. Marcella will give me a flexible schedule.”

“Marcella?”

“The shop owner. She's great. And like I said, I can still help out. I'm not going anywhere. Not really. But I want to do something . . . different. Something unexpected.” I paused and did my best to press back the lump in my throat. “Why do you think I took those classes in floral design?”

He gestured to the shop's decor. “So that you could help decorate the shop, of course. It never entered my mind that you might jump ship.”

“Babbas, that's not what I plan to do. Not at all. You know I'll always be linked to Super-Gyros.” Like I could ever get away.

A muscle clenched along his jaw. “We will discuss this later, Cassia. The lunch crowd should be here shortly. You ready to get back to work? I need you today more than ever.”

Clearly the man hadn't heard a word I'd said. Or if he had, it had gone in one ear and out the other.

A voice rang out from behind me. “I'd like the Super-Gyro with peppers and extra onions. Scratch the sauce. I've never been a fan of tzatzi . . . tzatzi . . .”

I turned to see a local mailman standing there, licking his lips. Babbas stood, gave the fella a friendly pat on the back, and proclaimed that his sandwich would be half price. After teaching him the correct pronunciation of our homemade sauce. Minutes later, he had the fellow convinced that tzatziki—at least our version of it—was the perfect complement for the gyro.

In the middle of the lunch crowd chaos, the mayor appeared. She opted for the souvlaki sandwich—our top sirloin shish kebab on a pita with tomato, bell pepper, onion, and tzatziki sauce. Babbas offered it to her for free, but she wouldn't hear of it. Still, I could tell he'd won her over.

A cute guy wearing a surfboard shop T-shirt asked for a Super-Gyro. The woman behind him wanted a Greek salad. On and on the orders went. Just about the time we'd made enough sandwiches to feed everyone in the place, I was worn out.

I glanced around the shop, my gaze landing on a lady with three small children. She bit into a gyro, and a look of sheer bliss transformed her face from cranky mom to contented customer. In that moment, I understood why Babbas worked so hard to make Super-Gyros the best it could be—the same reason I worked so hard to create bouquets of flowers. To bring joy to people. To lift spirits. To make a difference in their lives.

Food has
the power to transform.
How many times had I
heard him speak those words? Not that I had time to ponder them right now, with the crowd pressing in around me.

A woman who introduced herself as chairman of the island beautification committee stopped in to pick up food for a group meeting. “I'll have five spinach chicken pitas and three Super-Gyros.” She watched as Mama—makeup easing its way down her face—whipped together the lamb and beef supersize sandwiches loaded with tzatziki.

I offered to put together the pitas. “What would you like on top?” I asked the woman.

“Everything else in the restaurant.” Her gentle laugh rippled through the air. “Seriously, load 'em up. Whatever you think we'll like.”

I was up to my eyeballs in pitas when three nuns entered Super-Gyros chatting like schoolgirls. I braced myself, knowing what was about to happen. Sure enough, Babbas closed in on them and shared one of his “three nuns walked into a bar” jokes, and before long the sisters were laughing like hyenas. Then, when Father Harrigan joined them minutes later, they shared my dad's joke all over again. Go figure.

Over the next few hours I worked like a slave, just as I'd done hundreds—no, thousands—of times back in Santa Cruz. But as much as I hated to admit it, I had a blast all the while. These Galvestonians were a hoot. I couldn't get over the Texas twang from many of them. Maybe Southerners really were sweeter than folks from the West Coast. At any rate, I needed to give them a chance.

Speaking of sweet, more than once a customer asked for sweet tea. I just shrugged and pointed them to the soda machine or the coffee servers.

After waiting on an elderly couple, both wearing motorcycle
jackets, I finally found a moment to catch my breath. As I packaged ready-to-go gyros, I listened in on the roomful of strangers. What blissful chaos.

Multiple conversations carried on at once around the room—in different languages, no less. The laugh-a-minute car salesman talking to a co-worker. The local shop owners snagging a few minutes between customers. The young mothers with their little ones. The whole thing stirred together to create a sound so delicious you could almost taste it.

Off in the distance, the sound of my father's voice rang out above the noise of the crowd as he bellowed an order to my brother. Mama's response—in Greek—added just the right flavor to the conversation, drawing my ear. Darian called back in English and reached for a platter, which he dropped with a raucous clatter. This caught the attention of the customers, who stirred in their seats. They chuckled as my brother lifted the broken pieces of plastic and began to juggle them for their entertainment while singing a crazy song in Greek. Yia Yia took to dancing, and soon the customers started clapping out the beat.

Just about the time I found myself completely drawn in, the door opened and Alex, the handsome flower guy, walked in. Oh. No. I ducked behind the counter and pretended to count the pots and pans.

“You all right, Cassia?” Eva gave me a concerned look just as my brother's song came to an end.

“Yes. Just have a weird cramp in my leg.” I did, actually.

“Probably from bending over like that.” She gasped and then squatted down to whisper, “You need to stand up and check something—er, someone—out. Adonis just walked in.”

“I-I can't.” The pain in my leg intensified. Ouch. And I
certainly didn't want Alex to see me. He might blow my cover.

Eva must've lost herself in Alex's gorgeous eyes, because she didn't seem to notice that I crawled along the edge of the counter until I reached the kitchen. Once inside, I finally managed to shake the cramp out of my leg. I peeked through the open door at Alex, who ordered a gyro and a couple pieces of baklava, then left in a hurry.

Eva rushed my way, her eyes bright. “Wow, wow, wow. You missed it, Cassia. The most gorgeous guy . . . and I swear, he must be Greek. But you should hear the way he talks. Texas drawl, fer shure.” She did her best impression and then giggled. “He's such a . . .”

“Southern gentleman.” I couldn't help the words. They just slipped out.

“How did you know?”

“Oh, he just looked like it, I guess.”

“Right.” Her eyes narrowed and I could read the confusion in them. “But how did you know that if you didn't see him?”

“I saw him as he came in the door, but then I got a cramp.” I rubbed the back of my leg. “It's better now.”

“Well, that's good, because I need your help clearing the tables. Looks like we've got more people coming in the door.” Eva headed back to the front of the shop, still chattering on and on about the guy she now called Cowboy Adonis. Great. Looked like my sister had her eye on the only guy I'd met so far on Galveston Island. Wasn't that just perfect.

I spent the rest of the afternoon waiting on customers right and left. Several times I glanced out the front window to check the crowd at Parma John's. They had their usual steady stream of customers, but nothing like what we were experiencing.

Babbas must've noticed too. At least once I heard him mutter under his breath, “I'll show you how to run a business, Mr. Food Network star!” Lovely.

As we wrapped up for the day, I managed to catch a few minutes on the sidewalk, clearing the outdoor tables. I couldn't help but smile as the trolley zipped by loaded with tourists, cameras in hand. Right away I started humming.

“Great,” I grumbled. “Now that song is stuck in my head again.”

My mother joined me, wiping her hands on her apron as she glanced my way. “Which song?”

“That Judy Garland one, about the trolley.” I started humming it in spite of myself. “Did I ever tell you what happened the time it got stuck in my head and I couldn't shake it? I was clang-clang-clanging all day long.”

“Funny.” Mama chuckled. “But if you have to get a song stuck in your head, that's a fine one. Very cheerful.”

“Yes, but not a hundred times in a row. I honestly couldn't get it to stop. Every time I tried to start humming another one, I'd end up back on that one.”

“Well then . . .” Mama stopped working and looked at me. “Maybe the Lord was trying to tell you something. Did you ever think about that?”

“Trying to tell me that I'm supposed to ride the trolley?”

“No.” Mama reached to touch my arm, her eyes spilling over with tenderness and passion. “Maybe you're going to meet your future husband on the trolley.” She kissed her fingertips and lifted her hands to heaven. “From my mouth to God's ears.”

“Or maybe . . .” This time it was my father's voice sounding behind us. “Maybe we're supposed to take out an adver
tisement on the side of the trolley.” He extended his hands as if creating a sign. “‘Eat at Super-Gyros and get a free token to ride the Galveston trolley.'” Babbas snapped his fingers. “Perfect!”

“I don't know, Niko.” Mama went back to work clearing the tables. “The Super-Gyros logo is a superhero in flight, cape blowing in the wind. He's not riding a trolley. That doesn't make much sense.”

“Just trying to tie the marketing into something islanders are familiar with,” my father countered. “Work with me here, Helena.”

“Of course, of course.” Soon the two of them were coming up with the wording for the promo. I couldn't help but hum that goofy trolley song as I listened in. I wouldn't mind spending a jolly hour on a trolley if it meant meeting Mr. Right.

Mr. Right?

For whatever reason, my thoughts flitted back to the day when I first saw Alex riding the trolley. The moment I saw his face, I'd felt butterflies take flight in my stomach. They'd stirred again that first day at the florist shop. And today, when he'd walked in the door, I'd pretty much felt my heart burst into song. But the cramp in my leg had squelched the melody in a hurry.

My parents droned on about marketing strategies for the sandwich shop. I tried to act interested, but my heart just wasn't in it.

“I think the day went well.” Babbas slung a dishcloth over his shoulder, then gazed across the street at Parma John's. The business on their side of the street appeared to be growing by the minute. People flooded inside, and strains of a
Frank Sinatra tune drifted out. My father's brow wrinkled in concern. “But we can do better.”

“Better?” I bit back a groan.