Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1) (16 page)

S
oula says
, “You drive
like an old woman.”

“I drive like an American. Plus I just bought this car, I don’t want to screw it up yet.”

The road is rough. Made of dirt and stones and wishful thinking.

So far they’ve seen four houses, all of them wrong. The first was too small, the second too big. Three was the little pig’s house of sticks.

Vivi says, “How much further?”

“Not too far, I think.”

“You think?”

Soula holds up both hands. “Yes, I think.”

Greek distance is like Greek time: negotiable.

Nothing much out here except a tiny church, endless olive groves, sooty-faced goats. Cute things with lop ears.

“There,” Soula yelps, pointing to the road ahead.

Vivi squints at the cottage. Doesn’t look too bad from the road, but it’s a postage stamp at this distance.

Zoom zoom.

Up close it looks good, too. Smooth stucco recently whitewashed, by the looks of the crisp white. The cottage is wearing a porch as a wide belt. Irregular flagstones form a walkway that vanishes out back. Clay flowerpots contain creamy white gardenias and geraniums in shades of cotton candy and sunset. Shutters slick with new brown paint.

Soula is tense with anticipation. “What do you think?”

Vivi shrugs, disappears around back.

Smells like a Fig Newton factory back here. There’s a giant fig tree in the yard, branches plunging most of the patio into shade. Its fruit is at that awkward adolescent stage, stuck between green and brown. Biff sniffs about, raises his back leg on the tree trunk. He doesn’t make eye contact.

“What do I think?” She looks at Soula, who has wandered back there. “I have to wonder why someone would give up this place.”

“Eh.” She shrugs. “The owners moved back to England to be closer to their grandchildren. They have no need of this house now. And they didn’t have time to tend to the olive trees.”

A twist of a key later, she’s opening the house for Vivi to step inside.

“The olive trees come with the house?”

“Sixty-thousand square meters. Fifteen acres. About a thousand trees – maybe more.”

What the hell would she do with olive trees?

The open floor plan reveals a cozy living space, with four doors leading to, she assumes, the bedrooms and a bathroom. Rustic furniture invites a body to sit, stay, relax. Vanilla paint, textured walls; none of the blinding pinks and blues in older Greek homes. The appliances aren’t the trendiest (a wood oven with an aluminum vent pipe running overhead to heat the whole house, gas hot plates, and a refrigerator with the freezer on top), but they’re good enough.

Vivi says, “I love it.”

She looks behind the doors. Three bedrooms – decent but not huge.

The fourth door is hiding the house’s dirty little secret.

“Shit,” she says. “Aaaaand . . . now I don’t love it.”

“What is it?” Soula peers over Vivi’s shoulder. “Oh.”

Shower, hand basin, medicine cabinet, and a gaping (toilet) hole in the floor.

Vivi spits out a bunch of words she’d never say in front of Melissa.

Soula asks, “Is that physically possible?”

“I’ve seen it on the Internet. How much do they want?”

“You are still interested?”

“I'm interested. Doesn't mean I'm going to say ‘Yes.’”

Soula tosses her a figure.

Vivi throws a smaller one back. “The bathroom needs remodeling,” she says. “It's going to cost.”

“They won't like it. This is an excellent price.”

“An excellent price for a house with a toilet I can sit on.”

“You can sit on this one,” Soula says, deadpan.

“If I amputate my legs.”

“What, you are too good for a Greek toilet? Is your bottom made of gold? Americans,” she says, laughing. “You want everything to be sanitary. A little dirt and hardship builds character.”

“My mother used to spank me for having too much character. Can you at least try and get me that price?”

“I will try. This is Greece – everything is negotiable except the weather.”

“If the owners accept the price, then we have a deal.”

Soula goes away with her cell phone, hands doing as much talking as her mouth.

Vivi looks outside at the land she wants. Yeah, she’s already imagining Melissa hanging in the yard with her friends, Biff peeing on the trees.

No, that second thing isn’t imaginary; Biff really is peeing on all the trees.

Anyway, point is she’s fantasizing about this place. Feels good.

Soula’s hands and tongue are gaining momentum. Her expression says nothing. Then she drops the phone back into her leather purse.

“You want this house?”

“Yes.”

“It’s yours.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, you have to pay for it, of course. But it’s yours as soon as you want to move in.” She tucks her arm through Vivi’s, steers her back to the VW. “Come, now we celebrate! Wait – first we talk money, then we celebrate!”

S
urprisingly easy acquiring
a home loan in a semi-corrupt country, when the bank manager is your second cousin.

Nepotism is nice when it's in your favor.

“I don't suppose you know where I can buy a toilet?” she asks Soula.

“I know someone who knows a place.”

She bought a house. What is she going to do with a house? And all those olive trees?

“Oh shit,” she says. “I just bought a house.”

T
hea
Dora slaps
a
triangle of
baklava
onto a plate. The nuts jump.

“Where will you go? What will you do? How will you live? Your child is ill. You cannot live on your own!”

“You live on your own.”

“That is different!”

“Different how?”

“It just is.”

“We’ll be fine,” Vivi says. “Melissa will go to school in the fall and I’ll get a job.”

“What job?”

Biff jumps the fence. The dog’s sick of sitting in the car. But once he’s over the fence, he gets a load of
Thea
Dora and slams his canine brakes.

“
Ay yi yi
!” she shrieks. “What is that thing?”

“That’s my dog.”

Thump!
goes her palm against the
baklava
container. She mutters something about fleas and plague and Turks.

“He’s clean and healthy.”

That might be true, or not. But Vivi comes to the dog’s defense anyway.

“Vivi, my love, why don't you stay here? I'll be lonely without you and Melissa.”

“Can I put in a new toilet and let Biff sleep in the house?”

“The dog cannot stay. Let him loose and he will find somewhere else to go.”

Vivi says, “No way.”

S
tale fries
and desperation – the hospital cafeteria reeks of both.

Vivi isn’t all that hungry, but that doesn’t stop her biting into the rubbery
kasseri
. The cheese is paired perfectly with the bread in her other hand.

“You look pleased with yourself,” someone says.

What do you know, it’s Dr Andreou – Max. He’s holding a bucket of hot coffee. Takes his caffeine seriously, that man.

“I bought a house,” she tells him.

“Soula told me.”

Vivi waves a hand at the empty chair. “If you don’t sit, I’ll wind up with a sore neck.”

“It’s my job to make people better, not worse.”

“So, sit.”

“I am, I am.”

Even now, when it’s obvious he’s coasting on no sleep, he’s a good-looking man.

“It takes some getting used to,” she says.

“The coffee?”

“Yeah, the coffee.”

Max says, “Did you know Greeks drink more coffee per capita than any other country?”

“Ah, so that's why you're all so feisty.”

“The caffeine makes us passionate.”

“Or neurotic,” she says, thinking about the twists in her family tree.

“Are you making fun of our people?”

“No, just the coffee.”

Her teeth sink into the bread. She hopes for a dainty bite, but it’s more like shoveling coal. With a bit of luck, Max will attribute her pink cheeks to sunburn, never suspecting that she’s having a fun time mentally twisting him into erotic poses.

Hey, it’s been a long time.

“Did Melissa say anything to you about the therapist?”

Vivi swallows. “No. Why?”

“I’m a curious man. Tell me, how do you like your new house? You'll have to give me your address so I can bring a gift.”

“You don't have to.”

“I want to.” His dark brown gaze collides with hers.

Now she’s on fire from the neck down. She tries clearing her throat, but nothing comes out.

“It's not necessary. Honestly.”

“Melissa is my favorite patient,” he says between gulps. “And I can't help feeling responsible for finding you a house.”

Ooookay. She fumbles for paper and a pen, scribbles their new address, her email, and the phone number that will be active when the phone company can be bothered.

Sometime between now and never.

H
ow do you feel
today
, Melissa?”

“How do you feel today, Dr Triantafillou?”

“I’m well. Thank you for asking. But we’re here to talk about you.”

“I’m well. Thank you for asking.”

Now she’s getting it. But Melissa figured the shrink would be angry, not smiling. Her teeth are whiter today, or maybe her tan is darker. Whatever. Melissa wants her outfit. She likes the denim pencil skirt and the too-tall wedges.

“It’s a common tactic,” the shrink says. “But ultimately a time waster. Time we could both be using to help you. Is that what you want, Melissa, to waste your time?”

“How old are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

“I’m twenty-eight.”

“How come you told me?”

“Because you asked.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll give you honest answers, Melissa. But you have to give me honest answers, too.”

“What happens if I don’t?”

“One of two things. They assign you a new psychologist, or they may decide you need . . . a different kind of help.”

“Pills?”

“Possibly. Probably a combination of medication and observation, until they’re sure you won’t harm yourself again.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself. Nobody believes me.”

“Would you like to tell me how it started, the cutting?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. We don’t have to talk about it today.”

“Are you going to have me locked up if I don’t?”

“No. Only if I think you intend to hurt yourself again. Do you want to hurt yourself again?”

“No,” Melissa says. “I wasn’t trying the first time. It’s just . . . Being fifteen sucks.”

“How does it suck?”

“Don’t you remember what it’s like?”

Dr Triantafillou says, “I think American teenagers have many of the same pressures as Greek teenagers, but also some that are vastly different. Tell me what it’s like for you.”

Melissa doesn’t need to think too hard. “Nobody lets me do anything. Nobody cares what I want. And if they lose their minds and – ” she fakes a gasp “ – ask what I want, then they ignore what I say and do what they want, anyway. So why even ask me to begin with?”

“It’s not easy being fifteen. But you don’t have far to go until you’re eighteen.”

“Almost three years. Basically forever.”

“So tell me this: What do you want?”

Melissa shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Between now and our next appointment, I want you to think about that. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

T
hey talk too much
, Max and Vivi. She’s becoming a habit.

So, they talk and talk and talk – about funny things, about difficult things – but has he told her yet about Anastasia?

Negative.

“Does Melissa’s father know she’s in the hospital?”

Vivi shakes her head.

“Why not?”

“Have you ever been through a divorce?”

“Never married,” he says.

“That’s okay,” Vivi says, “this is only my first.” She laughs but she’s obviously embarrassed. “Bad joke, I know.”

“Not that bad,” he says.

“Oh yeah, it’s that bad. But sometimes you have joke about things to release the pressure, or you crack. I don’t know what divorce is like when you don’t have kids, but when you do have kids, and they are your world, you do whatever it takes to keep them. If I tell John about Melissa . . . You’re right, I should tell him. But what if he changes his mind about our custody arrangement? What do I do if he tries to take my daughter away?”

“Is he a good father?”

“He was always a busy father.” Nails tapping on the table. “Yes, John’s a very good father.”

“So tell him. Be honest. It will save you trouble later.”

Isn’t that right, Max?

H
e fucks Anastasia
, but it’s Vivi’s name in his throat.

“When’s your period due?” he says after.

“Soon,” she says.

“Do you think you’re pregnant?”

“I don’t know, Max. As soon as I know I will tell you, okay?”

She hits the shower without him. While she’s doing that, Max Googles “John Tyler” on his phone. Good-looking man. A lot of him in Melissa.

Anastasia wanders back into the room. “What are you doing?”

The phone goes dark. “Nothing.”

“Max?”

“What, baby?”

“Nothing,” she says.