Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1) (18 page)

M
ax doesn’t wait
.

He goes back to the Jeep, grabs the two cacti he brought as a gift, sets one at the front door, one at the back. It’s a good luck thing.

Superstitions are like salt in Greece: everyone sprinkles it on everything. Two people speak at the same time, they both race to touch something red. Death follows the call of the crow. A cactus wards away evil.

Max figures Vivi and Melissa need all the help they can get, so he brought one for each door.

To be honest, this place isn’t what he expected.

But then he doesn’t really know Vivi, does he? He just wants to. And after seeing this place, he really, really wants to.

He figured she’d be all about an apartment or a house closer to Volos, or closer to her family at least – not that it’s far; everything (and everyone) is still in walking distance.

But this house is a lot like paradise.

And there’s a big click in his head, because, man, the Tylers really fit in this house with its fruit trees and its overwhelming sense of home.

Why is he here?

House calls aren’t part of the job, though he’s been known to follow up if he’s concerned.

Yet here he is on a house call, with a gift. Being the good doctor.

Bullshit, Max. Bull. Shit.

He sits on the couch. The house smells of fresh paint and lemons. Is this what it’s like, having a home? He can’t imagine Anastasia painting or squeezing lemons.

Don’t compare them, you asshole.

It’s too comfortable, so he gets up. Winds up staring out the back doors to stop himself browsing the family photos set out on the bookshelves.

A moment later, Melissa bounds out of her room with her shadow. The dog is filling out. Won’t be long before everyone forgets he used to be unloved.

Now that she’s in her own clothes and not in a hospital bed, it’s clear Melissa is destined to be a beauty. Vivi eyes, Vivi’s cheekbones, but then her father is a looker, too.

Max says, “Is it okay if I check your wrist?”

She hesitates before offering her arm. All that’s left of that night is a thin pink line and a row of black knots.

“If your mother has some nail scissors, I can take them out right now.” He watches her scratch around the scar. “It itches, huh?”

“Like fire.”

“Sure you don't have Biff's fleas?”

She giggles. “Biff doesn't have fleas.”

“That’s because you've got them now!”

“Mom bathed him with some stinky shampoo. Biff was totally horrified.”

Max laughs at the dog. “If I take the stitches out, it won't be so itchy.”

“Really?”

“Really. It won’t hurt.”

It’s over in a minute. Melissa looks impressed.

“Is it weird doing stitches?”

“At first. I had to practice a lot on cadavers.”

“You stitched real dead people?”

He nods. “First time I saw a dead body I vomited.”

“Really?”

“Honest. I prefer the living. You're lucky you're still with us.”

She looks past him, temporary cloud darkening those blue eyes. Then it’s gone as quickly as it came. “Hey, Mom,” she hollers. “Dr Andreou took my stitches out.”

And then Vivi’s there in a sundress, hair tucked behind her ears, smear of color on her full lips. She looks uncomplicated.

“How does it look?”

“Perfect,” he says. “You won’t have to take her out back and shoot her.”

Vivi smiles. “Good to know. Are we walking?”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Shoes,” she says. “It makes a difference.”

“Let’s walk.”

“Mom, why can't we go in the car?”

“Because if we walk five minutes that way . . .” – she points out the door – “. . . we'll hit the beach. And gas is about eighty percent tax.”

“But I like the car.”

“So do I, but I like fresh air and money more.”

“Can Biff come too? He looks hungry.”

The dog in question is sitting in front of the refrigerator, tail drumming the floor. Yeah, he looks hungry, but dogs always do.

“Not a chance,” she says.

“But, Mom . . .”

Vivi wins this round.

Perfect night. There’s a round Camembert moon and a million stars putting on their regular show.

In a different life, he’d reach for Vivi’s hand.

But it’s this life, so it’s just two fledgling friends walking to the promenade, with Melissa charging ahead because it’s not cool to be seen with adults.

Greeks are sociable people. Evening comes, and if they’re not going out, they’re sitting in their front yards, watching their piece of the world stroll by.

They say a lot of “Good evenings,” and word moves up the food chain that Vivi Tyler is polite – for a foreigner.

The promenade is blooming, clusters of family and friends everywhere. It’s smaller than Volos’s promenade, but brighter. More colored lights per square meter. The
tavernas
buttress one another, and along the water’s edge it’s difficult to discern which tables belong to which establishment.

Melissa is humming with excitement.

“Mom, a pizza place! Can we have pizza?”

“A million miles from the United States and my kid wants pizza.”

Vivi laughs, and Max thinks: I want to make her laugh like that.

“Come on,” he says. “I know the best
souvlaki
place. You’ll never want pizza again.”

Melissa looks dubious. “I’ll always want pizza.”

Max turns up one of the side streets. “If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you a pizza.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Is this one of those real promises, or a fake one like Mom and Dad’s wedding vows?”

“Melissa!”

A quick glance at Vivi then away again. Long enough to see she’s dying for the sidewalk to swallow her whole.

“I really promise,” he says.

It’s not the fanciest eatery in town. The paint is stained from decades of smoke and spitting oil, and it’s standing room only. Most nights the bodies are five, six deep. Tonight it’s only three, but it’s still early. The grill is working hard, sizzling impaled chunks of lamb. One by one, the owner slides the meat into pita bread, and then dumps onions, tomatoes, and
tzatziki
on top. He wraps the whole thing in paper, and that’s your cue to get out.

Max pays for three. Two minutes later, they’re standing outside, shoveling hot
souvlaki
into their mouths.

Melissa, the hard sell, is groaning. “This is so good,” she says. “But I still love pizza.”

Vivi taps her on the shoulder. “Don't talk with your mouth full.” She looks at Max. “But she's right, it's one of the best things I've ever put in my mouth.”

He doesn’t want to do it (yes, he does), but he looks at her mouth. She’s not trying to be provocative, but it happens anyway when her tongue flicks out to catch a drop of the yogurt sauce.

Brakes screech in his head. He looks away.

“You okay?” Vivi asks.

“Long day. I haven’t eaten since last night.”

“You’d think a doctor would know better.”

He laughs. “We don’t have time to be healthy. My mother is always pushing me to eat more, but time . . .”

“Not nearly enough of that in a day. I haven't stopped since we got here, and now we have the house. I need to find a job.”

“What did you do before this?”

“Housewife, mother, slave. I have an MBA, but Melissa’s father wanted me at home.”

“Mom, don’t say that. Say you’re a domestic engineer.”

Max hides his smile behind the
souvlaki
. The kid is something else. Fire in her belly.

“If you could choose anything, what would you do?”

“Maybe I’ll grow fruit and pick olives. I have more trees than I know what to do with.”

Melissa scrunches the empty paper, tosses it into the trash. “Could you two be any more boring? Don’t answer that – you might bore me to death. Mom, can I go check out the playground? The one next to the church?”

“Aren't you too old for swings?”

“You're never too old for swings,” Max says.

Vivi looks at him. “Is it safe, do you think?”

“You won't find many places safer.”

“Okay,” she says. “Go, but be back in thirty minutes.”

Melissa grins. “Why don't you guys come and find me when you're finished discussing career choices?”

Awkward age. Child one minute, woman the next.

“We can walk down and meet her,” he says.

He watches her weigh the situation. She’s beautiful when she laughs, beautiful when she’s concentrating.

“Thirty minutes. We’ll be there. No monkey business, and stay away from boys.”

Melissa sighs like it’s killing her.

“God help me,” Vivi says, when Melissa is out of earshot.

“She's all Greek. How is she?”

“Truthfully? I don't know. It's a lame answer but it's the truth. Once minute she's sweet and the next she's a spitting cobra. Who knows what's going on inside her head?”

“That’s teenagers for you: stable as the Ring of Fire.”

Vivi takes his paper, drops it in the trash with hers.

“At this rate I’m going to wind up modeling straitjackets in the psych ward.”

“Has Dr Triantafillou been helpful?”

Vivi takes off. He falls into step beside her.

“Melissa doesn’t want to see her.”

“What’s the problem?”

“She kept interrogating Mel, asking if I had a drinking problem. Mel said the doctor insinuated she’s in denial.”

Not always a smart man, Max. Pushes when the warning light flashes orange, orange, orange.

“In my experience, children try and protect their parents when they're in an abusive situation. They might have shitty parents, but they’re their shitty parents.”

“Are you saying she’s right?”

Red alert.

Doesn’t stop him.

“No, I’m saying we see it all the time, so we have to consider the possibility that the parents are a problem. When you brought Melissa into the hospital, the nurse smelled alcohol on your breath. So I made a note of it. Just in case – for Melissa’s own good.”

It goes bad – it goes bad fast.

“You're the reason this shrunk is harassing my kid about the drinking problem I don't have?”

“I don't know what you want me to tell you. We do the same for everyone who comes in smelling like a
taverna
.”

“Thank you for dinner, Doctor. Goodnight.”

Now she’s walking away, dress swirling above her knees. He likes the way she moves when she’s angry, a summer storm in progress.

He laughs, throws his head back and roars.

“What’s so funny?”

“You,” he says. “You should see yourself.”

“I don’t want to be rude, but go fuck yourself.”

“Vivi, wait. I didn't know then that we'd be . . .”

She turns around. “That we’d be what?”

“Friends. As your friend, I’m sorry. But I won’t apologize for following hospital protocol. Let me help you find someone else for Melissa. Someone outside the hospital.”

“I can find someone myself.”

“Vivi, come on. My intentions were honorable.”

She thaws, but not much. “I don't know.”

“Please, consider it,” he says softly, reaching for her fingers.

Potential crackles in the night air.

“Max! What are you doing here?”

Shit. It’s Mama’s oldest, dearest friend, Maria. She’s wearing a smile but it’s much too bright to be real. He can almost hear her twisting the situation into something the grapevine will love.

“
Kalispera
,
Thea
Maria.” He kisses both cheeks. She doesn’t stop gawking at Vivi.

“Who is this?”

“This is Vivi Tyler. Her daughter is my patient.”

The wily old woman weighs, measures each word, calculates the value of each. “From the way you two were arguing, a person would think you were having a lovers' quarrel. Is your mother well, Max?”

Like she doesn’t know; they see each other every day.

He expects a phone call in ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .

“Last time I spoke to her, both faces were fine,” he says. “Goodnight,
Thea
Maria. Vivi, let's go find your daughter.”

He doesn’t touch her – doesn’t dare. The fallout is going to be nuclear. Greece’s eyes are as big as its mouth.

Y
eah
, yeah, she’s too
old for the swings, but swinging feels good. She’s loose and happy and far, far away from here. Somewhere better, like Disney World. Or a desert island.

“What's your name?”

Her feet hit concrete. The swing jerks to a stop. There’s a girl about her age straddling the other swing. She’s snapping gum and her hair is plum. And – of course – she’s wearing shitloads more makeup than Melissa.

It’s not fair.

Mom would flip if she wore that much makeup.

“Who wants to know?” Melissa asks.

The girl pops a sticky bubble. “Olivia.”

“Melissa Tyler. You don’t sound Greek.”

“Canadian.”

“Cool. American.”

“Cool.” Olivia nods at her wrist. “What happened? Your wrist looks all weird, like the time I fell off the roof and broke my ulna. It hurt like a fucking bitch.”

Mom is going to hate her.

“It’s nothing. Just a cut.”

They both start swinging. “Are you in school?”

“Not yet,” Melissa says. “Are you?”

“Negative. Do you have a boyfriend? Mine is pretty hot, but he only calls when he wants a blowjob. It sucks. I’m dumping him tomorrow.”

Melissa can feel herself going all red. “We only just got here but I guess I'll be going to school in the fall.”

“So that’s a “No” on the boyfriend then?”

“Nope.”

“Shit. We need to find us a couple so we can double date. What do you like? Blond? Tall? Older men? You don't want to go younger, trust me.”

“Why not?”

“Because you want someone experienced, not a little boy.”

Melissa’s suddenly full up with hot and cold butterflies. She’s a virgin, and it’s been forever since she kissed anyone. Not since Matt Riley took her behind the garden shed at his fourteenth birthday party.

“But not too old,” Olivia continues. “Anything past twenty is way geriatric. I'd be surprised if a guy could even get it up without porn and a fistful of Viagra after twenty-one. Although, I suppose we had to come from somewhere, right? I mean it's not like our parents were teenagers when they did it with each other.”

Melissa can’t help thinking about her folks. They weren’t much older when she was born. “My parents are separated. What about yours?”

Olivia shrugs, the tops of her shoes grazing the concrete as she slows the swing.

“Sure, I mean they live together. But you should hear them fight. We've been here for three months and they argue every single night. Dad yells, Mom screams. Dad walks out, and Mom goes to sleep crying. By the time I go down for breakfast they're pretending it never happened. I wish they'd just be honest and admit they're screwing other people.”

“My dad was screwing someone else.”

“Did you ever see her?”

“Him. Yeah.”

Olivia whistles. “Wow, your dad was screwing another man?”

“Yeah.” It’s weird the way she’s almost proud of having something scandalous to share.

“Is he gay?”

“Duh, he had sex with a man. That totally means he's gay.”

“Maybe he’s bi. Lots of people are.”

Going both ways seems to be trendy, these days. Girls kissing girls to get a guy’s interest. Yeah, there are the kids who genuinely want both, but in high school they’re overshadowed by the girls who like putting on a show.

“I think my dad's totally gay. I mean he left us to go and live with his boyfriend.”

“That's kind of cool.”

Not cool at all, but Melissa shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It's okay. I mean it's not like we go shopping and try on shoes together. And his boyfriend's not a designer or anything awesome. He's just an accountant.” She leaves out the part where she hates Ian’s guts and wants to see him hit by a semi-trailer.

“So your old man's queer, no big deal. No one's going to care.” Smile like a predator. Two rows of too-white teeth and pointy canines. All the better to eat you with. “So, Tyler – that's what I'm going to call you – did you cut that wrist yourself or was it an accident?”

Melissa tries to look mysterious. “I’ll never tell.”

“You're a whack job,” Olivia announces. 'We're going to have the best summer.”

Yeah, best summer ever.