When the Cypress Whispers (24 page)

Thirty-two

“Mommy, where have you been?” Evie rushed into Daphne’s arms the moment she heard the gate open.

“Hi, honey.” She scooped Evie up. “I had to go to the hotel for a little while.” She placed Evie back on the pavement and took her tiny hand in hers. “And I didn’t want to wake you.”

They walked hand in hand to the indoor kitchen where Yia-yia stood at the counter, mixing warm water with yeast. She wore a white apron over her black dress. Her handkerchief was draped on the back of a kitchen chair, and her gray braids fell down her back to her waist.

“
Koukla mou
. I missed you. Come, sit, have some
kafes
. I’m making
loukoumades
for Evie—you should have some too.”

Daphne pulled a chair from the table and sat down. Evie was already off and running, entertaining herself as usual with the animals and bugs that brought the patio—as well as the little girl’s smile—to life.

“I saw Popi at the hotel.”

“Popi, at this early hour? That girl usually puts the roosters to bed.”

“She was with Stephen.” Yia-yia didn’t respond to the mention of his name. Daphne continued chattering, uncomfortable with the silence. “He’s helping her open a business. He thinks her ideas are good and he wants to help her.”

“Good for her. She’s a good girl. She deserves it.” Daphne noted how Yia-yia praised Popi but never once mentioned Stephen. “In New York, Yia-yia. She’s coming to New York.”

“Ah, New York,” was all Yia-yia said in reply. “You didn’t sleep, did you?” she asked, changing the subject as she added the dissolved yeast to the flour along with raisins, more warm water, and a pinch of nutmeg. When it was mixed, she covered it with a clean dish towel and placed it inside the oven to rise.

“No. I didn’t sleep,” Daphne answered as Yia-yia sat down next to her at the table. She knew she couldn’t lie to Yia-yia—she never had, and she wasn’t about to start now. “No, I didn’t. How could I?”

“You should go lie down.”

“I don’t want to lie down. I want to talk to you.” She reached across the table and covered Yia-yia’s hands with her own. “I don’t understand why you said what you did last night—why you wouldn’t want me to be happy, Yia-yia.”

“I do want you to be happy,
koukla
mou
.” Her head shook up and down, her eyelids heavy with the weight of her granddaughter’s accusation. “No one wants you to be happier, no one.” Yia-yia reached for her kerchief and knotted it below her chin.

Another widow’s tradition, Daphne thought as Yia-yia’s gnarled fingers looped the fabric through and secured the sheer black triangle on her head.
Cover your hair, wear black, sing and wail about your sadness, and never marry again.

“Things are different now, Yia-yia.”

“Things are never that different, Daphne. Young people always feel like things are so different for them. But they’re not. It is all the same. Generation after generation, it is all the same.”

“But Yia-yia, this is going to be a fresh start for us. For me, for Evie . . . for you.” She couldn’t look Yia-yia in the eye as she said it. She knew that she would soon be forced to tell Yia-yia that she had made up her mind—that for her own good, Yia-yia would have to leave Erikousa and come with them to New York. Soon she would be forced to tell her, but not yet. There was too much to sort through before they dealt with that drama.

“Yes, but how can you be so sure that this is the right start? Are you certain this is your fresh start, your correct path, Daphne
mou
?” Yia-yia stroked Daphne’s hair.

“How can you be so certain it’s not?” She sat up, terrified that maybe Yia-yia somehow knew about the jolt she felt when she brushed past Yianni.

“What is the point of living your American dream, Daphne
mou
, if you are sleepwalking through life?”

Daphne sat silent.

Yia-yia paused, placing her hands flat on the table in front of her, leaning heavily for support. “I know what this man has offered you, and I know it’s tempting. But you and he are very much different. We are different from those people.”

We are different from those people. They are not like us. Keep your culture and traditions intact. Don’t pollute your heritage, don’t contaminate the bloodline.
They were the words Daphne had heard over and over again as a child as she sat on the kitchen counter, watching Mama make
loukoumades
, or as she bounced on Baba’s knee while he read the Greek newspaper. But that was so long ago—she never imagined the very same chorus would come back to haunt her as an adult, as a grown woman making her own decisions about her life, her future . . . her daughter’s future.

“Yia-yia, I’m not you.” The words spilled out, sounding harsher than she meant them to. “I don’t want to sit alone year after year. Don’t condemn me to a life of loneliness because Alex died. It’s not my fault Alex died. I’ve been punished enough; I don’t want to be punished anymore.”

“Is that what you think? That traditions matter to me more than your happiness? That I don’t want you to get married because you are a widow?” Yia-yia’s eyes were even heavier now, red and tinged with sadness.

“Well, isn’t it?” Daphne whispered.

“No,
koukla
, it’s not. No one wants to see you happier than I do,
koukla
mou
. No one. Have you been away so long that you’ve forgotten that?”

Silent, Daphne shook her head. She knew in her heart that it was true. She had never before doubted Yia-yia’s devotion, and she hated herself for doubting it now.

Without another word, Yia-yia stood and made her way to the oven. She seemed tired, shuffling along the floor, never quite lifting her feet off the ground and leaning on the counter the entire time. She opened the oven and took the glass bowl out. She lifted the edge of the dishcloth and peered into the bowl, the sour smell of yeast and dough wafting through the kitchen.

Daphne remained seated, arms crossed on the tabletop, chin resting on them as she watched her grandmother. After a few moments, the old woman dropped a tiny drop of the dough into the heated oil. The frenzy of bubbles on the surface told her it was ready. Daphne stood and walked over to where Yia-yia was preparing to fry the
loukoumades.
She rarely allowed herself to indulge in such decadent treats as fried dough anymore. But even in this state, as mentally and physically exhausted as she was, she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to watch how deftly Yia-yia’s hands worked to make perfect pillows of dough. As a child, carefree and complete in Yia-yia’s kitchen, it seemed all Daphne could ever desire in life began and ended with those very hands.

Daphne hoisted herself up on the counter. She could now peer directly into the bowl and watched as Yia-yia immersed her left hand into the thin beige batter. Yia-yia held her hand upright, opening and closing it slowly, the perfect amount of dough escaping from the top of her fist, near her thumb. As it emerged from her hand, Yia-yia swooped in with her other hand and scooped the dough up with a spoon before dropping it in the simmering pot of oil. The wet dollop rolled around and around in the oil, joined by another and yet another as the pot filled with perfect little doughnut balls that bobbed and browned alongside each other. When they were cooked perfectly, Yia-yia scooped them up with her slotted spoon and placed them in a large bowl that was lined with a dishcloth to absorb the excess oil.

Yia-yia worked silently until the final small doughnut was retrieved from the hot oil, then sprinkled the pile with sugar, knowing Daphne preferred this simple method to the traditional topping of honey. She pierced a warm ball with a toothpick and handed it to Daphne before wiping her hands on her apron and resting her hands on Daphne’s knees.

“Daphne
mou
. I know you are trying to make sense of this all. The last thing I want is to make you unhappy. And I won’t. I know you think age has clouded my judgment—I can see it in your eyes. But I won’t judge you, Daphne
mou
. I want you to be happy. All I ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

“But Yia-yia—”

“No, it’s all right. You’ll find your way, just as I did.”

“But what about what you said last night about the cypress whispers, about what they told you? About me and Stephen?”

“They’re quiet now, Daphne
mou
. They’re tired, just as I am. Maybe they’re resting and telling me to do the same.”

“I want you to be happy for me.” Daphne felt the familiar tingle of tears. “I want your blessing.”

“
Koukla mou
. I am a simple old woman who loves you. I’ll give you everything in my power, the blood from my veins. But I don’t have the power to give blessings. That is not for me to decide.”

Daphne jumped off the counter and wrapped her arms around her grandmother. It wasn’t fair; the one thing Daphne needed from Yia-yia right now was the one thing Yia-yia couldn’t or wouldn’t provide.

Thirty-three

With Stephen’s help, Daphne laid the red-and-white-striped blanket out on the sand. She made certain it was far enough from the shoreline so the incoming tide wouldn’t ruin the picnic she had prepared back at home.

“Come on, Evie, lunch is ready,” Daphne shouted at Evie, who had ridden Jack to the beach.

“So what’s on the menu?” Stephen lifted the aluminum covering from the bowl of
loukoumades
and popped one in his mouth. “Delicious.”

“I thought you might like that.” She smiled at him. It felt good to be here, talking, enjoying each other’s company and the relative quiet before the wedding. Since his arrival, Stephen had been immersed in plans for Popi’s coffee bars. It was nice to be here beside him, without an iPhone or computer competing for his attention. The silly incident with Yianni seemed like a lifetime ago, although it had been just a few hours since she had run away from him and his boat. It was probably just the lack of sleep. I was delirious and tired, she thought as she lifted the lid off a bowl of tiny fried meatballs.

“Evie, honey, please come,” Daphne shouted, waving at Evie, who seemed to be taking an incredibly long time getting off Jack’s back and down to the picnic. “The
keftedes
are getting cold.”

“The plans are really coming along,” Stephen said as he popped a
kefte
in his mouth. “Everyone wants in on this thing. I’m telling you, it’s like one of your perfect little recipes”—he lifted a
kefte
into the air, twisting it around between his fingers, examining it—“it’s like all of New York knows that if you mix my business acumen with an incredibly talented—”

“Not to mention beautiful,” Daphne chimed in.

“Yes, of course. Not to mention very beautiful Greek woman, it makes for a perfect business opportunity, a true success story.” He tossed the
kefte
into his mouth and reached for another.

“Hey, slow down on those things, save some for Evie.” She shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand and again shouted toward her little girl, who was still playing with Jack. “Evie . . . Evie, come on, honey. Time to eat.”

Evie finally made her way to the blanket and curled up against the velvety soft fabric of her mother’s red dress. She reached first for the
loukoumades
and managed to get three in her mouth before Daphne stuck her own hand out and redirected Evie’s fingers toward the bowl of
keftedes
. The little girl shoved a handful in her mouth.

“Can I be excused?” she asked through a mouthful of ground meat, parsley, and breadcrumbs.

“Are you sure you ate enough?” Daphne twirled her daughter’s curls.

Evie nodded, her eyes big and pleading.

“Have a piece of
spanakopita—you need some vegetables.” Daphne handed Evie a piece of the spinach pie, which she shoved in her mouth.

“Can I be excused now?” Evie asked again.

Daphne planted a kiss on the little girl’s forehead. “Of course, honey.” Evie couldn’t get off the picnic blanket fast enough.

“Hey, remember what they say, wait a half hour before going in the water,” Stephen shouted toward Evie, laughing. If the little girl heard him, she didn’t bother to turn.

“I wish.” Daphne snickered as she wiped the corner of her mouth. “Don’t worry. She won’t go in the water at all. She still won’t go in past her knees.”

“Are you serious?” Stephen turned to watch Evie as she climbed back up on Jack’s back.

“I wish I wasn’t. She won’t do it. I’ve tried and tried, but for some reason she’s terrified.” Daphne helped herself to a healthy portion of tomato salad.

“We’ll get her in. You’ll see, by the time we head back to the house, she’ll be swimming like a fish. I bet if we both go in with her, she’ll feel safer. We’ll get her swimming in no time.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so. And if not, then, well, we just won’t leave here until she does.” Stephen smiled at Daphne, waving his fork around like a scepter.

“She’s a child.” Daphne laughed. “Not a project with a deadline.”

“I know. But it’s a challenge, Daphne.” He stabbed the salad with his fork. “And you know how I love a challenge.” He ripped the tomato off the fork with his front teeth.

“Yes, yes, I do.” She nodded, thinking about how they first met. This is what had first drawn her to Stephen, the fact that he would not take no for an answer; neither in business nor in life. She had loved his tenacity. Tenacity made things happen. But Daphne was beginning to realize that there was a time and a place for such single-minded stubbornness, and this was not one of them. She knew her little girl responded to whispers, a soft touch, and gentle, thoughtful suggestions, not commands and deadlines.

“Stephen, I’ve been thinking.” She put her plate down and turned to face him, finally speaking the words she had always dreaded saying out loud. “I think Yia-yia’s getting too old to live here herself. I’m worried. I don’t think it’s safe for her to be here alone anymore.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He nodded in agreement. “I’m actually amazed that’s she’s been able to stay here this long. As beautiful as it is here, it is not an easy place to maneuver. I think you’re right, honey. It’s probably a good idea for her to go someplace easier, safer.”

Daphne exhaled, a wave of relief washing over her.
He noticed too.
He knows we have to take her away from here to bring her home with us.
She smiled. Everything was going to work out just fine.

“I’m so glad to hear you say that.” She reached over and hugged him. Up until now, Yia-yia had always been right—but about Stephen, Daphne was convinced, Yia-yia could not have been more wrong.

“Of course, honey.” That whisky voice had soothed her once again—until he opened his mouth once more. “So where’s the nearest nursing home? On Corfu?” He reached over and stabbed another meatball with a toothpick.

“Nursing home? Why would we need a nursing home?”

“I’m sure there’s one on Corfu. Or maybe we should check Athens. I bet they have better facilities in Athens, but they’re probably a lot more expensive. It’s up to you. When we get back to the hotel we’ll do some research, crunch some numbers, and we’ll figure it out, okay?” He grabbed a cold beer, threw his head back, and took a long sip. “You have nothing to worry about, Daphne. I promise, we’ll figure this out and we’ll take care of her. We’ll find the best fit for her.”

Her cheeks were blazing; she could feel them hot and tingling, as was her entire body. He was speaking, but she could not, would not, comprehend what he was saying.

“Nursing home? Why would we need a nursing home? I’m not putting Yia-yia in a nursing home.”

“Why not? It makes perfect sense.” There was that pragmatism again.

“Not to me it doesn’t. Not at all.”

“Daphne, come on, be realistic. It’s not going to be easy to find a home health care worker to come here and spend winters on this island.” He drained his beer and placed the empty bottle on the blanket behind him. “I just don’t know if that’s realistic or even smart. Especially as she gets older, she’ll need more care, easier access to doctors and a hospital. When my grandfather got too old to take care of himself, we put him right in a nursing home. It was the best thing for him.”

“That was him, Stephen. This is Yia-yia.
My
Yia-yia. I don’t want her to live in a nursing home.” She took a moment to lean in closer to him. “I want her to come live with us.” There, it was done.

He sat straight up, shaking his head, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. “Come on, Daphne.” He squinted at her. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Are you serious?”

She stared back, wordless.

“Daphne.” He stood when he realized she wasn’t joking. “Daphne, seriously. How do you think we can take your
yia-yia
, as wonderful as she is, and bring her to live with us in Manhattan? I mean, seriously. How is that going to work?” He took both of her hands in his.

“It’ll work.”

“Honestly, honey. I don’t see how, I really don’t see how we could ever make that work, on so many levels. I would do anything for you, you know that. But I need you to think about this, really think about this with reason and logic, not just your emotions.”

There was no discussing Yia-yia without emotions. Every memory, every moment, everything about Yia-yia was tied to Daphne’s emotions. There was no separating the two. It was impossible.

“It will work. It has to. There’s no other choice.” She dropped his hands and stared out across the water. “She’s coming to live with us.”

They retreated to opposite edges of the shoreline, Daphne standing by the water and Stephen storming away to the top of the beach, where the sand meets the brush. Neither spoke. Only the sounds of Evie’s squeals could be heard above the gentle ripples of the surf.

Eventually, Stephen could take the silence no longer. “Explain exactly how, Daphne. How?” He walked toward her again. “Millions of people put their parents and grandparents in nursing homes every year. I don’t understand what the problem is.” He stopped just before the waterline, making sure the sea never touched the hem of his pants. “We’ll make sure she has the best care, I promise you. She’ll have everything she needs.”

“We’re all she needs.”

The water was now midway up Daphne’s calves, the hem of her red skirt twisted in her hands. She didn’t turn to look at him; she just stared out into the sea. “We don’t do that here, Stephen. People don’t send their family away. We take care of them ourselves, the way they took care of us when we were little.” She released the fabric of her skirt into the sea and watched as it drifted on the water’s surface, surrounding her like a pool of blood. “Everything comes full circle, Stephen. Can’t you see that? I can’t send Yia-yia away, I just can’t.” She turned and walked toward him on the dry sand.

“But you’re forgetting one thing.” He reached his hands out and placed them on her shoulders, holding her squarely in front of his face. “We don’t live here, we live in New York. Different country, different rules . . .
our
rules, Daphne. Yours and mine.”

“Not when it comes to this.”

“So now all of a sudden you’re this traditional good little Greek girl? When did that happen? You’ve told me millions of times how embarrassing this all was for you when you were growing up. How backward this place is, with its arranged marriages and old widows’ covens.” He threw his hands up in the air. They landed again at his side, rigid and in two tight fists. “So explain to me how is this going to work, Daphne, when I entertain clients at home, when we throw dinner parties in our fabulous new apartment. I can see it now. . . . Sure, come enjoy a dinner made by my very own four-star chef wife. Eat the best food, drink the best wine, revel in our witty conversations, but pay no mind to the babushka-wearing
yia-yia
all dressed in black and shuffling along our parquet floors in her plastic slippers. What’s she gonna do, Daph? Come out at the end and read their coffee cups, tell them if they should go through with the deal or not? Now that’s something no other banker in New York has, his very own live-in witch. That’ll be great for business, Daphne. Just great.” He was walking in circles now, his face as red as hers.

She had seen Stephen in attack mode only twice since they had known each other. Both times it was when an important deal went bad. Both times it was when he lost millions of dollars in potential revenue. Perhaps, Daphne thought, this was the third time.

“This is our family, Stephen. Not business, family.”

He walked toward her. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry. I know how important this is to you, how important she is to you. But Daphne, I just don’t see how. It doesn’t fit with our lives.” He threw his hands up again and hunched his shoulders, as if merely dissecting and analyzing the problem would be enough to make it go away. “It doesn’t fit, Daphne.”

She stared up at him for as long as she could, but finally dropped her head. It hurt to look into his emotionless eyes anymore.

Then we don’t fit.

The breeze kicked in, stirring up the air of what had been a typically hot and stagnant afternoon. Daphne ran to the picnic blanket and reached out, trying to keep it and the remnants of their lunch from floating away on the wind. Her eyes spilling over with tears, she watched as the zephyr lifted a plain white paper napkin—lifting, looping, and twirling in the air, as gracefully and beautifully as a Greek bride dancing on her wedding day.