When the Cypress Whispers (2 page)

Evie smiled, giggling softly as they stepped up the white marble staircase and into the cool dimness of the lobby.

“If you meet a boy, you might have to kiss him.”

“You think so?” Popi leaned in, happy to take the delicious bait Evie had just dangled before her.

“Does your mommy kiss Stephen?”

“No! Ewwwwwwww!” Evie shrieked as she ran up the curved stairs, her laughter reverberating around the marble lobby.

Daphne rode the creaky elevator to the second floor and wheeled the suitcases into the sunlit foyer of the apartment.

When everything had been brought inside, Popi led everyone into the living room. She smiled at the little girl and said, “
Ella
, Evie. Your mother and I could use a nice cup of
kafe
and I’m too tired to make it. Will you make a nice cup of
kafe
for us? I bet you are a great chef like your mama.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” Evie replied as she shrugged her shoulders.

“Come on, Evie.” Popi placed her hands on her hips. “Every Greek must know how to make
kafes
, even the little ones like you.”

“But I’m not Greek. I’m from New York,” Evie replied.

Popi put her hands together as if in prayer. A soft moan escaped her lips. “Evie, promise me you will never let Yia-yia hear you say that.” She turned to Daphne. “Cousin, Yia-yia is going to kill you if she hears this.” Popi made the sign of the cross and muttered just loud enough for Daphne to hear, “No Greek at all, this child. Nothing.”

Daphne twirled her engagement ring round and round on her finger. She had never imagined that Evie would grow up like this. She had always intended to speak to Evie in Greek, knowing it was the only way she would grow up bilingual, as Daphne had. But Greek-speaking nannies are a rare commodity in Manhattan. And with Daphne out of the house twelve hours a day, getting home in time to say
kali
nichta
instead of
good
night
didn’t seem like it would make much of a difference anyway. After a while, she stopped trying.

“Come.” Popi narrowed her eyes and motioned for Evie to follow her into the large, bright kitchen. “Your Thea will teach you. Now you will become an expert in making frappe.”

“I thought we were making coffee.”

“Frappe is coffee. It’s cold and delicious and very fun to make. You’ll see.”

Popi tugged at the handles of a hulking cabinet whose glass front was covered in a pristine white doily, and the doors opened with a jingle of glass. She took three tall glasses from the top shelf and placed them on the table, which was covered with a plastic tablecloth. Then she took out a container of Nescafé and two dome-covered plastic tumblers and handed them to Evie, one at a time.

“Here, put these on the table for me.”

Finally, she waddled over to the icebox and took out a bucket of ice and a large bottle of filtered water.

“Your mother may be a famous chef, Evie, but I am famous for frappe. I will show you my secret recipe.”

Daphne had stayed behind to organize the luggage, but Evie’s frappe lesson was too entertaining to miss. She removed her black slingbacks, not wanting the click of her heels to give her away as she tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen. She made it to the doorway and stood hidden under the wooden archway as Popi directed Evie to place a teaspoonful of the Nescafé into each of the plastic containers along with water, ice, and a little bit of sugar.

“Now, put the cover on the cups and make sure they are on really, really tight. We don’t want any accidents in my nice clean kitchen,” Popi commanded.

Evie did as she was told, then pressed down on the lids with her little pink painted fingernails. She lifted the cups toward Thea Popi for inspection.

“Good. Perfect. Nice and tight. Now comes the fun part. Now we shake.”

Popi took one cup in each hand and shook them, like a volcanic eruption of feminine flesh, arms, feet, hips, legs, black curls, and breasts moving up and down and around in every direction. Evie’s face lit up.

“Evie
mou
, the secret to great frappe is to shake it properly.” Then to please her willing audience she held her arms up in the air, hoisted the plastic frappe cups toward the ceiling, and gyrated and shook and shimmied as if she were the main act at a bouzouki nightclub. Evie was delighted.

Daphne attempted to stifle her laughter as she watched Popi’s frappe frenzy. She was glad to see that twenty years and twenty pounds had not slowed Popi down. Daphne could not remember the last time she had felt that uninhibited.

It was time to jump in. “That’s not how you make frappe,” she challenged. “
This
is how you make frappe.” She took a container from Popi’s hand, then took her daughter’s hand and twirled her little girl and the cup around and around until Evie fell on the floor in a heap of giggles. She turned to Popi and held out her hand as the cousins snapped their fingers, circled their wrists, and rotated their hips as expertly as they had done the night they had worked a group of Italian tourists into a belly-dance-induced trance.

“
Opa
, Cousin,” Popi shouted, clapping her hands over her head.

“
Opa
, Popi
mou
,” Daphne cried. Already she felt freer, happier, and more full of life than she had in years.

Two

As she was falling asleep, Daphne remembered a night just a few short months ago. The dream that Yia-yia was with her had felt so real. Yia-yia had been so close that Daphne could see her face and smell the lingering scent of the kitchen fire on her clothes. When Stephen shook her awake, she had been sitting up in bed, arms stretched out into the darkness as if she were reaching out to stroke Yia-yia’s weathered skin. Even in the madness of the dinner rush the next night at the restaurant, Daphne had felt at peace just thinking Yia-yia had been with her. She knew it seemed silly, but it was as if she could feel Yia-yia’s hand guiding every slice of her knife, each sprinkle of seasoning and toss of her pan.

Daphne knew in her bones what she had to do. She didn’t understand why, but she just couldn’t shake the need to go home to Yia-yia. She had always been a diligent, responsible granddaughter, calling Yia-yia weekly and never missing a monthly trip to the post office, hiding wads of twenty-dollar bills between cards and photos. She was startled to realize it had been six years since she’d visited Yia-yia. She’d always meant to come back, to bring Evie home. But between the demands of being a single mother and running a restaurant on her own, the time had slipped by.

It had taken a bit of convincing to get Stephen onboard with canceling the formal wedding for two hundred and trading it for a simple island affair on Erikousa, but now she was here.

They had circled around the conversation for days. Stephen always appeared to listen patiently, to understand Daphne’s need to go to Yia-yia, but he was adamant about not wanting to trade New England pomp and circumstance for a peasant island wedding. Finally, he agreed. It was the caldera that did it. Daphne had shown Stephen photos of spectacular Santorini sunsets taken from a gorgeous private villa perched on whitewashed cliffs above the sea, overlooking the island’s caldera. During Minoan times, a catastrophic volcanic eruption had decimated the island, transforming it into the stunning crescent-shaped tourist favorite of today. When she told him they could rent the villa for their honeymoon, and that her cousin Popi would be available to keep Evie so they could actually honeymoon alone, he finally agreed to move the wedding to Greece. Stephen got what he wanted—precious time alone with his new wife—and Daphne got to go home to Yia-yia. Everyone won.

Despite the threadbare mattress in the sparse back bedroom of Popi’s apartment and the clanging dishes from the restaurant below, Daphne had slept better and sounder than she had in years.

She would have slept even later had the familiar ring tone of Stephen’s call not awakened her.

“Good morning, honey.” She rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

“I’m sorry I woke you. You must be exhausted.” She could hear him typing at his computer as he spoke.

“No, I’m good—great, actually. How are things in New York?”

“Busy. Lonely. I hate sleeping in that big bed without you. I’m trying to wrap things up here so I can come make an honest woman of you already. Is there anything you’ve forgotten, or want me to bring? Anything you need?”

“Nothing but you. I can’t wait for you to get here and meet everyone.”

Popi entered the bedroom carrying a tray holding frappe, fresh figs, and
tsoureki
, the sweet braided bread that Daphne adored but hadn’t indulged in since the nutritionist she hired ordered her to cut out anything white from her diet. Daphne noticed the ease with which her cousin balanced the heavy tray with one hand and served Daphne her coffee with the other. Popi’s movements were smooth, seemingly effortless, but Daphne knew better. There was nothing effortless or easy about the years of backbreaking restaurant work it took to develop those skills.

“I’ll call you once we get to Erikousa. I love you,” Daphne added before hanging up the phone and sitting up in bed. She patted the space beside her.

“What did my new cousin have to say?” Popi asked, placing the tray on the bed.

“He was just checking in, making sure we’re okay.” Daphne took a bite of the
tsoureki
as Popi sat down next to her. “And wondering which of his very rich, very handsome, and very single friends to introduce you to,” Daphne joked as she brushed crumbs from her lap.

“Come,
ella
, Daphne. This is not a joke, eh,” Popi said.

“Hmm, who’s lost her sense of humor now?” Daphne laughed as Evie came into the room, clutching her stuffed dog.

“
Ella
, Evie. Come to your Thea.” Popi patted the bed for the little girl to join her. “There are a few things you must learn about Erikousa before we go there. Our tiny island is just a few miles from here, but it is very different.”

Daphne had always described Yia-yia’s island as a beautiful and magical place, and Evie was eager to hear what Popi had to say about it. She looked up at her aunt expectantly.

“First of all, you must watch out for the black widows,” Popi warned.

“I hate spiders.” Evie’s nails dug into the dog’s fur as she pulled it closer.

“Not spiders!” Daphne laughed. “Popi means the slobber sisters.” She turned to Popi. “Are they still around?”

“Yes, of course they are,” Popi told her. “Evie, you must always have a napkin in your pocket. This is very important.”

“Why, Thea Popi?”

“When you get off the boat in Erikousa, you will see many
yia-yias
waiting at the port. They all come out of their houses when the ferryboat arrives so they can see who is coming and who is going. Now this is so they can go home and gossip about everyone later. They like to welcome everyone who comes to the island by kissing them two times on the cheek.” Popi leaned over and kissed each of Evie’s soft pink cheeks. “Like that. But, unlike your Thea Popi, many of the
yia-yias
give juicy wet kisses.” Evie made the appropriate face as Popi continued. “That is why you need a napkin, to wipe the wet
yia-yia
kisses off. Okay?”

“That’s gross,” Evie crinkled her nose. “I’m going to watch TV,” she announced before skipping out of the room. Daphne and Popi heard the television come on. Evie giggled as Bugs Bunny chomped on
karrota
instead of carrots.

“That’s one way to get her to learn the language. What her mother doesn’t do, maybe Bugs Bunny can.” Popi smiled one of her wicked grins.

Daphne just shook her head and managed a slight, tight smile back. To change the subject, she jumped out of bed and sprang over to the white garment bag, which was hanging above the closet door. “I can’t believe I haven’t shown you my dress yet,” she said as she unzipped the bag and revealed the cream silk and lace gown. She turned to her cousin for approval.

“Oh, Daphne, it’s the most beautiful dress I have ever seen.”

Daphne removed the gown from the garment bag and laid it on the bed. “Do you really think so? It’s not a bit much?” Daphne bit her lip as she carefully fanned out the fabric so Popi could inspect every detail of the strapless lace bodice, lightly corseted waist, and straight silk skirt, which was adorned with the slightest spray of tiny sea pearls and crystal beads.

“Too much?” Popi asked. “Too much for what? It’s your wedding dress. It should be special. And this”—Popi glanced up at Daphne as she ran her fingers along the dress’s delicate lace trim—“this is very, very special.”

“Oh, good.” Daphne brought her left hand to her throat in relief. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Wearing a floor-length designer dress to a black-tie country club wedding was one thing; wearing it to a dirt-road island wedding was quite another. Daphne had never intended to wear such an elaborate gown, even before the wedding plans changed. But Stephen had surprised her with a trip to an elegant Fifth Avenue bridal salon. He took her by the hand, walked her into the salon, and asked the meticulously attired ladies to help his fiancée select a gown befitting her beauty. Then he handed the shop girl his credit card, kissed Daphne good-bye, and left her with a glass of champagne in hand and many beautiful dresses to choose from.

The morning sunshine caught her diamond ring, sending rainbow-hued flecks of light dancing across the white walls of the room. “Let me show you the back.” Daphne gently turned the dress over to show Popi the double row of tiny pearl-encrusted buttons that decorated the entire length of the gown.

Popi made the sign of the cross. “This is too much! It is too beautiful! But there is only one problem.” A glimmer of mischief returned to her face as she looked into her cousin’s eyes.

“What problem?” Daphne asked as she scanned the dress, looking for a stain or a tear.

“The problem is that no man will wait for all those buttons to be undone on his wedding day. Your beautiful gown will be ripped to pieces as he tries to get at what is underneath the dress.”

Daphne laughed. “Very funny, Popi. But Stephen is a patient man. I don’t think I have to worry about that.”

“You are crazy. No man is patient on his wedding night.”

“Well, he waited two years before I even agreed to go out with him.” Daphne moved the dress slightly and sat down on the bed next to Popi.

“Was it really that long? I don’t know which one of you is crazier—you for waiting so long to say yes, or him for waiting around so long when I was right here and ready the whole time you were playing hard to get.”

Daphne plucked a pillow off the bed and tossed it at her cousin. “I wasn’t
playing
hard to get. I
was
hard to get. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t think I ever would be.”

It was true. After losing Alex, Daphne never imagined that she would one day find love again. But somehow, despite her initial reluctance, despite all of the obstacles and complications, somehow, in some miraculous way, she had.

She remembered the first time she saw him across the expansive desk of the loan officer in the bank, where she sat fidgeting in her chair. She was desperate for the loan and for the paperwork to be filled out quickly, knowing that she couldn’t afford to pay the babysitter extra hours. Walking into the bank that day, Daphne knew the reality of the situation. If the man behind the desk didn’t see the potential of her business plan, her fate would be sealed, the legacy would continue, and she too would be condemned to a life working in diners.

As she sat pleading her case, she tried without success to read the face of the man behind the desk. There were moments of hope, when he nodded as she explained her business plan, and moments of terror as he stared back like a blank canvas. She had no idea how things were progressing; only that she was running out of time. She was annoyed at first when the door opened and the tall, immaculately dressed man with the pocket square walked into the room, apologized for the interruption, and walked over to the loan officer’s desk, handing him a stack of papers. He smiled down at Daphne, at first noticing her legs twitching under her skirt and then her black-olive eyes.

“Hi, I’m Stephen,” he said, asking for her name. She told him why she was there, praying this man in the perfectly tailored suit could help her in some way. He wished her good luck and walked out of the room. She didn’t know why, but the deep whisky baritone of his voice had instantly put her at ease.

When the phone rang a few days later and the words “You’re approved” rang in her ear, she thought of the immaculately dressed man and wondered for a fleeting moment if he had helped.

The next months flew by in a blur; planning, constructing, decorating, cooking . . . She put her heart and soul into launching the restaurant, and the man was soon forgotten—until the night he walked into her newly opened restaurant alone.

He sat in the back, savoring his lamb fricassee and taking in every nuance of the dining room. When she came out of the kitchen at the end of dinner service, she spotted him and immediately went over to welcome him to Koukla. He asked her to join him for a glass of wine and they ended up talking for hours, his intoxicating voice simultaneously transfixing and relaxing her. He proved to be a wonderful conversationalist as well as an ally. Nothing went unnoticed. He told her which waiters took too long with service and which dishes left the diners wanting more.

Night after night for almost two years they ended evenings together over a glass of wine. Gradually, it became clear that Stephen had indeed helped to sway the loan officer. It also became clear that he wanted more from Daphne than just a meal and a glass of wine. Daphne wasn’t sure at first, not certain if she was ready to share more with this man, with any man. But that deep whisky voice had a way of putting her at ease, of making it easier to say yes.

The first yes was the hardest, then he made it so much easier to say it again . . . and again and again and again.