She pours thick coffee into small cups that could double as shot glasses, slides it over and watches the way I drink it.
My tongue thinks it’s been kissed by thunder but I keep a straight face as I swallow the bitter beverage.
Then she puts a bowl of water next to my coffee and a knife on the other side.
“Wash hands, then chop,” she says, passing me a bowl of tomatoes. “Not mash. Salt at the end, or they cry water and drown the salad.”
I anchor my feet. “Yes, ma’am.”
When I start the chopping, she narrows her eyes at my hands.
The test is not subtle but I take it with both palms. Tomatoes yield neat, ruby crescents. I avoid the crime of mutilating cucumber. When I reach for the salt only when everything else is glistening in the bowl, she grunts something that isn’t disapproval.
Vasso leans a hip against the counter, watching the two most stubborn women in his life decide whether to make peace with their teeth or their hands. “Ma,” he says, and his voice is careful, respectful, but there is steel under the silk, “let’s have a nice visit, hmm?”
Eleni Dillinger purses her lips even as a wave of sadness washes over her face.
I want to reach out and cover her hand with mine, but it’s too soon.
Vasso straightens, strolls over to his mother, and drops a kiss on top of her head. “Some hurts you feed until they own you. They don’t make the Kanes bleed. They just keep your knife in your own heart.”
She holds his gaze a long, long moment. Then she looks back at me, takes the salad, salts it herself, and sets three plates on the balcony table that overlooks the harbor.
And just like that a seismic shift unfolds beneath my feet.
I’m under no illusion that the past is settled—no, that will take time and patience and open hearts—but one plank has turned into several, hammered with hopeful nails.
We eat outside, groaning at the lemon potatoes crisp at the edges, sardines kissed by a grill, bread you tear with your hands and drag through the good things.
And as I attempt to wedge a forkful of sinfully good baklava on top of my protesting belly, her questions come in small, precise slices.
“You work?”
“I did,” I say. “Then I didn’t. I’m hoping I will again.”
“With him?” She jerks her chin at her son, as if daring me to claim something not offered.
“Maybe. If he asks nicely,” I say, and I mean it to be a joke, but her eyes sharpen as if I have said something more serious and acceptable—if it’s a partnership, not a rescue or a command.
After the plates are stacked, she vanishes to the sink with military efficiency, sharply refusing help.
Vasso and I drift to the far corner of the balcony where the jasmine climbs the rail, to watch the harbor below make its ongoing fuss. A church bell wobbles the hour like a drunk uncle, wrong but committed.
“She’s upset with me.”
He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “She is. But she was upset with me too.”
“Really, why?”
His eyes glint. “What do you think?”
I start to frown but enlightenment comes with a lurching heart. “She didn’t want you to marry me.”
He remains silent for a short stretch. “A mother will fight tooth and nail not to see her only child hurt a second time.”
I can’t answer because I’m too busy swallowing an expanding lump in my throat.
“Give her time.”
