Asha nods and disappears, only to return moments later with a bewildered expression. “There’s nothing there but towels and bed sheets.”
I’m about to suggest another location when my mother steps into the kitchen, still in her robe, hair coiffed despite the early hour. She surveys the scene with acritical eye.
“Good morning. You must be the housekeeper,” she says to Asha.
“Yes. Would you like a coffee?” Asha asks. “Or I could start breakfast?”
My mother waves a hand. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be making breakfast.” She opens the refrigerator and begins pulling out eggs, feta cheese, and tomatoes. “You can clean later.”
Asha’s eyes flick to me in silent appeal. In my home, she has autonomy. But here, with my mother commandeering the kitchen, her world has been upended again.
“Actually, Asha,” I say, making a quick decision, “why don’t you take the day off?”
Relief floods her features, though she tries to hide it. “Are you sure, Ms. Stavros?”
“I’m sure. It’s spotless in here and we’re fine. Go home, rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
My mother fills the coffee machine with water. “That poor woman looked absolutely lost,” she comments once Asha has departed. “Has she always been so disorganized?”
“We’ve reorganized some things,” I reply, watching as my mother makes coffee. I notice with some amusement that she’s using Ruby’s Ethiopian beans. “It’s been busy with the preparations for your visit.”
“Hmm.” My mother doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, at least you have decent coffee. These beans smell delicious.”
“Yeah? Guess what? They’re not Greek beans,” I say with a grin.
My mother’s hand pauses mid-scoop. “Really?” She frowns. “I brought you those beans from Thessaloniki last Christmas. What happened to those?”
“I finished them, Mom.” I move to stand beside her, takingthe coffee scoop from her hand. “And not everything Greek is automatically superior.”
She looks at me as if I’ve just suggested the Acropolis is overrated. “Of course it is. Especially coffee.”
“Look, I’m all about supporting my country,” I say, filling the coffee maker, “but I’m not budging on these beans.”
My mother sniffs. “Betrayal. My own daughter, turning her back on her heritage for foreign coffee.”
“The horror,” I deadpan, pressing the brew button.
“Next you’ll tell me you prefer American yogurt over Greek.”
“Now that would be true sacrilege.”
The coffee maker gurgles to life and my mother pulls two mugs from the cabinet—somehow navigating Ruby’s kitchen better than I’ve managed in the past twenty-four hours—and sets them on the counter.
“Oh!” she exclaims suddenly. “I forgot to tell you. I spoke with my friend Polina yesterday. Her grandson is getting married next summer in Santorini. Very handsome boy, studying medicine in London. You should come with us to the wedding.”
I suppress a sigh. “Mother, please don’t start.”
“What?” She arranges her features into a mask of innocence that hasn’t fooled me since I was seven. “I’m simply informing you of a family event.”
“You’re matchmaking.”
“I’m doing no such thing. But if you happened to meet someone suitable while we’re there…”
“I’m not interested in being set up.”
“You’re almost forty, Athena.”
“And perfectly happy with my life as it is.”
