A noteworthy distinction, apparently.
“Er, yes, that’s what I meant. We were hoping, however, to speak to the owner of this farm for a potential feature in our book. Would they happen to be around?”
The man looked around at their group, eyeing them, curiously. “All of you are food writers?”
Theo looked back at Maurice, Louis, and Dani. They didn’texactly look the part. Heck, Louis looked like he hadn’t read a book in his entire life. “Uh, we are the writers,” he said, waving his thumb between himself and Dani.
“What are you saying over there?” Maurice asked, defensively, something the man certainly noticed.
Theo quickly turned and said, “I’ve got it,” and then turned back to the man. “These two are…uh…with our publisher.”
Was that even something publishers did? Theo felt like he’d seen that in movies, so hopefully it was believable.
The man looked at them once more, then said, “Wait here,” before heading toward the main house.
They waited for five minutes before the man returned and escorted them to the house, leading them to a stone patio with arbors covered in grape leaves and vines. They sat at a round table, set with water glasses and a pitcher, then an older woman came from the house a few minutes later carrying a wooden tray with bread and dishes of olive oil.
“Καλημ?ρα,” Theo said, standing and extending his hand.
“Good morning. English?” the woman asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’m Lydia. Welcome to my home.”
“I’m Theo, and this is my frie—my fiancée, Daniela,” he stumbled, forgetting for a moment that Maurice and Louis were sitting with them, “and Maurice and Louis. They’re with our publisher.”
“You look familiar,” Lydia said, squinting as she examined him. “Have we met before?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Theo said, trying to think how they could have possibly met.
Lydia nodded. “Greek?”
“Yes. Greek American. I’m from—”
“New York,” Maurice butted in before Theo could unwittingly give themselves away. “We’re all from New York.”
Lydia tilted her head toward Maurice, studying him like she thought his interruption was unnecessary. Maurice clearly didn’t want to chance that she might put two and two together and figure out he was the Greek American from Chicago who’d gone missing a year ago.
“Yes, New York. We’re writing about the origins of Greek olive oil for a book,” Theo explained.
“All four of you?” Lydia’s brow raised, skeptically.
“Well, no. Just me and Daniela. Maurice and Louis do…marketing.”
What the hell was he even talking about?
“Hmm, I see.”
She didn’t seem convinced, not that he could blame her. He wasn’t doing a great job of selling it.
“So, you want to taste my oil?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” Theo said, happy to move on from the lies.
Lydia explained each of the oils as they dipped in tiny pieces of bread. The sharp flavor of olives hit his tongue, coating his mouth with smooth, thick liquid. While the oil swirled around, he used the time to try to think of a way to broach the topic of the Minotaur.
“Why the μ if the name of the company is called Demetrios?” Dani blurted out, pointing to the μ on the bottle.
