“I saw Santo leaving just now. He’s really engaged? To the American girl?”
“My son’s engagement is not a subject for discussion.”
“Of course not.” Her smile didn’t falter. “I only wondered... well, I’m sure your father would have had opinions about Santo marrying outside Greek culture.”
“My father is dead, and Chrysanthos’ choices are his own.”
“Even still, your father would never have approved of this. Your grandchildren will be—”
“Black?” I supplied.
“Yes!” She gestured as if I’d finally understood her point. “You have to think about your father’s legacy. About the family name. About—”
“Let me be absolutely clear, Phoibe.” My voice was soft, which made it more dangerous. “My father’s legacy is mine to protect, not yours to interpret. And if there’s one thing I despise, is outsiders who mistake gossip for insight into my family.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You meant exactly what you said.” I straightened to my full height, and she backed away from my desk. “The young woman my son has chosen to spend his life with is none of your concern.”
Phoibe’s face had gone pale. “Aris, I was only trying to—”
“Trying to what? Warn me?” I moved around the desk, closing the distance between us. “Let me offer you a warning instead.”
She pressed her lips together, finally silent.
“You’ve worked for this company for nearly fifteen years. You’re competent at your job.” I paused, letting that sink in. “None of that will matter if I hear one more comment about my son’s fiancée, or anyone else, based on the color of their skin.”
“I wasn’t being racist,” she protested weakly. “I was just concerned about—”
“About the purity of the bloodline?” My voice could have cut glass. “If you have a problem with my son’s choice of wife, with the color of my future grandchildren, or with anyone else’s ethnicity, you are welcome to seek employment elsewhere.”
“You can’t fire me for having an opinion—”
“I can fire you for creating a hostile work environment.” I met her eyes. “And make no mistake, Phoibe, if I hear that you’ve said anything—to anyone—that disparages my daughter-in-law, you will be gone before the end of the day. No severance. No recommendation. Nothing. Am I making myself clear?”
She stood frozen, tablet clutched to her chest.
“Am I making myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” she managed, her voice tight.
“Good.” I sat back down, picking up my pen. “Close the door on your way out.”
11
The dining room buzzed with overlapping conversations. Tia’s two paternal uncles were arguing good-naturedly about football, while their younger kids laughed at something on someone’s phone.
I stood at the kitchen island, wrapping leftovers in foil, grateful for a task that kept my hands busy. Staying busy meant not thinking. Not thinking about the nausea that had been plaguing me for weeks, or the conversation I wasn’t ready to have with anyone.
“Dee, baby, you feeling alright?”
I turned to find my ex-mother-in-law, Mama Nettie, beside me, her weathered hand resting on my arm. Those sharp brown eyes had seen me through my last year in the foster care system, my marriage to her youngest son, Tia’s cancer, and through the divorce. They missed nothing.
“I’m fine, Mama Nettie. Just tired.” I smiled. “Big meal, lots of people.”
“Mm-hmm.” She studied my face, then her gaze dropped to the foil-wrapped turkey in my hands, my midsection, and back to my face. “How far along are you?”
My hands stilled. “What?”
