Tasia’s gaze drifts over to where Emma, who’s now hugging an older woman’s legs. “And that one, not a dark hair on her head!Po, po, po.Amazing. She doesn’t look Greek at all! Like a little angel from the North.”
“But she has the Greek spirit, I can see it,” Violetta insists, gesturing at Emma’s outfit. “Look how she puts herself together! She looks like she is ready for the panighiri. You see it, Despina?”
Despina takes a drag of her cigarette. “I see it.”
The house is a beautifully organized riot. As the aunts lead us through the living room, they gesture vaguely toward the sea of men and children. “There is Stefanos, my husband,” Despina says, pointing to the man who nearly crushed Leo’s shoulder. “And over there, Yiannis and Dimitris—husbands of these two,” she adds, waving a hand at Tasia and Violetta. The two men are currently hunched over a backgammon board, the dice clicking against the wood like gunfire.
It’s not just them, though. The house is vibrating with people. There are teenagers sprawled on the stairs talking and laughing, toddlers chasing each other around the coffee table, and cousins I haven’t even been introduced to yet sharing a bowl of olives. It’s a far cry from the quiet, clinical dinners I grew up with.
We finally migrate toward the massive kitchen, the undisputed heart of the ship. Irene is there, looking like the calm center of a storm, moving between a massive turkey and several simmering pots. She beams the moment she sees Leo, pulling him into a hug before turning to me.
“Annie, welcome,mou,” she says, her eyes crinkling. She hugs me too, and it feels genuine. Warm.
“I brought these,” I say, handing over the Koulourakia like they’re a peace offering. “I’m not sure if they’re any good, though.”
Irene takes the dish, peeling back the foil. She catches the scent and smiles. “They look fantastic, Annie. You are very brave to try the braids! Most girls, they are lazy and make the balls.” She nudges me. “Are your roommates still coming? The ones you told me?”
I nod. “They are. Thank you so much for inviting them.”
That had been part of what calmed my nerves today—knowing Cori and Marcus would be here eventually. They’d been thrilled when Leo’s parents invited them. Cori’s parentswere taking a trip to Napa just the two of them, and Marcus was spending the afternoon at Brett’s place before coming here. Mostly they were excited because it meant they didn’t have to cook Thanksgiving dinner themselves, and I can’t blame them.
“Good,” Irene says, tucking the cookies onto a crowded sideboard. “The more the merrier! Anyone who needs a proper Thanksgiving is welcome in this house. We have enough food to feed the whole village.”
Leo’s father, Michalis, moves in then, kissing both my cheeks with a scratchy, bearded grin. “He is a good boy, myLeoni,” Michalis tells me, winking. “But he is very lucky you have no taste in men, eh? Come, sit! You are too thin, we fix this now.”
Michalis’s hand is warm and large on my back as he steers me through the kitchen, parting the sea of women like a gentle, smiling ship. The air is a humid, heavenly fog of roasting garlic, lemon, oregano, and baking dough. Voices overlap in a melodic mix of Greek and English, punctuated by the clatter of pans and bright bursts of laughter.
We emerge into the dining room, where the noise is a lower, contented hum. More people are clustered around the long table, some talking, some sipping wine. Two older women in the corner click knitting needles with practiced speed. Maria spots us and stands up, her face lighting with a genuine warmth that immediately eases something in my chest.
“Annie,kalispera,” she says, taking my hands and kissing my cheeks. “So glad you could come.” She turns to Leo, who’s followed us in, and gives him a look. “And I guess I’m glad you came, too. Someone has to carry the pies.”
Leo rolls his eyes, but the affection in them is plain. “You’re hilarious, Maria.”
From the corner, one of the knitting women looks up, her eyes crinkling. “Leoni!” she calls. She says something rapid and scolding in Greek, gesturing at him with a needle.
Leo’s face softens completely. He crosses the room, leans down, and kisses her on both cheeks. “Yiayia,” he says gently. “This is Annie.”
I move closer. Up close, his grandmother is tiny but formidable, with sharp dark eyes that miss nothing. “It’s very nice to meet you,” I say.
She pats my hand. “Nice, nice, dear,” she says, her accent thick. Then she points a needle toward where Leo’s dad is now arranging more wine glasses. “Leoni is good boy.Poli kalo paidi,” she insists, then jabs the needle again. “He gets it from my son, you know.”
I laugh, charmed.
“Please, eat! Sit!” Michalis booms, gesturing grandly. “You can’t just look at food, it does not jump into your mouth!”
“It all looks amazing,” I say, honestly overwhelmed. “I don’t know where to start.”
Leo appears beside me with a small plate. “Start with this,” he says, placing a sticky, diamond-shaped piece of pastry on it. “Karidopita. Walnut cake soaked in syrup.”
It looks…incredibly wet. But I trust him and take a bite. The texture is dense and nutty, saturated with a spiced honey syrup that explodes on my tongue. My eyes go wide. “Oh my god,” I mumble through the mouthful. “That’s…that’s incredible.”
Leo grins, looking smug. “Told you.”
I settle into a chair between him and his father. Michalis turns to me, a twinkle in his eye. “You remember, I said I have Greek stories for you next time I see you.”
“Of course I remember,” I say, smiling.
He nods, gets up, and goes to a tall bookcase, returning with a large, leather-bound album that looks well-loved. He opens it on the table between us. The first photo is black and white, slightly faded at the edges. It shows a boy who is unmistakably a young Michalis, maybe ten years old, grinning with a gap-toothed smile. He’s standing next to a girl with two thick, dark braids and a serious, curious expression, who I know to be Irene. They’re on a dusty street, whitewashed buildings in the background, holding what look like school slates.
