“How many can you eat?” Rafael asked.
Bea didn’t hesitate. She grabbed another. “As many as she’ll let me have.”
Yiayia snorted and disappeared again.
Theios Kostas appeared from the back garden, his clothes stained from where he’d been gutting fish outside. “Koukla, eat six more or she’ll think you’re weak.”
Bea kept chewing, calculating sugar-to-worthiness ratios. “How many to secure approval?”
Not because she needed it. Because she wanted to be worthy of the boy that grandmother adored.
Kostas tilted his head. “Rafa is the baby boy so…you’ll need to do more than eat.”
They followed the smell of oil and herbs into the back courtyard. A wide stone table was set up under a fig tree, covered in vegetables, olive jars, lemons, and fresh herbs in old yogurt containers. Yiayia sat at the center like a spider in her web, a mountain of cucumbers in front of her.
“Are we feeding the entire island?” Bea whispered.
“Just the family,” Rafael said, deadpan. “They’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Ask her what I can do.” She tugged at his shirt. “Whatever she needs. I’ll do it.”
“You really want to spend your honeymoon chopping produce?” He watched her for a second. “They’d forgive us if we went sightseeing.”
“Ask her,” Bea insisted.
Rafael and Yiayia volleyed back and forth in Greek. He wasn’t fluent, even her untrained ears could hear his accent, but he understood her just fine.
“She said to sit and relax.” He didn’t meet her eyes.
“That was a lot of words for just that,” Bea said suspiciously. “What else did she say?”
He scratched the stubble growing along his jaw. “That was the studio cut.”
“Give me the director’s cut.”
“She said you don’t look like someone who’s ever worked with your hands.”
Bea’s jaw dropped. “I used to slice napa by the kilo. Tell her I can take a cucumber.”
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said. “Not to her. Not to anyone.”
“I’m not doing it for her,” Bea said. “I’m doing it forme.”
And for you. The last thing she wanted was Rafael’s grandmother thinking he’d married an ornamental girl.
Rafael translated, amusement tugging at his mouth.
Finally, Yiayia passed over a blade and bowl. Bea took them reverently.
“She says to slice the cucumbers. Thin but not flimsy. They need to hold up in the oil and vinegar.” Rafael sat beside her, rolling up his sleeves.
Yiayia sat back, arms folded. The moment the knife hit the board, a blitzkrieg of Greek fired across the table. Bea turned to Rafael, keeping her face composed.
“She says it’s not sashimi.”
Bea adjusted. Tried again, this time thicker. Yiayia watched, gave a single nod, and turned to her herbs. A single breath of relief left her.
They worked in silence after that, Rafael rinsing before passing them over to her. She got no further praise. Nor was she relieved of her knife.
