Yiayia nodded slowly, and spoke in slow Greek.
“She says they’re acceptable.”
Joy flushed up Bea’s throat. “I’ll take acceptable.”
Yiayia patted her hand and muttered something that made Rafael smile.
“Good woman for my grandson.”
Rafael reached out and adjusted his grandmother’s collar, murmuring a response in Greek.
“What did you say?” Bea asked.
“I said, ‘onlywoman for me.’”
Bea picked up a loukoumáde and fed it to him.
The front door slammed open. Two dozen voices crashed in at once. Greetings, scoldings, and something that sounded a lot like an argument about ferry times. Feet thundered toward the kitchen, then skidded to a halt. Everyone blinked at the sight of Rafael and Bea flanking Yiayia.
One second passed. Maybe two.
Then—like a wave surging in—“Beatriz!”
“No baby? Still no baby? What are you two doing all day?”
“Do you need supplements?”
“My cousin has twins. She usedbee pollen.”
“It’s the phone. Too much phone!”
Chapter Twenty
“…and your Auntie Linda is still claiming she only danced on the table once,” Papa was saying through the video call.
Bea stretched out along the sun-warmed cushions on the terrace, tucking one bare foot beneath the other. The Aegean glittered in sharp shards of blinding light.
Behind her, the sliding doors to their Bodrum hotel suite stood open, gauzy curtains breathing in and out with the sea breeze. On the small table to her right sat the welcome fruit tray the hotel had sent up: white peaches, cherries, honey-split figs, pistachios.
“Papa, it absolutely happened twice.” Bea picked up a fig, the purple skin soft beneath her fingers, and bit into the cool sweetness. “I saw the replay. Georgie has video, because she was on the table, too.”
“Outrageous,” Papa declared. Then, lowering his voice, “Make sure you send us copies.”
Bea laughed, tilting the phone slightly to cut the glare bouncing off the sea. After three weeks of honeymoon bliss, Bea was very happy, alarmingly tanned, and if she were honest, slightly exhausted.
Some of that was the travel. Most of it was her husband.
They’d dropped anchor in ports she’d never heard of, swam in water so clear she could see individual corals. They’d return to reality in one more week, but she’d already gone too long without calling her parents.
“And Halmoni?” she asked. “Has she forgiven Rafael yet for the shirt buttons?”
“Your halmoni told the church ladies he is ‘a tall tree with good roots.’ That’s high praise,” Papa reported. “She wants you to confirm whether he sleeps on his stomach.”
Bea grinned and shifted the cushion behind her back. “You can assure her he doesn’t.” She’d known that already, of course. Rafael would have to release her to manage that and he was a dedicated spooner. And since she’d only just become a wife, as far as Halmoni was concerned this was brand-new information to both of them.
“Speaking of your husband, where is he?” Umma appeared beside Papa, and set down a toasted slice of bread with crushed tomato and olive oil, and a steaming coffee. He held her hand briefly in thanks.
Bea glanced toward the terrace edge. She couldn’t see them from where she sat, but she knew there were rows of white yachts rocking lazily in the marina below. “He went to check out Lucian Stratton’s new yacht.”
