“I just got an email from my agent,” said Lee. “You are looking at Corpse Number Two, Episode Seven Hundred Fourteen,Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.”
“Wonderful, darling!” cried Charlotte. “Congratulations!” She was fairly sure Lee was lying, but decided to ignore this troublesome fact.
“We done,” said the taxi driver. He heaved himself out of the cab, unlatched the trunk, and left Charlotte, Lee, and all the Perkinses’ bags in the middle of a vast parking lot. The pavement literally steamed. Two men in orange shirts and black pants rushed over with carts. Lee snatched the boarding pass from Charlotte, who felt faint. The Greek sun was really something! Was this the sun Agamemnon had felt as he rushed into battle? Charlotte figured so. And like Agamemnon, Charlotte was ready to move forward into the unknown….
Lee seemed to be flirting with the baggage handlers. Charlotte staggered toward a gray building labeledCRUISE TERMINAL B: THEMISTOCLES.
“Lee,” said Charlotte, turning back to interrupt her daughter’s latest tryst-in-progress. “Who was Themistocles? Do you remember?”
“Is the terminal,” said one of the men in orange shirts.
“Terminal B,” noted the other.
“Is that right?” said Lee, stroking her neck. Charlotte watched her with concern.
“Themistocles was a politician and general in ancient Greece,” said a man with a clipboard, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. He was a tall drink of water. “His name means ‘Glory of the Law.’ He died in 459B.C.at Magnesia on the Maeander,” said the man.
Charlotte, Lee, and the baggage handlers mulled that over.
“I’m Bryson,” said the man, putting his shoulders back. Charlotte peered at his clipboard. She saw a bulleted list, with the titlePossible Passenger Questions: GREECE.Bryson’s teeth were huge, so white they almost glowed. He wore a well-tailored shirt that gave just a hint of his muscled torso and then dropped straight down, unhampered by a beer belly, toward a beautiful bulge in his snug pants. She smiled at Bryson, thinking, Oh my, before turning to look at Lee, and thinking, Oh no. Lee’s face was an open book—it always had been. And the book at this moment was titledHungry Eyes.
“I’m your cruise director,” said Bryson, holding out a big, glamorous hand, his nails perfectly oval-shaped, perhaps even buffed or covered with clear polish.
“I’m Lee,” breathed Lee. And then—could it be true?—she licked her lips.
“Hello. I’m Charlotte,” said Charlotte, attempting uselessly to tamp down the lust igniting between Lee and the cruise director. “I won the Become a Jetsetter contest. That’s me.”
Bryson turned to Charlotte and smiled as if he had no idea what she was talking about. The man had to be six-five. He was gorgeous, even better-looking than Lee’s paramour (or former paramour?), Jason, who was now a bona fide TV star, though Charlotte couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to watch a show about a grown-up with a pet robot.
Charlotte felt dizzy. As Lee and Bryson chatted away, Lee’s face lit up with Greek sun and the possibility of new love. Charlotte sighed. Why was she never the one filled with joie de vivre?
“I feel a bit faint,” said Charlotte.
“Do you need some water?” said Lee.
Charlotte lifted her chin. “What Ineed,” she said, “is a cold glass of Chardonnay!”
AS THEY WANDERED AROUNDAthens, Regan’s face grew pink, and Cord felt a weird, fatherly impulse to buy her some sunscreen, to rub it on her freckled cheeks the way he’d done when they were kids at the pool. Regan would insist Cord ride the waterslide with her, and despite his friends’ teasing, he’d always agree, holding her hand on the ladder to the top, putting his arms around her as they hurtled down, trying to hit the water before her, so he could lift her up and she could breathe.
Cord swallowed, wanting to ignore the call he’d just received from his sister’s best friend, Zoë. How could he tell his baby sister her husband was a monster?
“Are you okay?” said Regan.
“We should sit down,” said Cord. He spotted a sign in Greek with a translation below:TAVERNA OPERATES IN TO THE GARDEN. “Oh, look!” he said. “A restaurant. That’s whattavernameans—I read that somewhere. Let’s grab a bite.”
“I should get back to the hotel,” said Regan. “Matt booked us a room for the day.”
“Please,” said Cord. “I’m really hungry.”
Regan paused, then shrugged her acquiescence. They followed the arrow on the sign through a narrow passageway. A hidden garden was filled with empty wooden tables covered with sheets of white paper anchored by centerpieces of salt and pepper shakers, napkins, and toothpicks. Cord did not see a restaurant-type structure or any waiters, but he chose a table in a shady corner and they sat down. A butcher (he did appear to be the butcher—not only did he look like a butcher out of central casting, with the big belly and curly gray hair, but his apron was stained with blood) approached.
The man said something brusque in Greek. When Cord shook his head and tried to look amiably puzzled, the butcher said, “Lamb chops?” At least it sure sounded like “lamb chops.”
“Lamb chops,” agreed Cord. The man lumbered off, through the passageway and out of sight.
“Lamb chops?” said Regan. “We’re going to eat lamb chops?”
“When in Athens…” said Cord, trying to be light. Regan shrugged.
