“So,” said Cord, making his tone suitably grave, “how are you?” He hoped this opening would allow her to tell him about the private investigator. Cord leaned forward, trying to look encouraging.
“I’m fine,” said Regan.
“Are you sure?” asked Cord. He raised his eyebrows, willing her to confide in him. Oh, how he wanted to be someone’s savior!
“Yes,” said Regan, folding and refolding her napkin. “I’m sure.”
The man returned with dishes piled high. Food had always helped ease Cord’s anxiety: he lifted a hot chunk of bread (it seemed to have been grilled) and took a bite. It was delicious and dense, tasting of olive oil. He served himself salad. Every flavor burst in his mouth as if he’d never before tasted a real tomato or an inch-and-a-half-thick mouthful of feta. Cord thought for a moment of the pathetic “feta crumbles” he sometimes shook over his deli salad and felt mournful.
“So everything’s…?” he said.
“Fine,” said Regan, who seemed to be concentrating on the vines encircling a trellis overhead. Cord realized this was going to be harder than he’d thought.
“I was wondering…how you and Matt were doing,” said Cord.
“Why?” said Regan.
“No reason,” said Cord. This was a lie. The truth was that Zoë had told Cord a private investigator had been tailing Matt, and had uncovered some shocking and sordid news.
“I sent the report to Regan,” Zoë had said, “but she hasn’t even responded. I keep calling her! She won’t answer!” Zoë begged Cord to make sure Regan was okay.
“We’re good,” said Regan, spearing a piece of feta with her fork. “You know—it’s marriage. Or I guess you don’t know.”
Cord watched her. She seemed subdued, but maybe this was just her personality now. Younger Regan had always been bubbly, so delighted by everything—birds, French fries, the moon. “Did you…um, get an email from Zoë?” he said.
“Zoë? Email?” said Regan. “No. Definitely not.”
The man dropped off a platter of meat, then two plates of dips—one white yogurt and one pale green. “For bread,” said the man, pointing to the basket. Cord nodded his thanks. He squeezed a lemon quarter over the meat, then lifted a chop. It seemed smaller than the steroid-fattened American chop, delicate. He took a bite, and almost moaned with pleasure as he tasted oregano and salt—yes! Salt!—combined with the better-than-American-lemon lemon and the rich, slightly gamy, melty, fat-studded lamb.
Cord looked at his baby sister, reached for her hand across the table. “Did you look at the report?” he said. “We can look at it together, Ray Ray.”
She yanked her hand away and stood. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice steely and kind of mean. “Do you understand? I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t want to hear about whatever you’re talking about ever again.”
Cord sighed. He was trying to move away from lies and subterfuge. He wanted this conversation to be different. He yearned to open up to Regan, to tell her about Giovanni, to strategize about how they’d break the news, together, to Charlotte. He wanted to help Regan make a new life without Matt.
“I’m going back to the hotel,” said Regan.
“Regan! Okay. Okay, if that’s what you want. We don’t have to talk about this. But…I can help you, Regan. Don’t you want me to help you?” She slid on her rhinestone sunglasses. The set of her mouth—and her desire to deny the truth about her marriage—made Cord sad and then furious. “What the hell, Regan?” he said. “This isn’t you!”
“You don’t even know me,” said Regan. “You don’t have any idea who I am anymore.”
“Of course I do,” said Cord. “Stop being dramatic.”
He wanted her to smile, to shake her head. But Regan leaned close and said, “Back off. I mean it. You don’t want anything to do with this, I promise you.”
Cord was stunned. Were they in some sort of crime drama? What on earth had happened to sweet baby Ray Ray? As she turned and strode off, he quickly grabbed a pork chop in each hand. To hell with his sister! He took one bite and then another. To hell with the Perkins drama! He was going to book a flight home to his Giovanni.
But first he was going to enjoy his delectable Athenian feast.
SOMETIME IN THE MIDDLEof the night, Zoë had forwarded an email: the private investigator’s report on Matt. The email had been titled CALL ME IT’S BAD. Regan had stared at the title for a moment, but she had not clicked.
Zoë had since called Regan twice, and Cord as well, it seemed. Regan felt panicked as her taxi pulled in front of the Acropolis Select Hotel. Matt was waiting for her, wearing new sunglasses. When had he bought new sunglasses? Regan rolled down the window and waved, trying to smile. Matt climbed into the car and they headed to the Port of Piraeus. Matt smelled like Old Spice deodorant. He greeted the driver, saying,“Yassus.”Regan was surprised.
“What?” said Matt. “The least I could do was learn ‘hello.’ ” He held up his phone, showing her a language app. “I’ve never been anywhere,” he said. “This is a big deal for me.”
It was true: they’d barely left Georgia in their years together. They had gone to Tybee Island for their honeymoon, to Atlanta once in a while for conventions. Before they’d had children, Regan had visited Cord in New York, but Matt had never had time to come along.
Now he seemed like his old self—kind, happy—and Regan’s stomach ached with indecision. Her phone kept buzzing with missed calls from Zoë. Could she still change her mind and mend her relationship with Matt?
