I hold up a hand. ‘Gran told me everything so you can save it. Leave the loukoumades. I won’t reject a gift your grandmother has clearly made with love.’ If only Posy could see me now! Even she would have to begrudgingly agree that I am a force to be reckoned with.
Georgios hands over the box. ‘Wait,’ he says and dashes outside to his car.
Time waits for no one, and these bite-sized balls of joy are still warm. I pop one in my mouth, and yes they are what dreams are made of. Pillowy-soft inside, crispy and sweet on the outside. Georgios comes back with two takeout coffees. Got to give the guy credit – he really has put some effort in. If only I could be stronger and send him on his way with an icy glare, and a taut moue. Alas, my body craves nutrients, so here we are.
‘Do you like Greek coffee?’ he asks as he passes me a cup.
‘Is it decaf?’
Georgios shakes his head.
‘Then yes.’ I take a sip. It’s stronger than coffee back home, thicker like it hasn’t been filtered. It’s a turbo-charged version and I for one, dig it. I can’t help feeling a little like he’s wooing me. And that is a problem because I sense it’s a devious ploy to get me on-side. The likes of him do not usually woo the likes of me. This isn’t some plain Jane, ugly duckling excuse – it’s that we’re different. Him with his designer sunglasses, massive ego and the way he expects I’ll fall at his fancy-leather-moccasin-encased feet. And me, a full-fledged member of Romancelandia who can recognise a plot a mile away.
I remind myself I’m supposed to be ‘killing him with kindness’ whilst remaining on guard. Really, I don’t mind gazing at him over breakfast, while I figure out what his angle is.
‘It’s quiet.’ He motions to the bookshop.
Not one customer so far, but it’s early and I presume tourists soon run on island time, their rhythms becoming languid as they settle into summery holidays.
‘Exactly. So why don’t you and your family give Gran a breather to get this place going and you’ll soon have your money paid back, with interest.’ All this chit-chat is hard when the loukoumades are begging to be inhaled. I take a delicate bite as I wait for his reply.
He considers it. ‘I understand, things have been really tough for her …’
‘I wouldn’t go quite that far. Gran tackles projects like this all the time. OK, yes she gets arrested fairly often, hence the need to move a lot,orskedaddle back to her home base in Brooklyn, but that’s not the point. The point is, when she has a vision, she brings it to fruition. This little Santorini village is lucky to have her and I know you don’t see that yet, but you will. I have every faith she’ll put this quiet spot on the map.’ Hopefully not for another murder probe, but I keep that to myself.
Georgios frowns, as if he doesn’t quite believe me. I get that. He doesn’t know Gran and the many feats she’s achieved in her remarkable life. ‘It’s only that my grandfather has bills to pay. Floretta can’t expect him to hold off indefinitely and now her husband is gone too. What if this place never gets going? Then what?’
How to convince him that Granneverfails. ‘You’ll have to take my word for it. She has a magic touch when it comes to business. And yes, this predicament isn’t ideal, and very out of character for her …’
He cuts me off. ‘Floretta shouldn’t have completed the renovations if she can’t pay the bills.’
I can’t really argue with that. Whydidshe sink everything into this place without any thought of her rent? ‘I’ll be sure to pass that on. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got books that need reading.’
With a shake of the head, he lopes out, taking the box of Greek donuts with him. The monster! I try to sink back into a memoir,My Family and Other Animalsby Gerald Durrell, but something niggles at me, making it impossible to absorb the printed words on the page. Georgios said:She can’t pay her bills. Plural.
Was it a figure of speech, or does she owe a lot of people money? As they say in the biz, the math ain’t math-ing. Gran isn’t the type to rack up debt all over town. She’s squeaky clean in that respect. I’ll ask her at sunset.
*
As predicted, customers trickle in as the day heats up, some only to escape the bite of the sun, others to peruse the books on display. I manage to avoid most of them by hiding behind the counter. An elderly man wanders in, smoking a cigar whilst he picks up books and puts them down in different sections, mixing up the colour order Gran has fastidiously kept neat. It’s a crime that the pristine new books are clouded in his second-hand smoke! This is going to mean human contact, quite possibly a confrontation. In any other scenario I’d avoid him altogether, but I must be a voice for these precious books who cannot speak for themselves. Gah. ‘Excuse me, sir?’
He rakes up a brow. So not one for small talk then? Perhaps he doesn’t understand English. I really should have downloaded a translation app like Gran suggested.
‘Would you mind smoking your cigar outside?’ I mime him puffing away and then point outside.
‘Outside?’ he says with a scowl. OK, he does understand. My mistake.
‘Yes, outside.’ I give him a winning smile to convey that I am not judging him just because he’s choosing to fill his lungs with a toxic substance. Live and let live is my motto.
He gives me the evil eye and stomps off, muttering all the while. Golly, customer service is a minefield.
Later that day, I’m about to close the bookshop up when my phone rings, startling me.
Incoming group video from The Precinct.
‘Mom, look into the screen,’ I say when I’m met with the vision of a squished dangly earring.
Mom sighs. ‘Why can’t we use our voices the old-fashioned way?’
