A Recipe for Daphne Nektaria Anastasiadou (the rosie project .TXT) 📖

the best. Then she added, “What about Easter? Are you finally going to use your ticket?”

“I’m trying, my love. I’m even interviewing assistants, but I haven’t found anyone yet.”

“You know, I was thinking about something you said when we were at the Galata Tower. You said our love had to be steadfast, and you were completely right. I was an idiot for crying over Paul. But now I’m wondering if the issue is more than work. Perhaps it’s still your mother.”

How could she have hit that back at him?

“Absolutely not,” said Kosmas. “Believe me, I’m trying hard to find another pâtissier to help out. It’s just that my standards are high. You know that.”

“Tamam.” She blew him a kiss and waited. Kosmas also waited. Daphne hadn’t said it first in a week, but he desperately wanted to hear it: the first “I love you,” not just the reply.

“Have a good night, then,” she said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

He started to say “I love you,” but she had already hung up.

On February 25, Kosmas readied a box of macaroons, asked one of Fanis’s neighbors to allow him in when the doorbell went unanswered, climbed Fanis’s four flights of stairs, and knocked at the apartment door.

“Who’s there?” Fanis asked.

“It’s me, Kosmas.”

Fanis opened. He wore an old-fashioned navy smoking jacket belted at his waist. “Ah, Kosmaki . . . come in. What are you doing here?”

Kosmas held out the box of pastries. “I thought you might like a visit.”

“Perfect! I just made a pot of tea. Have a seat!”

While Fanis bustled about in the kitchen, Kosmas noticed a men’s corset that had been carelessly thrown onto a side table. Well, well. Apparently Fanis hadn’t shared all his beauty tricks.

Kosmas sat down in the oriel just before Fanis returned with the tea. “Aren’t you engaged yet?” Fanis asked.

“Excuse me?”

Fanis poured the tea into gold-rimmed porcelain cups. “I’m a gracious loser.”

“Selin seems more your type, anyway,” said Kosmas, glancing at the corset.

“Selin is a friend.”

“Sure, Mr. Fanis. Whatever you say.”

Fanis sighed and shook his head. “How’s the professeur?”

“Still a bit angry, but he’ll get over it.”

“And the ladies?”

“Aliki will probably need some time.”

“Tell me about Daphne, then.”

Kosmas cracked his thumb. “Things have cooled down a little . . . because of my mother.” He took a tissue from his man bag and wiped the sweat on his forehead. Ever since Rea’s crisis, Kosmas had been having more and more of these moments. His heart raced. He sweated excessively. For a few minutes, he would feel like he had entirely lost control of his life, and then, slowly, he would regain his perspective, but the fear of losing Daphne never left him.

“I’d do anything for her, Mr. Fanis,” he said. “Anything. I’ve even been taking Argentine tango lessons so I can surprise her, and I’m looking for an apartment, but still, if she and my mother can’t get along, none of it will help.”

Fanis sighed. “Mothers.” His eyes wandered over his eclectic antique furniture and settled on the corset. He sprang to his feet and threw it into the sideboard cabinet. “Excuse my untidiness,” he said.

Pretending not to have noticed, Kosmas said, “Did Selin tell you that Daphne’s father is Ottoman? It doesn’t bother me, but my mother—I’m worried.”

Fanis reassumed both his seat and his philosopher’s expression. “You get over your mother, and she’ll get over the Ottoman father. I know what I’m talking about. You see, I was in love with a girl once. At a crucial moment, my mother convinced me not to go see her. I think my mother’s motives were good, but of course I shouldn’t have listened. That mistake cost me dearly.”

Kosmas downed half his tea, almost as if it were raki, and made a second confession: “Mr. Dimitris is moving in next week.”

“You see? Rea gets over you quite quickly when she wants to. Bravery and brass: that’s what life requires, son. You’ve got to stand up to your mama, no matter how much she faints.” Fanis leaned over the arm of his chair. “Listen. I’ll tell you a little secret, even though I swore not to tell anyone. Daphne is coming for Easter. She’s arriving on her name day.”

“Palm Sunday?” Kosmas stood. “But just last week she was asking if I’d go to Miami.”

“Perhaps she gave up on you. Anyway, her father bought her a ticket so that she could visit again and see how she feels before she gives up everything there. Selin said I wasn’t to tell anyone, but I’ve never been very good at keeping secrets. Of that nature, at least. Now drink your tea and let’s talk about something else, like your tango lessons. Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

“Don’t,” said Kosmas. He retook his seat, but his right foot began tapping nervously. “It’s absolutely excruciating. It takes hours and hours just to learn the tiniest thing. The couples argue, and the singles are all looking for dates or at least a cheap feel—”

“Really?” said Fanis, widening his eyes. “Even the women?”

“Even the women.”

Fanis bit his lower lip and raised his shoulders. “So it’s like wife-swapping, but with your clothes on?”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

“Sounds like great fun.”

“No, Mr. Fanis. It’s like wearing a starched shirt—stiff and annoying as hell. I’m doing it for Daphne.”

“There’s only one thing that you need to do for her.”

“Thanks for the tea. With your permission . . . I’ve got to talk to my mother.”

“With my blessings,” said Fanis.

Kosmas rushed home. As he was chaining the Vespa to a lamppost opposite his mother’s barred window, he heard a familiar voice say in Greek, “Just in time for tea!”

Kosmas looked up. Dimitris was standing on his doorstep with a bag of groceries. “What’s up, son?” he said. “You look like you’ve been hit by a storm.”

Kosmas tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. “Has my mother said anything to you about . . . Daphne’s father?”

Dimitris placed his hand on Kosmas’s forearm. “What? That