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Gus smiled against my lips before pulling away. Shoving his hands into the slits of his robe and finding his trouser pockets underneath.
“Lucas. There you are!”
The boy scrunched his face. “It didn’t look like you were looking for me. I’ve been in the classroom the whole time.”
“Do you think you could show Presvytera Decca her seat?”
I looked sideways at Gus, but his attention was still on the kindergarten age boy in the doorway.
“Yeah!” Lucas turned to me. “We made you a name tag. It’s on your desk.” He widened the door for me, but I gave a pointed look back at Gus.
“I’ll be there in a minute. Try to keep them from drawing on the walls.” He winked and stalked off.
“Gus,” I called to him. “What am I doing here?”
“Greek school. You wanted to learn. The kids’ll help.”
A sound caught in my throat, but his long legs had already carried him halfway down the hall. His robes billowing after him made it almost look like he was gliding.
I loved watching my husband here. Maybe I hadn’t known what I was doing when I proposed, but the spirits must have known what I hadn’t.Somethinghad arranged this. It was too perfect to have fallen into place by chance.
I ducked my head into the classroom. I wasn’t good with kids, unless you counted Sofia, but she’d never felt like a kid to me.
Lucas pointed me to my desk, which was just as small as the children’s, with a tented card that indeed read “Presvytera Decca.” When Gus had asked if I was busy, I hadn’t realized he wasn’t just being cute. He had actual plans for me.
To learn Greek. With the children of his parish.Ourparish.
I had an important role in the church, and I’d done very little as presvytera so far. I’d been so busy when we’d first married, and it had kept me apart from his congregation.
After class, which was Greek level one and mostly ran through the Lord’s Prayer, there was a Christmas pageant rehearsal. The kids rehearsed, anyway. Luckily, Gus hadn’t written me into the play. I got to watch the Sunday school kids sing Jingle Bells and Silent Night, but also a few Greek carols I’d never have any hope of learning. The holidays still felt so far away, but after Halloween, the end of the year always sort of concertina-ed up on me.
My husband was in his element.
The pride shining in his eyes when the kids took their lines seriously. The way he joked around with the kids and their parents. The way they embraced him as a spiritual authority, even at such a young age.
It was hard to remember a time when I’d wanted anything else. The FAC Directorship was a pale comparison to this little, meaningful life I loved. I knew Jeanette was still waiting on a firmno, but if my mind hadn’t already been made up to decline the position, it certainly was now.
After arranging tables and cleaning for Sunday’s coffee hour, I stood in the back of the hall, ready to lend a hand if anyone needed.
Gus’s eyes drifted to me, again and again, during his conversations with various parishioners who’d been rushing around helping with last-minute decorations and food prep. He stole glances when he thought I wasn’t looking. But I always was. It didn’t matter his position in the church, or how many people were around. When our eyes met, there were fireworks.
He’s mine first.
Territorial pride wafted off me as I started to allow it to sink in.
The church’s second.
A hunched old woman in an apron and a hair net grabbed me by the neck, pulling me down, kissing my cheek with dry lips. “Yia-Yiá,” I said, happy to see a face that wasn’t giving me themáti.“Ti kánis?”
“Kalá, kalá. Élla ethó.”Crooked, arthritic hands waved for me to follow her into the kitchens where other old women in black, and some younger women as well, were brushing butter over phyllo dough in giant pans. I’d been friends with Soula long enough to recognize the process of baklava-making when I saw it.
It was quieter in the kitchen, despite the roar of the restaurant-sized convection ovens. There were a few conversations going on, but without the kids’ sneakers squeaking across the linoleum tiles or shouts of forgotten lines, or old men arguing over how many chairs go around the tables, the kitchen was almost peaceful.
Someone handed me an apron, and I looped the soft, worn cotton around my neck. Back here, I was being given the evil eye, for sure. I’d never been introduced to them, but all the women knew who I was. Judging from their sour expressions and the casual way they switched from speaking English to Greek, none of them wanted me back here.
Either I was tampering with a well-worn system, and they knew I’d only be in the way, or they had something personally against me.
Yia-Yiá placed me in front of the layers of dough, gestured for me to handle this part. “One.” She held up her finger and pointed to the sheet of buttered pastry already lining the bottom of the pan.
