Feta Attraction Read Free

Spiro’s names.
Ha
. I made the other necessary changes, executed a spell-check, then printed off a hundred copies of the inserts and stacked them beside the menu folders to be assembled later.
    I logged into my e-mail account. There was a note from my friend Eileen asking whether we could get together this week. She must have man trouble again
. Join the club,
I thought.
    What the hell?
There was another message from an unidentified sender. I couldn’t help myself and clicked it open.
    WHY DON’T YOU ANSWER? FIND IT AND BRING IT TO ME, OR YOU’LL BE SORRY.
    Well, that was helpful. If somebody wanted something from me, the least he or she could do would be to tell me what it was and where I should deliver it. A knock sounded at the door. I looked up, startled, then took a sip of coffee to collect myself. “Hi, Russ. You’re here early this morning. Come on in.” My pulse slowed, but I still felt jumpy.
    Russ Riley was Dolly’s son, our dishwasher and general gofer. He was a beefy five feet eight, not quite fat, but he probably would be in a few years. The tail of his long black mullet brushed his waist. He’d tied a red bandanna around his forehead in lieu of a hairnet, which he said cramped his style. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his cutoffs.
    â€œMa said I should bring this in to you.” He looked down at his Croc-clad feet, then back up. I’d often suspected he might have a bit of a crush on me. He filled my cup from the coffee carafe, then turned and left.
    I called out a thank-you and read the e-mail again. If it was a threat, it wasn’t very . . . threatening. Should I go to the police? What would I tell them? I sighed in relief as I realized someone must be playing a joke on me. That was what it had to be, though I had no idea who would do such a thing. The e-mail was so vague, so nonspecific, I just couldn’t take it seriously. Still, I left it in my in-box. Administrative work finished, I shut down the computer and headed back to the kitchen.
    The faint, not unpleasant scent of bleach wafted up to my nostrils as I donned an apron, fresh from the laundry service, and tied it around my waist. Giving my hands a good scrub at the sink, I dried them on a clean towel, put on some gloves, and got to work.
    A bowl of lemons sat in front of me, their bright yellow skins making a lovely contrast to the gray stainless steel of the prep counter. I smiled and began to rub the fruit with a fine grater. The process required a light touch; press too hard and I’d have the bitter white pith as well as the fragrant outer peel. A familiar sense of peace washed over me as I cooked. This was my element; this was my art. This I could control. I scraped the zest into a container of fat, silky chicken breasts, and added the juice of the lemons and some olive oil. A bit of sea salt, a few grinds of freshly cracked black pepper, a handful of fresh herbs, and a stir completed the prep for today’s lunch special: Greek Chicken with Lemon and Thyme.
    Next to me, Dolly peeled and sliced potatoes and onions for the accompanying side dish, and we worked in companionable silence, each of us in her own zone. I covered and refrigerated the meat. With a simple salad of grape tomatoes, cucumbers, feta cheese, and fresh ribbons of basil, all drizzled with olive oil, we were good to go.
    Some of the dishes we served were complicated. Pastitsio and moussaka, though undeniably delicious, required hours to produce. My favorite recipes were like today’s, though. Simple, and making use of local ingredients whenever possible. The growing season this far north is short, but the produce is fresh and flavorful, and I bought it whenever I could.
    A few hours later the lunch rush was over, and Russ, Dolly, and I had completed the daily cleanup and prep work for tomorrow. I put a film of plastic wrap over the leftover cooked meat, which would become a lovely chicken salad with green