When the Cypress Whispers Read Free Page B

always intended to speak to Evie in Greek, knowing it was the only way she would grow up bilingual, as Daphne had. But Greek-speaking nannies are a rare commodity in Manhattan. And with Daphne out of the house twelve hours a day, getting home in time to say kali nichta instead of good night didn’t seem like it would make much of a difference anyway. After a while, she stopped trying.
    “Come.” Popi narrowed her eyes and motioned for Evie to follow her into the large, bright kitchen. “Your Thea will teach you. Now you will become an expert in making frappe.”
    “I thought we were making coffee.”
    “Frappe is coffee. It’s cold and delicious and very fun to make. You’ll see.”
    Popi tugged at the handles of a hulking cabinet whose glass front was covered in a pristine white doily, and the doors opened with a jingle of glass. She took three tall glasses from the top shelf and placed them on the table, which was covered with a plastic tablecloth. Then she took out a container of Nescafé and two dome-covered plastic tumblers and handed them to Evie, one at a time.
    “Here, put these on the table for me.”
    Finally, she waddled over to the icebox and took out a bucket of ice and a large bottle of filtered water.
    “Your mother may be a famous chef, Evie, but I am famous for frappe. I will show you my secret recipe.”
    Daphne had stayed behind to organize the luggage, but Evie’s frappe lesson was too entertaining to miss. She removed her black slingbacks, not wanting the click of her heels to give her away as she tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen. She made it to the doorway and stood hidden under the wooden archway as Popi directed Evie to place a teaspoonful of the Nescafé into each of the plastic containers along with water, ice, and a little bit of sugar.
    “Now, put the cover on the cups and make sure they are on really, really tight. We don’t want any accidents in my nice clean kitchen,” Popi commanded.
    Evie did as she was told, then pressed down on the lids with her little pink painted fingernails. She lifted the cups toward Thea Popi for inspection.
    “Good. Perfect. Nice and tight. Now comes the fun part. Now we shake.”
    Popi took one cup in each hand and shook them, like a volcanic eruption of feminine flesh, arms, feet, hips, legs, black curls, and breasts moving up and down and around in every direction. Evie’s face lit up.
    “Evie mou , the secret to great frappe is to shake it properly.” Then to please her willing audience she held her arms up in the air, hoisted the plastic frappe cups toward the ceiling, and gyrated and shook and shimmied as if she were the main act at a bouzouki nightclub. Evie was delighted.
    Daphne attempted to stifle her laughter as she watched Popi’s frappe frenzy. She was glad to see that twenty years and twenty pounds had not slowed Popi down. Daphne could not remember the last time she had felt that uninhibited.
    It was time to jump in. “That’s not how you make frappe,” she challenged. “ This is how you make frappe.” She took a container from Popi’s hand, then took her daughter’s hand and twirled her little girl and the cup around and around until Evie fell on the floor in a heap of giggles. She turned to Popi and held out her hand as the cousins snapped their fingers, circled their wrists, and rotated their hips as expertly as they had done the night they had worked a group of Italian tourists into a belly-dance-induced trance.
    “ Opa , Cousin,” Popi shouted, clapping her hands over her head.
    “ Opa , Popi mou ,” Daphne cried. Already she felt freer, happier, and more full of life than she had in years.

Two
    As she was falling asleep, Daphne remembered a night just a few short months ago. The dream that Yia-yia was with her had felt so real. Yia-yia had been so close that Daphne could see her face and smell the lingering scent of the kitchen fire on her clothes. When Stephen shook her awake, she had been sitting up in bed, arms