“You mean my collages?” They were hardly the same thing. And I’d heard the word “cinematographer,” but that didn’t mean I had any idea what it meant.
“And your paintings,” Theo said. “They’re so good.”
“Thanks, but…” A pit formed in my stomach. They may be giving me too much credit. What if I let down the entire project? “I don’t know if I’m the right person for this. Shouldn’t he hire someone with actual experience?”
“You’re the right person. Your dad knows it, and I know it too,” he said confidently. “Also, did you know that the oldest producing olive tree is on Crete? It’s four thousand years old and is still producing olives. And have you ever thought about all the different ways to use olives? You can use their oil, bake them into bread, put them on pizzas.… They’re just so versatile; they make everything better.”
“Theo!” I groaned, but I was smiling again.
He gestured to the T-shirt. “After you change, I’ll take you to your dad’s office. Sound okay?”
Instantly I tried to picture my dad in a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase the way James did, but my mind refused to conjure up any image. “My dad has an office?”
He grinned, flipping his hat brim forward again. “I think it’s safe to say that there are a lot of things you don’t know about him, Kalamata.”
“It’s mutual,” I said.
Chapter Nine
#9. WORN COPY OF PLATO’S TIMAEUS AND CRITIAS, MY DAD’S NOTES PENCILED INTO THE MARGINS
Most kids would have no idea what this book is, but most kids don’t have my father. It’s one of Plato’s dialogues, basically a written-down version of a conversation, and the main source of everything we know about the city of Atlantis.
My mom worked evenings usually at restaurants, so for a long time it was only my dad and me at night. He’d make our favorite dinners—buttered noodles for me, sausage and vegetables for him. And then we’d read Plato, keeping a dictionary handy for the words we didn’t understand, until my mom came home and it was time for him to head out to whatever overnight job he was currently working.
For my second-grade talent show I did a dramatic recitation of my favorite line of Timaeus and Critias: “And in a single day and night of misfortune all your warlike men in a body sank into the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared in the depths of the sea.”
The kid who went after me played “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on his violin, and the one after that did a tumbling routine. Shocking that I never fit in.
I ANTICIPATED ANOTHER RUN, AND I was right. While the rest of the village was leisurely starting their mornings, drinking coffee and finishing up their crossword puzzles, or whatever it was Greeks did first thing in the morning, Theo took off at a pace slightly below hurtling, twisting down Main Street with me in tow. He stopped twice, once to leap over and then pet a furry heap of a dog, and another time to film a church bell that began to ring. Finally, he slid to a stop in front of a small two-story building with an empty pastry case in the window. The name MARIA’S was scrawled in gold lettering over the door, and a delightfully buttery smell wafted out from the edges.
“Where’s his office?” I asked, checking out my reflection in the window. I’d changed into a pair of sandals without heels and attempted to knot my CREW T-shirt at the side so it didn’t look like I was wearing a gigantic muumuu, but it had only partially worked. I looked decidedly un-Liv-like, and not at all like someone working on a serious documentary, but the hopeful balloon swelling in my chest was hard to ignore. National Geographic. This was exactly the kind of thing we’d dreamed about. Is this really happening?
Theo knocked on the door. “You’re looking at it. From five a.m. to eight a.m. he has the entire upper floor.”
The balloon deflated slightly but managed to persist. “So not a real office,” I said, but Theo ignored me and rapped on the glass.
Within seconds a gray-haired woman wearing a polka-dot blue housedress appeared at the door, letting out a puff of warm, sugary air, which made my sugar-loving soul all kinds of happy.
“Meet Maria,” Theo said.
“O-live!” she sang. She had crinkly cheeks and dark, shiny eyes.
I was swiftly giving up hope on being Liv here. “Kaliméra,” I said. Saying a Greek word felt a little less awkward than it had the night before, but I still felt embarrassed in front of Theo. I shot a covert glance at him. My accent must be terrible.
Luckily, the bar was set extremely low for me. Maria cheered at my attempt, then erupted into Greek exclamations and patted my cheeks half a dozen times before leading us inside.
Inside, the room was dim, with chairs stacked on top of several wooden tables. The shutters were still drawn, and a mop sat drying in one corner. Maria pointed up at the ceiling and smiled at me. “Your father,” she said. “Your father, he is…” She looked at Theo, then said a word I didn’t understand.
“Special,” Theo said.
Ah. That was one way to put it. “Thank you, Maria.” Anticipation raced through me. I was about to see my dad. Again. “Upstairs?”
“Yes!” Maria sang.
As we made our way to the steep wooden staircase, disappointment suddenly clouded my mood. “His office is a closed bakery?” I asked Theo. It’s not that an actual office would magically restore my confidence in my dad, but it maybe would have helped.
“Maria has a refrigerator and two ovens that she should have replaced ten years ago. He keeps bringing them back from the dead. In exchange she lets him work here.”
This was all so familiar. “Like Yiannis the cabdriver. He said he owed my dad a favor.”
Theo glanced back at me, one hand on the railing. “You know your dad. Everyone owes him a favor because he’s constantly solving their problems. Some of the people in Oia jokingly call him the mayor. He makes things run around here. If anyone has an issue, they go straight to your dad.”
Well, that hadn’t changed. Every time we’d ever moved into a new apartment or neighborhood, it usually took about twelve minutes before he was inspecting someone’s disposal or fixing a kid’s bike, which inevitably led to us having dinner invitations for a week straight. He also had the unique ability to make it feel like you were the one doing him a favor, which made people love him even more. He’d had loyal devotees everywhere he went. Why had I expected Santorini to be any different?
As we made our way to the top, my hands suddenly felt shaky. Dad. This was sighting number two. Was I ready?
No. But my feet kept moving anyway.
As my nerves increased, the dimness evaporated into sunlight. The upper level of the bakery was an open-air patio featuring several small wooden tables and an exquisite view of the caldera. A light breeze ruffled a set of canvas curtains tied to the rooftop’s railings, and the air smelled fresh and salted.
“Welcome!” my dad called, and I spun around to see him standing at a table. My heart flipped like it had yesterday. Seeing him was so disorienting. This morning he wore a faded long-sleeve shirt, board shorts, and a wide hat that made him look like a Greek version of Indiana Jones, which was massively embarrassing but also sort of worked. He’d staked out two tables, and stood surrounded by a ridiculous amount of ragtag gear, including an old dented tackle box, a monstrous backpack, a cooler, a snarl of extension cords, plus a stack of notebooks and several large maps. The maps…