forever, he supposed, though it had been easier when they had.
He glanced up to see that the distraction herself had stepped over to talk to the waiter in a small restaurant where they’d stopped. The place was, as she’d promised, no more than a hole in the wall. It had a few tables inside and four more, filled with diners, on the pavement in front.
She finished talking to the waiter and came back to him. “They know me here. The food is good. The moussaka is fantastic. And it’s not exactly on the tourist path. They have a table near the kitchen. Not exactly the best seat in the house. So if you would prefer somewhere else…”.
Demetrios shook his head. “It’s fine.”
And if not perfect because the table really was right outside the kitchen door, no one paid any attention to them there. No one expected a film star to sit at the least appealing table in the place, so no one glanced at him. The cook and waiter were far too busy to care who they fed, but even though they seemed run off their feet, they doted on Anny. Menus appeared instantly. A wine list quickly followed.
“You come here often?”
“When I don’t cook for myself, I come here. They have great food.” And she ordered the bouillabaisse without even looking at anything else. “It’s always wonderful.”
He was tempted. But he was more tempted by the moussaka she had mentioned earlier. No one made it like his mother. But he hadn’t been home in almost three years. Had barely talked to his parents since he’d seen them after Lissa’s funeral. Had kept them at a distance the entire year before.
He knew they didn’t understand. And he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t make them understand about Lissa when he didn’t even understand himself. And after—after he couldn’t face them. Not yet.
So it was easier to stay away.
At least until he’d come to terms on his own.
So he had. He was back, wasn’t he? He had a new screenplay with his name on it. He had a new film. He’d brought it to Cannes, the most public and prestigious of film festivals. He was out in public, doing interviews, charming fans, smiling for all he was worth.
And tonight moussaka sounded good. Smelled good, too, he thought as he detected the scent mingling with other aromas in the kitchen. It reminded him of his youth, of happier times. The good old days.
Maybe after he was finished at Cannes, he’d go see Theo and Martha and their kids in Santorini, then fly back to the States and visit his folks.
He ordered the moussaka, then looked up to see Anny smiling at him.
“What?” he said.
She shook her head. “Just bemused,” she told him. “Surprised that I’m here. With you.”
“Fate,” he said, tasting the wine the waiter brought, then nodding his approval.
“Do you believe that?”
“No. But I’m a screenwriter, too. I like turning points.” It was glib and probably not even true. God knew some of the turning points in his life had been disasters even if on the screen they were useful. But Anny seemed struck by the notion.
The waiter poured her wine. She looked up and thanked him, earning her a bright smile in return. Then she picked it up and sipped it contemplatively, her expression serious.
He wanted to see her smile again. “So, you’re writing a dissertation. You volunteer at a clinic. You have a fiancé. You went to Oxford. And Berkeley. Tell me more. What else should I know about Anny Chamion?”
She hesitated, as if she weren’t all that comfortable talking about herself, which was in itself refreshing.
Lissa had commanded the center of attention wherever they’d been. But Anny spread her palms and shrugged disingenuously, then shocked him by saying, “I had a poster of you on my wall when I was eighteen.”
Demetrios groaned and put his hand over his eyes. He knew the poster. It was an artistic, tasteful, nonrevealing nude, which he’d done at the request of a young photographer friend trying to make a name for herself.
She had.
So had he. His brothers and every male friend he’d ever had, seeing that poster, had taunted him about it for years. Still did. His parents, fortunately, had had a sense of humor and had merely rolled their eyes. Girls seemed to like it, though.
“I was young and dumb,” he admitted now, ruefully shaking his head.
“But gorgeous,” Anny replied with such disarming frankness that he blinked.
“Thanks,” he said a little wryly. But he found her admiration oddly pleasing. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard the sentiment before, but knowing a cool, self-possessed woman like Anny had been attracted kicked the activity level of his formerly dormant hormones up another notch.
He shifted in his chair. “Tell me about something besides the poster. Tell me how you met your fiancé?” He didn’t really want to know that, but it seemed like a good idea to ask, remind his hormones of the reality of the situation.
The waiter set salads in front of them. Demetrios picked up his fork.
“I’ve known him all my life,” Anny said.
“The boy next door?”
“Not quite. But, well, sort of.”
“Helps if you know someone well.” God knew it would have helped if he’d known more about what made Lissa tick. It would have sent him running in the other direction. But how could he have when she was so good at playing a role? “You know him, at least.”
“Yes.” This time her smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes. She focused on her salad, not offering any more so Demetrios changed the subject.
“Tell me about these cave paintings. How much more work do you have to do on your dissertation?”
She was more forthcoming about that. She talked at length about her work and her eyes lit up then. Ditto when he got her talking about the clinic and the children.
He found her enthusiasm contagious, and when she asked him about the film he’d brought to Cannes, he shared some of his own enthusiasm.
She was a good listener. She asked good questions. Even better, she knew what not to ask. She said nothing at all about the two plus years he’d stayed out of the public eye. Nothing about his marriage. Nothing about Lissa’s death.
Only when he brought up not having come to Cannes for a couple of years did she say simply, “I was sorry to hear about your wife.”
“Thank you.”
They got through the salad, their entrées—the moussaka was remarkably good and reminiscent of his mother’s—and then, because Anny looked a second or so too long at the apple tart, and because he really didn’t want the evening to end yet, he suggested they share a piece with their coffee.
“Just a bite for me,” she agreed. “I eat far too much of it whenever I come here.”
