Page 73 of Roaming Holiday

“Ciao, madam.” He holds a hand to his heart. “Stari Dimitri.”

“Stari Nina. Cómi stara?”

“Bueni,” he says, giving a raspy little laugh as he opens the passenger door for me. Assuming I’d be sitting in the backseat, I glance at Wesley, who nods in confirmation.

Not long into the ride, Dimitri tosses a look to the backseat before saying, “Tusé fimare? Te niassa comagri.”

Are you hungry? Your grandmother is cooking.

Grandmother. Wesley’s grandmother? I resist turning around and punching him in the arm for not telling me this right away. Why would he hide it?

The short drive leads us down a dirt path where a small house sits. Wind chimes dance and sing in the breeze; potted trees shield the seating area of the porch. Wesley told me he spent childhood summers and Christmases in Kosita and Palfu. Is this where he grew up? I check my location in the app on my phone. Palfu.

Branches spurting green leaves twist around the house, up toward the roof. The tanned face of an old woman pops up in the window framed by brown shutters and a pot of morning glory flowers. She gasps. “Ay! Íma cópente! Íma cópente! Mi Wesito stara eni!”

I may not be fluent, but I have of the basics down to understand that the woman rushing outside yelled, “Oh! It’s true! It’s true! My Wesito is here!” Wesito being Wesley. No—Little Wesley.

She’s no taller than five-two, but it doesn’t stop her from yanking Wesley down to her height and peppering his stubbled cheeks with kisses. Despite the pristine bun at the back of her head, I can tell her grey and dark brown hair is both long and thick. She claps her hands together when turning to me, tossing a knowing glance at Wesley.

“Ke sou stara estaf mianna panímorísi?”

And who is this beautiful woman?

My face flushes. “Ciao.”

“Nina, this is my grandmother, Callie. Niassa, estaf ya Nina. Le veni di Amerikí ke le mila no Maldasso.”

I elbow Wesley for telling her I don’t speak Maldanian. “Ay, e pígo.”

“Sto bueni,” Callie says, then adds in a heavy accent, “Nice to meet you.”

I grin as she takes my hand to guide me inside. His grandparents speak little-to-no English and Wesley speaks to them solely in Maldanian. My skills are tested and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Callie gives me a quick tour of the one-level home with maroon tiles throughout.

When she speaks to Wesley and points to the stack of pillows and blankets, I can translate that he’ll sleep on the couch later. The open living room has a step leading to the kitchen and dining area before turning into the hallway toward the two bedrooms, one of which I’ll be sleeping in tonight. Sun-catchers and relics decorate the entirety as if it’s a museum and not a home.

Callie gestures for me to sit at the round kitchen table, and I decipher what she asks Wesley.

“Did you feed the poor girl?”

He sighs, lowering onto a chair beside me. “Niassa… we just work together.”

She shakes her head as she hands me a glass of water and a bowl of strawberries I hadn’t requested, but accept graciously, nonetheless. “No excuse, Wesito. A gentleman does not ignore a struggling woman and you bring me her! She looks tired and starved!”

I press my fingers to my cheek. Tired and starved? “Oh—stari bueni.”

He gestures to me as if I affirmed his argument. “Verá. Stara bueni. Parafóré, niassa. Niávo gi kest mianna kesmáris en e mondélo.”

See. She’s good. Please, Grandmother. I work with the most stubborn woman in the world.

There’s something riveting about listening to a man speak in another language. Maybe it’s a linguist thing, but I’ve never been more attracted to him.

My phone dings with a text from Maia.

Maia

Are you okay? They told me your car broke down.

I notice my battery on ten percent once I send a response. I excuse myself to charge my phone in the bedroom, jumping when Wesley appears in the doorway.

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