That Lucky Old Sun (The Bella Novella Collection Book 4) (2 page)

I glared at him, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Mr. Pappas muttered something in Greek to his wife. Before long, the various languages flowed in staccato form.

Darian put his fingers between his lips and released a shrill whistle. When everyone stopped yakking, he raised his hands in defeat. “I am all about staying in touch with your cultural roots, but if you people don’t start speaking English to each other, I’m going to. . .” He began to sweat. “I’m going to. . .” A vein bulged in his neck. “I’m going to. . .” He lit into a loud explanation of what he planned to do. In Greek.

At this point, Grandpa Nguyen gave up. He rose and walked back in the house, his hands waving in the air. I wanted to follow him, but my years as a wedding planner won out. I had to stay put and corral this group. For the sake of the greater good.

Still, how could I think with so many languages going on around me? I felt like responding to all of them in Italian, but didn’t dare add to the fray.

“And there you have it.” D.J. rose from his spot at the picnic table. “The language barrier wins again.”

I sighed. What else could I do?

“What we have here,” D.J. drawled, “Is a failure to ko-
mune
-a-kate.”

“What we have here,” I echoed, “Is a group of stubborn people who are deliberately putting up walls to keep each other out because they’re so afraid of losing their children they don’t know what else to do.”

Oops.

Had I really said those words out loud?

Judging from the looks of horror on the faces of all those in attendance, yes.

They stared in silence at me for a few moments and I scrambled to come up with something brilliant to say. Finally, after a hard swallow, I managed, “Well, wasn’t this fun? I can hardly wait to see how the big day turns out!”

CHAPTER THREE

Wouldn’t it Be Nice

When the flies, mosquitoes and heat got the better of us, we moved our rambunctious party indoors, to the Pappas’s over-sized living room. The children now joined us, their voices adding to the chaos. Little ones climbed across the new sofas, their sandy feet leaving behind marks on the fabric. I reached into my purse and came out with a lint remover, then went to work cleaning up their mess.

Cassia, probably terrified at the way things were going, offered to tidy up the outdoor space and bring in the leftover foods.

Coward. If I ever needed my friend’s support, it was now.

“I think it’s time we talked about foods for this wedding.” Mrs. Pappas clapped her hands together in obvious glee.

Eva decided this would be a great time to take the kids upstairs to the media room. Good thinking. I tucked the lint brush back into my purse and breathed a sign of relief. Until I noticed that Rosie was carrying a flower in her hand that she’d apparently pulled off of one of the Pappas’s bushes out back. I took it from her and sent her with Eva, then I tucked the flower into my purse alongside my lint brush.

“Since the wedding will be held here at our home, I would love to help with the cooking,” Mrs. Pappas explained. “We’re used to cooking for large crowds at our restaurant, after all. I’m picturing a large buffet table on the back deck, filled with foods everyone loves—a beautiful Greek salad, filled with kalamatas, cucumbers, feta, red onions. . .”

“Kalamata?” Mrs. Nguyen looked perplexed. “What’s a kalamata?”

“An olive, Mama,” Ling explained. “Kind of salty. Very tasty.”

I grabbed my iPad from my purse and tried to turn it on. Unfortunately, the screen was covered in shampoo. Ugh. I did my best to still act interested in what Mrs. Pappas was saying as I made my way into the kitchen to fetch a damp paper towel. Unfortunately, lathering up my iPad didn’t make things better. Still, I did the best I could, finally landing on the sofa with the sticky tablet in hand. No one seemed to notice, anyway.

“And for the entrée, I was picturing fish, which is perfect for a reception at the shore.” Mrs. Pappas went on to describe the yummy fish dish she planned to prepare.

This, at least, got a nod out of the elderly Mr. Nguyen, who had worked as a fisherman for years.

Mrs. Pappas apparently took his nod as a sign to keep going. “And of course we’ll have
Souvlaki
. Mine is the best on the island, if I do say so, myself.”

I tried to guess the spelling of that word as I typed onto the sticky screen of my iPad, but knew I’d gotten it wrong.

“
Sou
. . .what?” Mrs. Nguyen’s gaze narrowed. “How can we serve our guests foods we’ve never even heard of?

“
My
guests, Mama,” Ling said. “They’re
my
guests. And Darian’s.” She gave him a wide-eyed stare. “But to be honest, I’ve never heard of
Souvlak
i, either. What is it?”

“Good stuff,” he explained. “Cubed pork tenderloin. Onion. Bell Peppers. Garlic. All cooked together on a skewer.”

“Shish-ka-bob?” she asked. “Yum.”

He nodded and her face lit into a smile.

“Wait, did you say garlic?” Mrs. Nguyen raised her hand in exaggerated fashion then waved it in the air. “I’m allergic. Are you trying to kill me?”

I typed the words “Allergic to garlic” onto my tablet. Just one more thing to remember.

“Well, I’ve never heard of
Souvlaki
without garlic.” Mrs. Pappas looked concerned. “What would our Greek guests think?”

“They might just think you were catering to a wider audience.” Mr. Nguyen shifted his position on the sofa. “And trying to keep my wife alive, along the way.”

Ling began to pace the room. My eyes followed her and I wondered what she might say to break the tension.

“
M
á
,” she said at last. “I think a combination of Greek and Vietnamese foods would be great. And you and I both know you’re not really allergic to garlic. You just say that because you don’t like it.”

At this point the conversation shifted to Vietnamese food choices. Ling listed a few of her favorites:
Chả Giò
, which turned out to be fried spring rolls,
Bánh Khọt
, crispy rice, coconut and shrimp cakes,
Pho
, and fried rice with shrimp. Mrs. Pappas seemed a bit confused by these options, but didn’t say much.

“So, let me get this right.” D.J. stood and stretched. “We’re pretty much eating every kind of meat there is—some of it cooked on a grill—along with some noodles and rice?” When I nodded, he said, “Sounds like a Splendora barbecue to me. Can’t wait to fill my plate. Anyone bringing baked beans? Potato salad? Watermelon?”

“Ooo. . .barbecue. I left off my favorite Vietnamese barbecue. Pork in lemongrass. Yum!” Ling’s expression shifted to one of pure delight. I took note of it, this being the first time I’d genuinely seen her relaxed since our arrival. So, food was the way to this bride’s heart. Note taken. I’d have to invite her to lunch. Soon. Perhaps we could get through the finer details of the ceremony in peace.

In the meantime, I’d better get back to business before this crowd erupted into argument once again. I swiped the sticky iPad screen and glanced down at my notes, then tried to figure out what to say next. Ah yes, the cake.

“Ling has already asked Scarlet to do her wedding cake,” I said, “And there will be a variety of beverage options.”

“Wait. . .traditional Vietnamese cake?” Mrs. Nguyen asked. “I hope so.”

“Greek
honey
cake, you mean,” Mrs. Pappas countered. “Always a good choice.”

“Actually, you will all be thrilled to hear that we’ll have both,” Ling explained. “The cake will have two sides—one celebrating my Vietnamese culture, the other celebrating Darian’s Greek culture. You should see the pictures Scarlet has drawn up. Magnificent!

“Yes, dear, but which side will face the front?” Mrs. Pappas’s thinly plucked eyebrows arched.

I held my breath, waiting for her answer.

“That’s the great thing about setting the cake table in the middle of the action,” Ling explained. “There’s no front or back to the table. The cake will be visible from all sides!”

“Finally!” Her elderly grandfather broke his silence. “A compromise everyone can live with.”

At this point I decided to shift the conversation back to the real purpose for our meeting—the wedding ceremony, itself. “Now, let’s talk about how this event will go down.”

I went on to give details about the layout of the chairs, the chiffon fabric we would use to frame out the canopied altar area, and the order of the ceremony. On and on I went, describing in detail how the night would play out, right down to a glowing description of the chartreuse bridesmaids dresses and semi-casual groomsmen’s attire.

When I managed to catch a breath, Mr. Nguyen cleared his throat. “This is going to be the longest ceremony in the history of the world.”

“And probably on the hottest day of the year,” Mr. Pappas chimed in. “Have you all lost your minds?”

Judging from the level of animation as another argument kicked in, yes.

“You’ve told us about the decorations and such,” Mrs. Pappas said. “But nothing about the actual ceremony. Are we going Greek. . .or. . .” She shuddered.

“Or. . .what?” Mrs. Nguyen asked.

This, of course, led to a lengthy discussion—er, debate—about the style of ceremony. Apparently each culture had their own unique way of doing things, right down to the
I do’s
. I could tell from the mortified expression on the bride’s face that her wishes weren’t being addressed, so I tried to re-direct the conversation. Still, the older women carried on and on, listing all of the cultural specifics they expected to see and hear during the marriage ceremony of their children.

Finally Ling put up her hand. “
M
á
!” she called out. “
M
á
, please stop.”

Her mama didn’t stop. She kept going, and going, and going. So did Mrs. Pappas.

“Mama!” Darian hollered. “Stop it!”

Mrs. Pappas turned and faced Darian, her eyes narrowing to slits. “How
dare
you speak to your mama like that? Didn’t I raise you better than that, son?” She slapped him upside his head with the back of her hand and he released a groan.

“Yes, how dare a young man speak to his
M
á
like that?” Mrs. Nguyen put her hands on her hips. “A boy with no respect for women, marrying my daughter? I won’t have it.”

“I
do
respect women.” Darian’s tone softened and I could read the compassion in his eyes. “But the one woman whose opinion means the most to me right now isn’t being respected. She’s the one who should be telling everyone about the ceremony. And she’s the one who needs to be heard.” He turned and gave Ling an empathetic look. “Go ahead, honey. You tell them what we decided.”

“M-me?” She looked terrified by this prospect. “
You
helped me come up with the plan. Why don’t you tell them,
dear
?”

“No, you.” He gave her a forced smile, just as Cassia entered the room.

“I would prefer you do it.” Ling spoke a thousand words with her eyes. “Please.”

“Oh boy. Whatever it is, you’d better do it, little brother.” Cassia laughed as she took a seat on the sofa next to her mother.

Darian paused and brushed his hands against his trousers, probably trying to dry is sweaty palms. “Alright. I’ll do it.” He faced their families. “Mama. Babbas. Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen. . .we’ve decided to have a simple ceremony on the beach with the pastor from our little church. Nothing terribly. . .” he pinched his eyes shut and whispered, “cultural.”

“Not
Greek
?” Mrs. Pappas asked, her eyes widening.

“Not
Vietnamese
?” Mrs. Nguyen echoed, looking equally as stunned.

“Please don’t misunderstand. We love our cultures,” Ling said. “And, as we’ve already discussed, that will show in the décor and the foods and the bridesmaids’ dresses, and so on. But the ceremony itself will be a simple, beautiful Christian ceremony, performed by Pastor Lindsey. Nothing cultural. . .at all. Just. . .simple.”

“So, what you’re saying is, you’re going to forget about everything you’ve loved all of your life and trade it in for, for. . .simple?” Mrs. Pappas’s eyes flooded with tears. She sat down and, for the first time all day, didn’t speak a word.

Mrs. Nguyen couldn’t seem to come up with words, either. Apparently the idea of leaving their beloved Vietnamese elements out of the ceremony was more than she could manage.

Only Ling’s grandfather seemed to be taking this news in stride. He rose and walked over to the kitchen table, where Cassia had placed the tray of pastries. The tiny fellow chose a yummy-looking one, popped it into his mouth, and a look of pure bliss passed over his face. Afterwards, he reached down once again and took a second pastry.

“These are wonderful,” he said after licking his fingers clean. “I could eat them every day!”

In that moment, you could’ve heard a pin drop. Well, if not for the sound of the children thundering across the media room floor above our heads. I looked around the room, content in the realization that these folks would—eventually—learn to get along. And compromise. Didn’t all weddings require compromise?

The silence lingered, and gave me hope.

Finally. A moment of peace. Oh, if only it would last!