Free When the Cypress Whispers by Yvette Manessis Corporon Page B

to. She had lost too much already; her husband, her father, and her mother. And now Daphne realized that in many ways, her own child was growing up without a mother as well. She would be damned if she would lose Evie too.
    Standing there in the cool, clear water, watching Evie play on the sand as the gentle waves lapped against her thighs, Daphne made a vow. She would be there for Evie, in ways she had never been able to before. She would open up new worlds for her daughter. Evie had no idea what she was missing. How could Evie understand the exhilaration of charging into the water at full speed when she watched her own mother take nothing but careful, measured steps through life?
    “Evie. Evie, honey,” Daphne shouted. “I’m just going to swim for a few minutes and then we’ll go up to the house, okay?”
    “Okay, Mommy.”
    Daphne turned and faced the open sea. She bent her knees, raised her arms above her head, and took a deep breath.
    Still sitting on the beach, Evie stopped digging her castle. She stood and turned toward the thicket. “Mommy, why are those ladies crying? What’s wrong with them?”
    But Daphne didn’t hear her daughter. Just as the first faint cry reached Evie, Daphne sprang up and out, breaking under the water with a quick, crisp whoosh . She opened her eyes. Barbounia, tsipoura. They were all there. Six years later, and nothing had changed.
    Six years later, and so much had changed.

Nine
    “Go to the garden and pick some fresh dill for me, koukla mou . I don’t think I have enough,” Yia-yia said as she sprinkled flour on the indoor kitchen table. Feeling refreshed after her early-morning swim, Daphne practically ran down the back steps and snipped a generous helping of dill from the garden.
    She smiled as she waved the dill under her nose. Its delicate featherlike leaves tickled as they danced across her lips. “It’s so nice to actually pick fresh herbs from the earth and not a big icebox.”
    “I wouldn’t know, Daphne mou . I’ve never done this any other way.” Yia-yia took the dill from Daphne and placed it on the olive wood chopping board. She picked up her large knife and began chopping the green leaves into tiny threadlike pieces. Years ago, Yia-yia had taught Daphne the importance of finely dicing herbs. She insisted that they were meant to infuse a dish with flavor, not be bitten into like a piece of souvlaki.
    “Yia-yia,” Daphne cried as she spotted her old pink cassette player on the shelf above the sink.
    “ Ne , Daphne mou .”
    “Yia-yia, my old radio,” Daphne squealed, remembering how she would sit and listen to Greek folk music for hours.
    “Your old cassettes are in the drawer.” Yia-yia motioned to the old wooden cabinet behind the kitchen table.
    With both hands, Daphne grabbed the cabinet handles and pulled. There, on the bottom shelf, was a treasure trove of classic Greek music . Parios, Dalaras, Hatzis, Vissi—they were all there. Daphne searched through the bag and pulled out a white cassette, its black letters faded and rubbed off. It was Marinella, her favorite.
    “I haven’t listened to this in so long.” Daphne sat down and pressed play. She leaned her elbows on the table, chin cradled in her palms—and closed her eyes. A smile spread across her face as the first notes escaped from the radio’s tiny speakers.
    “Daphne mou , come on—why are you listening to that sad music? It’s depressing,” Yia-yia chided as she crumbled cooled boiled potatoes into a pan.
    Like her parents, Daphne had always loved Marinella’s melodrama, her stories of all-consuming love affairs and aching black heartbreak. After Alex died, Daphne found herself swallowed up in her grief, listening to this music over and over again, but everything changed the night she finally said yes to Stephen.
    “ Ella , Daphne,” Yia-yia said. “We have guests coming for lunch. Enough of lost love affairs; we have a lot to do.”
    “I know, Yia-yia.” Daphne stood up and