Free The Spirit Wood by Robert Masello Page A

wine to his mouth, just enough to wet his lips; she knew he was trying to keep from insulting Nikos, and she tried to create a distraction by taking a sizable swallow herself and returning the glass to the table with unwarranted vigor. But Nikos was too vigilant.
    “What's this—a Constantine that doesn't drink?” He jestingly put one finger under the bottom of Peter's still-lifted glass and tilted it back toward his mouth; in the caretaker's eyes, Meg detected a look of quiet mischief and at the same time crude appraisal. His teeth were small and rounded, very white, each one slightly separated from the next.
    Peter drank the wine, put the glass back down, and, as if not quite conscious of doing it, began to rub the elbow of his bad arm; it was the first time in hours it had seemed to bother him.
    “So—what do you think?” Nikos asked. “Not bad for Long Island, huh? I used to tell your grandfather, we should sell this wine. We could have made afortune from it. Krasi Arkadias—the wine of Arcadia,” he said rhapsodically, holding up one hand with the fingers spread as if reading the name in the air.
    Meg, who knew nothing of wine, had to admit that it tasted surprisingly good—sweet and light, but with a strong and distinctive flavor—"woody” was the word she thought a connoisseur might use. Something about it made her think of spring grass and sun showers, a forest after it's rained; the taste of it lingered on her tongue even after she'd taken another spoonful of the soup.
    Leah came in, carrying the kind of large serving tray waitresses employ; on it were two salad plates, with greens and sliced tomatoes, and two dinner plates heaped with the pastitsio and garnished with paper-thin slices of cucumber. She placed them purposefully in front of Meg and Peter, and shot a quick, reproving glance at Nikos. He caught it, Meg saw, but clearly intended to do nothing about it. He stood patiently to one side of Peter's chair until Leah had finished.
    “She's a wonderful cook, this girl,” announced Nikos, not looking in her direction.
    “I have a plate for you in the kitchen,” she said, holding open the door. “Come and eat it while it's hot.”
    Nikos shifted his weight, the boot clasps jangling listlessly. “Drink,” he said, leaning over the table and filling their glasses to the rim.
    “Father,” she said, firmly.
    There was a moment of awkward silence, which Nikos, Meg felt, was subtly trying to exploit; he was angling for something, and the moment Peter coughed nervously and suggested it would be fine if Leah and Nikos joined them in the dining room, she knew that that had been it. Nikos smiled and loosened the knot on his neckerchief, as if it had now fulfilled its purpose.

    “ Efcharisto, ” he said, “I am glad to,” and he pulled back the chair next to Peter's, its legs scraping loudly on the floor. Holding onto the back of it, he settled himself down with a groan. “It's good to sit,” he said, using his hands to swing one leg around to the front. Then, looking up at Leah, who was still frozen in the doorway, he said. “ Leepon —I thought my dinner was going to get cold. You can bring it in here.” He added nothing about bringing in her own.
    “This is an . . . astonishing house,” Peter said, to make conversation. Nikos had taken two olives from the central bowl and popped them into his mouth like peanuts. Leah returned, silently put a full plate and empty wineglass in front of him, and disappeared into the kitchen again. “I was particularly impressed by the mosaic in the front hall.” Peter wished he hadn't put it quite so much like a curator; Nikos spit the olive pits into his cupped hand.
    “Yes, yes,” Nikos agreed, but without much enthusiasm, “the house is filled with things like that. Your grandfather, he used to like such things.” He filled his glass with wine, then drank half of it down. “But tell me—what did you think of the outside?” he asked, with real