Read Online White Vespa by Kevin Oderman - Free Book Online Page B

here?”
    â€œWorking at a bar,” Anne said.
    â€œI mean, what are you doing on Sými?”
    â€œWorking at a bar.”
    â€œYeah, and? I see you’ve met Myles,” Paul observed.
    â€œYeah, I met him at the bar.”
    â€œWhich bar?”
    â€œTwo Stories,” Anne said.
    Another woman straggled up to the table, looking thirsty.
    Paul said, “Pru’s friend; she’s a Mary. This is Myles Twomey and Anne Powell.”
    â€œCould I get a drink?” Mary asked.
    â€œSure!”
    â€œSo you two know each other from before, from before Sými?” Myles asked.
    â€œOh yeah, way before,” Paul said.
    Anne turned woodenly to Myles. “He’s my brother, my big brother.”
    â€œAha.”
    â€œHow about that?” Mary said, sitting down sullenly at the adjoining table and looking away. Pru sat down with her, and they started waving, hoping to get the waiter’s attention.
    It was cool in the shade of the arbor, but even in the shade the light was intense. Myles was looking at Paul’s face; he didn’t look very surprised. He looked over at Anne; she didn’t look very surprised, either. He wondered about that. And no sibling hugs.
    So then they were five people, sitting in the dappled light of a grape arbor.
    â€œYou gonna eat that?” Paul asked, gesturing toward Anne’s half of the lunch. Seeing the shook heads he started in on the leftover mezédhes , dabbing at the tzadzíki and the garlic sauce with rough-cut bread.
    â€œWhat’s this called?” he asked, pointing to the garlic.
    â€œSkordhaliá , ” Myles said.
    â€œIt’s good. And this?” he said, twirling a fork in the wild greens.
    â€œHórta . ”

    â€œNot so good.”
    â€œOne of those things you learn to like,” Myles said.
    â€œI’ll work on it.”
    â€œGood to have some kind of work to do,” Anne put in.
    â€œHmm. I’m good at this; it’s tasting better already. Good bitter edge,” he smiled.
    â€œI’m glad you’re enjoying my lunch,” Anne said.
    â€œWhat are you doing here again?” Paul asked.
    â€œWorking. Some of us have to work.”
    â€œAnd some of us don’t,” Paul said gleefully.
    Myles raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t say anything.

Twenty
    21 June
    Â 
    Myles wondered if she’d consider the photos a success. From the contact sheets he’d picked eighteen to print, and of those he’d blown-up seven. He’d taped the seven to the wall and was looking at them, one at a time. Myles couldn’t even be sure what he thought of them. It was late, and the light shone starkly from the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling.
    He poured a half glass of oúzo from the bottle he kept cold in the freezer. From Lésvos, a very acrid oúzo. He poured a little bottled water from the fridge into the oúzo and watched it turn milky, a smoky blue. Then he crossed back to the photos. If she wanted to be flattered, she wasn’t going to like them. But maybe she didn’t want that. The photographs were beautiful, but she wasn’t beautiful in them. The beauty was austere and a little terrible, and it had more to do with composition than with her face or the suave lines of her body in motion. But the beauty, such as it was, was hers, she’d made it, composed herself in the cramped space of the divan at only the slightest of suggestions from him.
    It was very late and Myles was tired. Looking at the photos, he thought he smelled her, Anne, and he looked around, but he was alone. He hadn’t noticed that she had any particular scent but looking at the photographs now he smelled something, or remembered something, her scent. Sweet but also bitter, burnt vanilla, maybe. Myles thought it must be time to put out the light, but he looked a last time at the most haunted of the photos. He’d stood on top of a chair and shot straight down