Page 3 of Love, Legacy, and Little Green Aliens

“That’s better. Now, eat up.”

According to Lydia Anagnos, the problem didn’t exist that couldn’t be solved with food.

After the dishes were cleared away, Baba poured Greek-style coffee, and Demitri handed out shots of ouzo and rose-flavored liqueur, while Mama and Eleni passed doily-lined platters of halva and loukoumades, balls of fried dough drizzled with honey. Xander helped himself, knowing it was futile to turn down dessert.

Besides, a shot or two of sweet booze would help him care less about the pitying glances and whispered comments. They were only trying to protect him in their warped, superstitious way. He wasn’t unloved, just underestimated and pitied, and the only thing that would ever shake their belief in the family curse was a brilliant, showy success.

And how in the hell was he going to pull that off?

Aunt Zoe clapped her hands. “Come. I want my family to dance me into my new decade.”

While Baba pulled out his collection of vinyl records, others cleared away furniture for dancing.

Lagging behind, Xander peeked at Gus’s note again, trying to puzzle out his uncle’s cryptic message. Something out of this world? What wacky scheme had Gus cooked up this time?

His mother plopped down next to him, her eyes sharp with curiosity.

He quickly refolded the letter and tucked it back into his pocket.

“What’s that? A note from a new love?”

No, but hopefully a new start.

“Nothing that interesting.”

She heaved a dramatic sigh and squeezed his knee. “My poor, unlucky boy. I worry about you.”

He grabbed her hand. “Come on, Mama. It’s not time for worrying; it’s time for dancing.”

The twangy opening notes of the Ikariotikos rang out, and Xander joined the line of laughing, swaying relatives, giving each stomp extra force.

Soon, they’d gather again to celebrate his success—whatever that turned out to be. In the meantime, putting some distance between himself and their smother-love would do him good. A man needs room to breathe, and Trappers Cove had room to spare, brisk sea air, and the only relative who had faith in him.

In fact, Trappers Cove was probably his best hope—and his last chance.

Chapter Two

WhatthehellwasMom doing?

Crouched awkwardly in the window of the Trappers CoveBeacon’s newsroom, Hannah’s mother looked almost as green as the paper shamrocks she was taping to the glass.

Hannah hurried inside and dumped their takeout lunch on her desk. “Mom! Your back’s never going to get better if you don’t rest. Let me handle the decorations.”

Mom pulled a wry face. “It’s a slow news day. Might as well make myself useful.” She ripped a length of Scotch tape with her teeth and pressed a grinning leprechaun into place.

As if they hadn’t spent enough time in hospital waiting rooms lately. But stubbornly ignoring problems was a time-honored Leone family trait—one best confronted head on.

Hannah softened her tone and reached for the roll of tape her mother clutched with grim determination. “You don’t fool me with this busy-bee crap. You’re hurting, Mom. Is your ulcer acting up again? Another migraine?”

Wincing, Mom straightened and wiped her hands on her knit slacks. “I’m fine, just a little tired. Did Mo get my order right?”

“Plain chicken kebab, no spice.” She handed over the sandwich, along with an iced mint tea, then sat at her desk and unwrapped her own lunch: a deluxe kebab with the works, the ultimate in greasy, garlicky goodness. She took a bite, closed her eyes, and moaned.

So did her mother, and not in an OMG-this-is-delicious way.

“Okay, enough of this stoic nonsense,” Hannah snapped. “Either you go lie down or I’m calling Doc Rivas.”

Mom waved away Hannah’s concern with a flick of her paper napkin. “It’s not my ulcer, and it’s not a migraine.” She pulled an envelope from her inbox. “It’s bad news. This arrived while you were out.”