Page 20 of My Stepbrother's Wedding
Irena’s cousin, Mira, spoke the best English in the family and sat next to us. She was a pretty woman in her early thirties, with long brown hair and a bright smile. “Why don’t you dance?” she asked, almost yelling over the loud music.
“We don’t know how,” I answered.
“Don’t you dance in America?”
“Not like this.”
A young girl brought a silver platter with sweets and tiny cups of coffee. She set it in front of us and motioned for us to take something. I picked up a coffee and took a sip. The robust flavor almost knocked me out of my seat. I glanced at Mark and Kyle. They sipped and curled their lips, revealing dark grains on their teeth.
“This is Turkish coffee,” Mira said. “It’s a tradition here.”
“Aha,” I said, setting the cup back on the tray.
The girl returned with another platter full of shot glasses of a clear liquid that looked and smelled like vodka.
“This is rakia,” Mira said. “Another tradition.”
Everyone at the table raised their glass. I closed my eyes and downed mine with a quick gulp. It burned like liquid fire and almost made me gag. When I opened my eyes, the Malegonians gave me open-mouthed stares. Irena’s father nodded, wide eyed. “Bravo.”
“You’re supposed to drink it slow,” Will whispered.
I noticed the others taking tiny sips from their glasses and felt my face flush.
“Oh,” I said, trying to mask my embarrassment. “Don’t mind me. I’m just a raging alcoholic.”
The serving girl poured me a second glass, and the Malegonians watched expectantly. I gave it the slightest of sips, and their expressions softened with apparent approval. One of the partygoers turned the music up to ear-bleeding level, and the wedding-goers pulled us from our seats to dance.
“It’s your turn,” Mira said. “Your family gets to dance!”
“But—” I tried to protest as they yanked us back onto the dance floor.
The beat of the music reverberated in my chest. The Malegonians formed a circle and eyed us expectantly. I held hands with Dad and Elizabeth and hopped to the music in my pathetic attempt at imitating the locals. Mark was the only one who grasped the basic step, kicking his feet to the erratic timing—a testament to the fact he’d been the drummer in Swamp Butt. I was sure we looked like fools, but Irena’s family met our clumsy attempt with loud applause. The music paused, and I darted back to my seat beside Mira.
“How long will the dancing last?” I asked.
She smiled, clearly mistaking my terror for enjoyment. “Don’t worry. Today is just the start. We have three days.”
Three days! I did my best not to gasp at the prospect of three days of circle dancing to strange, deafening music. I had to escape. There was no way I could endure this for three days.
Chapter 8
Four hours later, we left Irena’s house and navigated the winding streets of Enkelana toward the villa. My feet hurt from all the dancing, and my head spun from the overload of foreign weirdness. Since the Wi-Fi barely worked in my room, I excused myself from the group and ducked into an internet café. I found a quiet computer in the back and made a video call to Karen. She answered from her beachside resort in Dubrovnik.
“Winifred, darling, when are you going to get here?” Karen sipped from a glass with a paper umbrella. “Croatia is paradise. The sea is amazing, and the boys …”
“Don’t worry. I’ll catch the first bus out of here.”
“What’s Malegonia like?”
“Overwhelming. The trip was terrible.”
“I can relate. Our plane to London was delayed for two hours. Can you believe that?”
I wanted to pour out the entire drama of our canceled flight, my near kidnapping, and getting lost in Pelagonia, but the internet café charged by the minute.
“So, how is Will?” Karen asked. “Is this bride as pretty as your stepmother drones on?”
“She must be marrying him for immigration papers. The girl is gorgeous but dirt poor.”
