149
It was a bright Thursday morning, the kind that made everything shimmer with promise. Yalda stood before the mirror in the villa’s hallway, smoothing down her floral dress and adjusting the strap of her tote bag. It was crazy how even her fashion sense had changed over the last couple of months.
She was wearing chiffon dresses now, feeling all free and soft; she had ditched the pencil skirts, the jeans, the slacks.
For the first time in weeks, she’d decided to step outside of her cocoon, not just for grocery runs or walking Loki, but to join a real, in-person cooking class in town.
“I want to meet people,” she had told Ioannis the night before, her chin resting on his chest as they lay curled up in bed. “Not online. Face-to-face. Stirring pots together and maybe even laughing with strangers.”
He had smiled, running his fingers through her hair. “Then that’s exactly what you’ll do.”
She had found the listing for the class through Alina, who had encouraged her to try it. “You’re brilliant in the kitchen,” the older woman had said, “but cooking is also about sharing, experiencing. Go. Enjoy.”
So now, Yalda was locking the villa behind her, keys jingling in her hand, a hopeful skip in her step as she made her way to the car Ioannis had arranged for her. The ride into town was peaceful, the roads winding through sun-drenched olive groves and small, pastel-colored shops. She watched the world pass by with a soft smile.
The cooking school was a charming building tucked between a boutique wine shop and a spa. It looked promising; white shutters, blooming bougainvillea framing the entrance, and the scent of fresh herbs wafting through the open windows. Yalda stepped in and was greeted by a middle-aged woman with a warm smile and flour-dusted hands.
“You must be Miss Yalda Harris.” she said. “Welcome! I’m Lira, the instructor.”
The inside of the studio was polished and elegant, with wooden workstations, marble countertops, and gleaming pots suspended from overhead racks. It smelled like garlic, rosemary, and anticipation. Several other women stood around chatting over cappuccinos, all dressed in tasteful designer wear; real Chanel scarves, Hermès bags slung over chairs, Cartier watches peeking from under crisp sleeves.
Yalda gave a small smile and walked toward the empty station assigned to her. She placed her equally expensive bag gently on the stool and looked up, meeting eyes with a tall brunette in a cream-colored blouse.
The woman gave her a once-over slowly, deliberately, and then arched a perfectly manicured brow.
“New?” she asked, her voice a silken dagger.
She knew women like this, and she knew they could be difficult. Still, she tried to be open-minded and friendly. She nodded. “Yes. Just moved to town.”
The woman hummed, already turning to the redhead beside her. “I suppose everyone wants to feel like a chef these days,” she said aloud, though not directly at Yalda. The redhead snorted softly behind her palm.
Yalda blinked, unsure if she should respond. Her excitement wavered, cooling beneath the chill in the room.
She turned her attention to Lira, who was laying out ingredients at the front. “We’ll be making lamb tagine today,” the instructor announced. “A Moroccan delight. Fragrant, spicy, rich; like a good story.”
Yalda smiled, trying to focus. Cooking always brought her peace. Her fingers moved confidently as she chopped onions, the scent reminding her of waem days in kitchen back at the villa. But as the session progressed, it became harder to ignore the whispers and glances from the cluster of women beside her.
They asked pointed questions, like where she was from, how long she planned to stay in Greece, who she lived with.
“I live outside of town,” Yalda answered carefully. “Just enjoying the peace and quiet.”
“Peace and quiet,” the redhead said with a smirk. “Is that code for... retired?”
Laughter fluttered between them like perfume.
Yalda bit her cheek and focused on stirring the spices into the sizzling pot. She didn’t owe anyone her story. And yet, their judgment crawled over her skin like heat from an oven.
When the dish was nearly done and the room filled with the aroma of cumin and lemon, Lira walked over to check her pot. “Beautifully done,” she praised with genuine warmth. “You have a hand for balance, Yalda.”
“Thank you,” Yalda said softly, her throat tight.
She finished plating her dish, her shoulders tense despite the satisfaction she felt at the perfect blend of flavor. She didn’t expect applause or friendship, but the open disdain she’d met today had taken her by surprise. It was an echo of something she’d thought she’d left behind; being assessed, measured, always made to feel like an outsider.
She thought of Ioannis, of how he saw her without judgment. Of Alina, whose warmth had never wavered. Of Loki’s happy tail wags and the feeling of sunlight spilling through the villa’s windows. She didn’t need these women’s approval. But the sting remained.
After class, she gathered her things quickly. As she moved to leave, the brunette spoke again.
“Don’t take it personally,” she said, almost casually. “This group is... exclusive. It takes time.”
Yalda paused, then offered her a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Good thing I’m not looking to be included.”
And with that, she walked out, head held high.
The sun was still warm outside, and the sea glinted in the distance. Yalda breathed in deeply, letting the salt air wash away the sour taste of the hour. She’d tried. And maybe she’d try again, another day.
When she got home, Alina was in the kitchen kneading dough.
“How was it?” the older woman asked.
Yalda hesitated. Then: “Educational. Not about cooking.”
Alina gave her a look of understanding and handed her a warm pastry. “Here. Sometimes food comforts more than people.”
Yalda bit into it, letting the flaky crust and soft cheese melt on her tongue. “I might find my people eventually.”
“You will,” Alina said. “And they’ll be lucky to have you.”
Later that night, when Ioannis returned home and found her in the garden, barefoot and silent, he sat beside her on the bench and waited.
She leaned against him. “I tried something today. It didn’t go well.”
He blew out a breath.
“It's alright. We'll try again when we're ready.” he said, wrapping an arm around her.
She nodded, resting her head on his shoulder. “But I’m still glad I went.”
And just like that, the tension faded. Because growth, she realized, didn’t always come in pretty packages. Sometimes, it came in the form of rejection and bitchy housewives.
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