Everything’s Coming Up Josey (21 page)

So, you see, I'm open to all sorts of things.

We are in the Moscow International House of Music, and, as usual, I'm struck by the grandeur of the Russian estate. The two-headed Russian eagle adorns the arched doors, and the deep velvet curtains boxing the stage hint at opulence, even if they're a bit worn. All of Russia seems dressed to impress, and slowly I'm being wooed. And it only has a little to do with Mr. Wow sitting next to me. I also give credit to Sergei and Evgeny's eager smiles, to Auntie Milla and her liver
peroshke,
and even Tracey, who has made me feel like Solomon.

The only dark spot in all this Valentine's Day cheer is that Matthew has left for Europe, and no one knows if he's returning. Rebecca confronted him and it wasn't pretty, especially when she dropped my name a few times. I told you I was going to get sucked into this vortex of pain and despair. And no one's talking at MBC, so I'm just trying to stay out of hot spots.

The final act finishes, and we endure twenty minutes of encores before we stand and join the press toward the door. And I mean press. I feel like baaing.

Vovka has his hand on the small of my back, however, and he stations me by a bust of Tchaikovsky while he retrieves our coats. My puffy Dough Girl monster is hard to miss and I shuck it on quickly. I'm slowly giving over to Russian styles, however—black leather skirts, black hose, black pullovers. I look good in black. It hides so much.

“How about a stroll down the Arbat?” Vovka says in that accented, rumbly voice.

He likes to walk, and I like the way he takes my hand and tucks it with his in his long, regal wool coat. He is wearing a suit coat and black pants tonight, his hair in a sleek ponytail. I never thought I'd like a man with a ponytail, but it looks good on him. Very Elegant French Model.

We turn down Arbat, and again, I'm struck by the architecture of the czars, tiny balconies and ornately trimmed narrow buildings that once housed merchants and artists. The street is cobblestone and during the non-snow months, artists set up easels and hawk culture. But tonight, the middle of February, there is nothing but the crunch of snow, the stars brilliant overhead, our breath streaming out ahead.

“You are beautiful tonight,
Maya Sladkaya.
”

“Thank you, Vovka.” I smile up at him. Maybe I should kiss him. Because H's question has been simmering in the back of my brain for a full two weeks and now it's more like a three-engine inferno. Why hasn't he kissed me? Do I have repulsive lips? Am I too shy? I pull him closer, suddenly needing to get to the bottom of this. Will he curl his hands into my hair, kiss me gently, as if he's nervous? Or is he more of arms-around-the-shoulders, power-in-a-kiss type of guy?

In my dreams, he runs his fingertips down my face and I see his intentions in his eyes and he smiles a second before he kisses me, sweetly, perfectly.

I see a group of late-night sojourners shuffle toward us in the wan light. Among the group of students, who are dressed in all assortments of ragged attire, I'm surprised to spot Caleb. He stares at me, first a smile, then a scowl as he approaches. The group carries on past us, but I've stopped and so must he.

He shoots a glance at Vovka. Then back at me. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I respond, but I notice that my voice sounds much more cheery than his. He's shivering and he shoves his hands in his coat, what looks like a Russian army-surplus item. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, I'm just heading to the Metro after Bible study.” His gaze ranges back to Vovka.

“I was at the opera.”

He raises an eyebrow, then directs a statement in Russian to Vovka.

“Yes,” Vovka answers in English. “We are.”

Not sure why, but I feel a sense of panic, even fear. This is not the emotion I expected to have when I introduced Caleb to…my boyfriend? Okay, that feels weird.

“Caleb, I'd like you to meet Vovka. Auntie Milla's grandson.”

He holds out his hand to Vovka, who meets it. The sparks in their silent gaze could power Moscow for a week.

“Vovka, this is Caleb. My friend.” Probably my only real friend in Moscow, and I've done a superb job of cutting him out of my life for the last month. I feel slightly sick and I give Caleb my best apology smile.

“I'd better catch up to my friends,” Caleb says, and gives me another no-smile look. “Nice to see you.”

Okay, it may be cold out, but I can feel the numbing frost in those words.

“You, too,” I mumble, but he's already gone. Why do I feel as if I've just kicked him in the teeth?

Vovka watches him go. “He likes you.”

Oh, ya think? I'm firmly in denial however, at least in front of Vovka. “No. We're just friends,” I say, my glance towards Caleb.

I feel Vovka's hand on my chin as he moves my face to his gaze. “He asked if we were together.”

“Oh.” So much for my sorry attempt to mask that fact. And now I am wondering why I tried to hide our status, because Vovka's eyes are on mine, so sweet, and I can nearly see his heart in them. My pulse is thundering, right below my skin as he searches my gaze. He has the slightest five-o'clock shadow, and it makes him looks elegantly rugged, in a Fabio-meets-Harrison-Ford kind of way.

And then he leans down and my heart just stops. He's going to kiss me! I haven't been kissed in—well, I can't remember when, and I've suddenly forgotten what to do. Hold my breath? Move toward him?

I close my eyes. That seems right.

I feel his breath close to my lips, as his hand moves around behind my neck.

Then he's kissing me. But oh, no! It's not gentle and sweet. It's…sloppy. Wet. And misaimed. I feel like he really
has
thrown his lips at me, and they slide off the side.

Panic wells in my chest. No! This can not happen. Vovka must be a good kisser, someone who makes me tingle, not reach for a towel.

Maybe it was nervousness? I'm willing to give him a second chance, so I open my eyes. He's wearing a slight smile and my heart goes out to him. “Vovka,” I say, trying to set the mood, and step closer, reach up and tug his lapel. He reads my intentions and his arms move around me.

Trapped. This better be worth it. I rise on my tiptoes and let him kiss me again.

He's so…imprecise. And suddenly I'm realizing why Auntie Milla is trying to bribe me with food and perfume and most recently, an umbrella. Because under all her grandson's glamour and shine is…a trout!

No! No! No!

Certainly, this can be fixed? But it's not pretty as I pull away and a glaze of spittle nearly freezes my lips shut.

“Can we walk some more?” I somehow manage.

He smiles so sweetly, I just want to wail. He nods and tucks my hand again into his pocket.

Vovka the Fish. I stomp down the errant urge to turn and run after Caleb and his pals, but even if I did, I have a horrible feeling that I might have just burned a bridge.

What have I gotten myself into?

 

I find the package sitting on the table Monday after class. Tracey is at some sort of NGO function and the flat is quiet. I'm holding a jar of eggplant, or perhaps worms, I'm not sure. I found it outside my door, and I know it's from Auntie Milla, so she must not know I'm trying to sort out the Vovka dilemma. He's called every day since Saturday, and while I did have coffee with him yesterday after class, I avoided the
kissing
part, neatly ducking under his arm when he did the lean outside my door.

Certainly this can be fixed?

I grab a new jar of Nutella and a spoon and sit down on the sofa. The box is small, shoe-size, and while I am hoping for something from Jas, maybe a new
Lost
magazine (I am not a groupie) or a bag of chocolate chips, nothing can prepare me for the return address.

Chase.

Oh. My.

I put down the Nutella, and grab my scissors. This guy knows how to wrap a box because nothing sort of a neutron bomb is going to dismantle all this tape. I briefly wonder if this is some sort of cruel trick. But I finally get the wrapper off, the box open…and I want to cry.

A Valentine's Day card. Coffee from the Java Cup. A newspaper clipping of an article I sent to Myrtle. A CD of Point of Grace. And a very old, framed picture of Chase and me on his motorcycle.

So maybe he is pining for me!

I shuck away a tear and pick up the card.

Chase.

Writing me a card.

I
am a very good missionary.

1. I have bridged the gap with Sheena the Tiger Woman and she is now attending Moscow Bible Church. In many ways I think it is to meet eligible men, especially after I told her that I saw Vovka talking to one of his friends after last Sunday service. Still, she is there and that counts.

2. I sacrificed my pride and let Rebecca teach me how to make banana bread. I know, but really, the bananas were going bad, and she so needed to do something Proverbs 31-ish to remind her that Matthew is the fool here, not her. (Her words, not mine.) By the way, the bread turned out pretty good, and it makes a great supper, especially with Nutella on it.

3. I agreed to celebrate Auntie Milla's birthday with her and Vovka. At her house. Russian style, which includes a bottle of homemade prune cognac.

I'm staring at the cognac, wondering what St. Paul would do. Be like the Romans, er, Russians and down it fast, with a prayer, or stick to my sense of, morals? taste? and decline.

Auntie Milla is dressed in her Birthday Best—a turquoise-and-brown dress with a brooch at the nape of her neck. I am pretty sure I saw that dress in a retro sixties catalogue, and someone in their late sixties shouldn't be wearing a dress that short, but I'm not going to comment. Especially since I'm also dressed in iffy duds—a black leather A-line skirt with a creamy white-ribbed turtleneck that clings more than I'm used to. Alas, I spotted it on a mannequin and, nudged by Tracey, bought it on a whim, remembering with fondness my Saks skirt, still hidden behind the poppy dress back in Gull Lake. Oh, if only! Because I know it would fit me now, since I've dropped a few more pounds. I also got my hair cut, Meg Ryan style, and highlighted. I was worried as I stood outside the beauty salon. It was called Dynamo, now wouldn't you be worried? What's worse, the Russian name for hairdresser is
“Pere-maker-skaya”
All I could think was Permanently Make Me Scary. But the highlights turned out fabulous. I barely recognize myself, this new hip Leather Girl. Which is good, or bad?

Most importantly, Vovka loves the 'do. Which matters, even if we still have the kissing issue hovering between us. I'm holding out hope that this can be fixed.

We are sitting around her tiny table, which is pushed up next to the sofa. Vovka sits beside me, and the table hits me at, roughly, the chin. Auntie Milla holds court regally at the end of the table. Vovka lifts his cognac, and I guess he's breaking his no-alcohol rule for the big day. Auntie Milla reaches for her glass. I'm still caught in indecision. Russia tradition says she's waiting to be toasted, in lieu of, say, a
prayer,
and I know it'll be a slap if I don't at least lift my glass.

And I want to be a good missionary.

Besides, as per Russian birthday tradition, she did all the work. White potatoes glazed with butter and fresh dill, liver cutlets, brown bread, cheese, dill pickles, cold herring, caviar(!), and most importantly, prune cake with walnuts.

Suddenly, my Nutella and
padushki
are looking pretty paltry.

And, out of gratefulness, both for the meal and for the fact that she's cast a little sunshine across the gray pallor of Russian winter in Moscow with her bribes, her
peroshke
and her rather hot grandson, I lift my glass.

“Baba Milla,” Vovka starts, and then launches into a garbled Russian paragraph of which I get, “thank you,” “love” and “happiness.”

Sounds good to me.

They lift, shoot it back, and I smile, sip…and my lips turn to living fire. Ow, Ow, Ow! What is this stuff—kerosene? But I smile as I put down my glass…and realize there is nothing else to drink on the table. No water, no milk, no prune
sok
(they really love prunes here). Nada.
Nichevo.

Yikes.

I take a piece of brown bread and attempt to sop the inferno from my lips. What if it had touched my throat? I'm sure I'd be in the ER right now.

Auntie Milla's eyes are just a bit watery as she dishes me up a cutlet, and frankly, I'm not sure if it's emotion or the atrocious home-brew she's served us. No wonder Russians are tough.

Thankfully, the food sops up the sting and Vovka translates as I finally,
finally
get to know his grandmother, my benefactor. I probably need to take notes, because as she unfolds her entire life story, I realize I am listening to a Danielle Steele epic, starting with the blockade of St. Petersburg/Leningrad during World War Two, moving on through the Stalin purges, then Khrushchev and the Bay of Pigs, and finally Gorbie and his wicked reforms. She's quite the chatterbox and long after the cutlets have turned cold, she's still motoring, occasionally shoveling one in her mouth in an effort to catch up to me (who has finished off the potatoes, the bread, the cheese and especially the caviar. Did you really think I was going to pass that up?).

She finally pulls out a photo album, and I put faces to stories. She's sitting on the arm of the sofa, leaning over me, explaining. (Why doesn't she just sit down? I've scooted over twice.) Vovka is on the other side, his low voice filled with emotion. He surely loves his Baba, and something my mother once said to me is running in the back of my mind. “Watch how he treats the woman in his life…that's how he'll treat you.”

It's true. Vovka is such a gentleman, I feel as shallow as a crepe for not liking his kisses. So he's a little…soggy. With towels and training…

Finally, she finishes the last of the pictures, and I can see that in the fifteen or so hours I've been here (okay, I'm lying, it's only been four, but it seems like sixty-three!), the sun has begun to set, sending golden stripes across the brown-and-gold carpet.

Auntie Milla gets up, begins to clear the table. I also rise, grab a plate and follow her. But on the return trip, I'm shanghaied by Vovka, who is standing at the door to her bedroom. “Want to see my grandfather?”

What kind of heel would I be if I said no? I smile at him, follow him inside the room. I see a floral bedspread and, above the bed, a stately photograph of a young couple. Neither is smiling and it reminds me of my own grandparents' pictures. What is it with that generation that didn't like to smile? I wonder if it had to do with gold teeth? I step closer, along the side of the bed, to take a better look.

Vovka toes the door shut. I turn, and little hairs rise on the back of my neck. Um, this isn't going to work. But he's advancing and backs me up against the wall. I bump the lamp next to the bedside table.

He's got one hand over my shoulder, trapping me, but he smells so good, I might forgive him. And he runs a finger down my jaw line. “Now you know my family history, what do you think?”

“I think you've got an interesting grandmother,” I say, wondering what he means. Was this a sort of interview? Caleb's words about visa ploys suddenly echo in my head.

But Vovka just smiles, and his gaze falls to my lips.

I swallow, but okay, I'm game. I lift my face, and he again cups his hand behind my neck and aims for my mouth.

Precision counts, as does control, and maybe he's been practicing (with whom? He better not have been!), but this time, the slobber level isn't quite as drowning, and in fact, he tastes slightly sweet and tangy, perhaps the remnants of prune cognac. I hear a soft sound in the back of his throat as his arms go around me. I surrender and kiss him back, glad that I gave him another chance. No, my skin still isn't tingling or anything, but the fact that I'm not leaping for a Kleenex is a good thing, right? And, this proves something.

Vovka still has potential.

He releases me and smiles. “I love you.”

What?

I swallow, stare at him, mouth open. He has emotions in his eyes and they match his words, but I'm frozen. Vovka loves me?

What do I say? I love you, too? But do I? I don't think I do. I'm fond of him. And we're going to work out the lips thing. But do I want to spend the rest of my life with him?

Yes, Mr. Ambassador, Vovka and I will be at the opera this weekend.

I'm going to have to think about this.

I manage a quivering smile and he's just staring at me, those liquid eyes pulling me in. I feel like a worm and I just want to wiggle out of here. Now. But how can I not love Vovka? Isn't he what I want?

 

He said he loved you?

 

Yes!

 

What did you do?

 

Nothing. I just stood there. And then Auntie Milla knocked on the door. I ducked out of his arms just as she peeked her head in. I bee-lined to the living room, and grabbed a plate of pickles. When I came into the kitchen, he was up to his elbows in suds, grinning.

 

Well, do you?

 

: I don't know. Maybe. What if I don't know what love feels like? What if I do love him, but I'm too afraid to say it? What if all this time, I loved Chase and just didn't know it?

 

So, do you love Chase, or do you love Vovka?

 

I DON'T KNOW.

 

Well, you better decide soon because I have it on good authority that Chase is on his way to Russia.

 

WHAT?

 

You didn't hear it from me. It's supposed to be a surprise.

 

Be home, be home,
be home!
I had to wait until midnight here, 9:00 a.m. Gull Lake time, because I know Jas usually finishes her first batch of dough by now, and returns to the house for a shower and breakfast. But today the telephone rings off the hook. Where is she? And why didn't she tell me Chase was coming here? What if he meets Vovka?

I slam the receiver down, pace the room in tiny circles. Tracey is on the sofa, holding a pillow to her chest. She's very Flashdance tonight in an oversized ripped sweatshirt and a high ponytail. “So?”

“She's not there. Maybe H was kidding.” Or not. H is as reliable as the CIA. I feel slightly sick, despite a coil of excitement.

Chase, coming here?

No, wait, that can't be. How could he find me?

Okay, I feel better now. It's not like I'm listed in the phone book. Besides, it's late and he's not going to show up in the next six hours. Right?
Right?

 

I panicked for nothing. I know this because 1. I received an e-mail from Chase this morning and in none of it did he hint coming to Russia. 2. Although I suspect Chase could pull off coming to see me in Russia, we're not that far along in a relationship, despite what he mentioned in his Valentine's Day card. I mean, yes, before I left he hinted that I stay in Gull Lake, but that wasn't exactly a proposal, was it? I need words. Spell it out for me. I hate reading between the lines.

I am walking home with Vovka, who surprised me tonight after my class. I saw him give Evgeny a long, narrowed-eye look, but it vanished when Vovka took my bag off my shoulder, put his hand on my back and we headed out of the building.

He's very sweet, Vovka is. And protective. He asked me about my day, listening and even highlighting details. Because, you know, he loves me.

It's hard to describe the feelings swirling in my chest. Warmth. Curiosity. Panic? Seems that I shouldn't feel that one, but I have to admit it. Am I ready for Vovka to love me? Because, there's sort of a punch-card limit to one admitting one's love for another. Say it so many times and it should be redeemed for reciprocal declarations.

But we haven't reached that limit, and I dismiss the panic as we hike up my stairs. (I've given up on
ever
riding
up
the lift. Besides, it's good for the thighs.) The hallway is dark, and I see someone has shattered the bulb hanging in my cement-peeling hallway. But, it's light enough to see that Auntie Milla left me something big at my doorway.

Something big…like a St. Bernard. Only, slightly hunched over, and holding a duffel bag, and wearing a Gull Lake letter jacket.

Chase. My breath actually clogs in my throat.
Chase?

Oh, no! What do I do with Vovka? But fate must have its due and I take a deep breath and find a smile. Because, deep down, past the fear, and even the embarrassment, I'm painfully, excruciatingly,
delighted.

Chase is here. In Russia.
To see me.

What exactly does this mean?

He hears our footsteps, and looks up. I can't hide it now—my tall companion, my new hairstyle, the leather pants, the smile that's building. By the time he gets to his feet, I'm in his arms and he's got his face buried in my neck. “Chase!” I say, sorta breathless, because although I can't truthfully feign surprise at his visit, I am overwhelmed by my sudden rush of emotions.