Zoya (48 page)

“If Dad had only lived to see this day,” he whispered to her as he watched the jubilation in the streets, and Zoya looked up at her handsome son tenderly. He looked more than ever like Nicolai, particularly now in his uniform. He had become a man in his years away, and she wasn't surprised when he told her he wasn't going back to Princeton. He wanted to begin learning what he needed to of the empire Simon had left behind him. Paul taught him all that he needed to know of it, and Nicholas was stunned by the money that had been left to him. Sasha knew also that she would be inheriting a great deal of money the following year, although she did not yet know how much. But Nicholas was aghast when he saw the way she behaved when he stayed with Zoya briefly. She was out until the early morning hours every night, came home drunk most of the time, and was rude to everyone who tried to talk to her about what she did, particularly Nicholas, but also Zoya. He was furious when he talked to his mother about it late one night. Sasha had come in early that night, and was already passed out cold in
her room. A boy in uniform had dropped her off and he was so drunk he could hardly walk as Nicholas almost threw him out.

“Can't you do something about her, Mama? She's totally out of control.”

“She's too old to spank, Nicholas, and I can't lock her in her room.”

“I'd like to try it,” he looked grim, but the next morning when he talked to his sister it was to no avail. She was gone again that night, and didn't return until well after four o'clock in the morning.

She was even more beautiful than she'd been before, she was too young for her excesses to hurt her looks, but Zoya knew that if she didn't stop, in time they would. And Zoya was less than pleased when, that December, she eloped. She had married a boy she had known for less than three weeks, and the fact that he was the son of a polo player in Palm Beach was small consolation to her. His life-style was as wild as her own, they drank and they danced and cavorted every night, and it was even more upsetting when Sasha blithely told her mother when she came to New York in March that she was expecting a baby sometime in September.

“On Matthew's birthday, I think.” She was decidedly vague as he wandered into the room. He was six and a half years old, with Simon's big brown eyes and gentle ways. He adored Nicholas, but he had learned to keep out of his sister's way long since. She drank too much, and she was either indifferent or openly unpleasant. She was twenty-one by then, and the inheritance Simon had left only hurled her faster toward her own destruction.

In June, she came home again and announced that
Freddy was cheating on her, and she instantly took revenge. She bought a new car, two diamond bracelets, slept with one of his friends, in spite of her delicate state, and went back to Palm Beach to find her husband. Zoya knew that there was nothing she could do. Even Nicholas didn't want to talk about it anymore. She was what she was, and none of it was pleasant. She talked about it often with Paul, and his gentle wisdom somewhat consoled her.

Nicholas took Matthew fishing on the weekends, and to the park to play ball, whenever he could. He had his hands full at work, but he always made time for the boy, which in turn, gave Zoya a few quiet moments with Paul Kelly. They continued to conduct their affair quietly, and Nicholas never knew, which was a tribute to Paul and Zoya's discretion.

In late August, Sasha's baby was born, a tiny baby girl with bright red hair. Zoya went to Florida to see her, and stood looking at her with awe. She was so small and so sweet, and her mother seemed to have no interest in her at all. Almost as soon as the child was born, Sasha was carousing and careening everywhere in her expensive cars, with or without the equally self-indulgent Freddy. Zoya never knew where they were, and the baby was always left with a nurse, much to Zoya's disapproval. She tried to talk to Sasha about her life-style during their rare conversations on the phone, but predictably Sasha didn't want to hear it. And Nicholas never heard from her anymore either. She almost seemed to have faded from their lives, and Zoya was especially sad not to see more of Sasha's baby, Marina. And when the phone rang on Christmas Eve, Zoya found herself hoping it was Sasha. Nicholas was having dinner with
her, and Matthew had just gone to bed, after decorating the tree. He was seven years old, and still believed in Santa Claus almost, although Zoya suspected it would be the last year. He was still the joy in her life, and she was smiling happily as she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” It was the Florida State Police. Her heart stopped, instantly fearing why they'd called her. They told her that Sasha and Freddy had been in an accident on their way home from a party somewhere, and as she held her breath, her worst fears came to fruition. She set the phone down, staring at Nicholas, unable to tell him. A moment later, the baby's nurse called them, hysterical to be left alone with the baby. And Nicholas talked to her and promised to fly down in the morning to pick up the child. The nurse explained everything to him, as he looked at his mother in silent horror. She blamed herself as she cried that night, she had done all the wrong things, she insisted, and now it was too late. She had failed her, and now she was dead.“… She was so sweet when she was small …” Zoya cried. But Nicholas had other memories of Sasha. He remembered only how spoiled she had been, how selfish, and how unkind to their mother. But to Zoya it didn't seem fair. She was only twenty-one, and now she was gone, like a fleeting, brilliant flash of falling star on a dark summer night. One moment alive and then suddenly gone forever.

Nicholas flew to Florida the next day, and brought back his sister's body, and her tiny baby, Marina. It was a somber Christmas for Zoya, as she opened presents with Matthew, fighting back tears, with trembling hands, and wondering if there were something
she could have done and had failed to do for her daughter. Perhaps if she had never worked, if things had been easier, if Clayton hadn't died … or Simon … or perhaps … the agonies were endless, as she tried to concentrate on Matthew, who seemed not to understand what had happened to his sister, he was much too calm, which frightened Zoya. But she realized that he understood too well when he turned wide brown eyes up to Zoya's and inquired quietly, “Was she drunk again, Mom?”

She was shocked as she heard Matthew's words. But he was right. She had been. And Zoya didn't deny it, as she held Sasha's baby. And late that night, Zoya sat staring down at her, as she opened her eyes and yawned sleepily. She was four months old, and all she had was Zoya now, and Matthew and Nicholas, her uncles.

“I'm too old for this,” Zoya sighed that night when Paul called, as he always did.

“No, you're not. She's better off with you than she would have been with them. She's a lucky child.” And he was a lucky man to share his life with her. The blessings in Zoya's life touched everyone around her … except for Sasha, and she accused herself again that night, knowing how totally she had failed her. But could she have done otherwise? She knew, with searing pain, that she would never have the answer. All she could do now to make up for it was love Marina as though she were her own. She put the baby's crib next to her own bed, and sat for hours looking at the baby sleeping there, her eyes closed, her skin warm, her hair silky red, like Zoya's own, and she promised to keep her safe, and do the best she could this time. And then, as a sob caught in her
throat, she remembered the night Sasha and Nicholas had almost died in the fire … little Sasha had lain on the pavement, the firemen fighting to revive her from the thick smoke, and then she had stirred, and Zoya had held her sobbing, as she did now, remembering her … how could things have gone so wrong. In the end, in spite of everything, at only twenty-one, she had lost her.

The funeral was two days afterward, attended by some of her friends from school, and the people she had known growing up in New York. Their faces registered silent shock, as Zoya left the church on Nicholas's arm, Matthew holding her hand, and she saw Paul standing solemnly in the back row, his white hair standing out above the crowd, his eyes offering her everything he felt for her. She looked at him for only a moment and then walked on, her sons on either side of her, and tiny Marina, her whole life about to begin, waiting for them at home, in the bed next to Zoya's.

CHAPTER
49

Nineteen forty-seven was the year of the New Look from Dior, and Zoya took Matthew and Marina to Paris with her, when she went to order her new lines. Matthew was almost eight years old by then, and Marina was still a baby. But she took him to the Eiffel Tower, walked along the Seine with him, and to the Tuileries, where she had gone with Evgenia so very long ago.

“Tell me again about your grandmother.” She smiled as she told him all of it again, about the troikas in Russia when she was a child, and the games they had played, the people they had known. It was a way of sharing her history with him, and in effect his own. They went to the south of France afterward, and the following year, with both children again, Zoya went to Rome. She took Marina everywhere with her, as though in some way she could make up to her for the mother she had lost. Marina was like her own child now, and she looked so much like Zoya as she staggered happily around the ship on the way home, that people naturally assumed she was Zoya's child. At
forty-nine, she still had an air of youth, and it wasn't incredible to anyone that she should still have young children around her.

“It keeps me young, I suppose,” she told Paul more than once. And he agreed with her. She looked even lovelier than before. Nicholas was running the company by then, and by the spring of 1951, he had the textile mills well in hand. He was almost thirty years old, and when Zoya came back from Europe with the little ones, he came to see them to hear all about the trip. Matthew was eleven, and Marina was four and a half, with her shining red hair, and big green eyes. She squealed with laughter when Nicholas tickled her, and he put Marina to bed himself, and then returned to the living room to tell Zoya his plans.

“Well, Mama …” He hesitated, smiling at her, and she sensed that something important was happening.

“Yes, Nicholas? Am I supposed to wear a serious face, or are you just trying to frighten me?” She had been expecting it for a while. He had been seeing a charming southern girl. He had met her when he was in South Carolina, checking on the mills. She was very beautiful, and a little spoiled. But Zoya never commented on that. He was a grown man, and free to make his own choices with his life. As she said to Paul, she respected his judgment. He was a sensible young man, with a kind heart, and a mind that had been honed by running Simon's businesses.

“Will you be very surprised if I tell you I'm going to get married in the fall?” His eyes played with hers and she laughed.

“Should I be surprised, my love?”

“Elizabeth and I are getting married” he proudly announced.

“I'm happy for you, darling,” she looked at him and smiled. He was a good man, and both his fathers would have been proud of him. “I hope she makes you happy, my love.”

“She already does.” Zoya couldn't have asked for more, and she offered to help her find a wedding dress the next time they spoke, remembering to herself Sofia's inquisition before she and Simon had gotten married years before. Simon's parents were long since gone, and his uncles after that. She had never been close to them, but she had seen to it that Matthew visited them often before they died, and they were grateful.

She reminded herself not to be difficult, when Elizabeth swept into the store and was rude to everyone. The wedding dress was the least of it. She also seemed to expect Zoya to supply her entire trousseau, and buy them an apartment. Zoya felt a tiny chill run up her spine, as she stood at the wedding after that, watching Matthew carefully balance the ring on the cushion he held, and Marina swing a tiny basket of rose petals, as she waved at her grandmother in the front row, and Zoya smiled proudly at them.

But Nicholas carried on valiantly, supplying her every need, meeting her every demand, catering to her every whim, until he could stand it no more. Almost four years to the day that Zoya had watched Marina tossing rose petals at them, Nicholas sent Elizabeth home to her parents. Marina was nine by then and Zoya was taking her to ballet class every day. It had been her only passion in life since she was
five. And this time, Zoya was determined to do everything she could for the child, still feeling that she had somehow failed Sasha. She left the store at three o'clock every day, picked Marina up at Miss Nightingale's, and took her to the ballet classes where she did the same tours jetos, the same plios, the same exercises that Zoya herself had done a lifetime ago in St. Petersburg with Madame Nastova.

It was odd how things repeated themselves again. She told her about the Maryinsky School, its wonders and joys, and how demanding Madame Nastova had been. And when she and Nicholas went to her recital, she sat quietly and cried. Nicholas looked over and touched her hand, as Zoya smiled through her tears, watching Marina.

“She's so sweet and innocent.” Life was just beginning for her. And she worked so hard at everything she did, she was such a good and earnest child. Matthew was like a brother to her, although they were seven years apart, not unlike Nicolai when she was growing up herself. It was odd how it all happened again and again, generation after generation, her own passion for the ballet reborn in Marina.

Paul gave the budding ballerina a tiny bouquet that night, and after Marina went to bed, chattering excitedly about how the recital had gone, he asked her the question Zoya had dreaded hearing from him for years. His wife had finally died of cirrhosis several months before, and he looked at Zoya quietly in the silence of the library after Nicholas was gone, back to his own apartment.

“Zoya … after twelve years, I can ask you now. Will you marry me?” He reached for her hand, and she looked into his eyes with the smile born of a love
long shared, but never fully brought to fruition. They had been together for twelve years and she loved him deeply and valued his friendship, but that time was past for her. She had never wanted to marry again after Simon. She was happy watching Matthew grow up, and Marina dance. She still bustled around the store with almost the same energy she'd had before. At fifty-six, she was barely slowing down. But marriage wasn't what she wanted now, and she gently touched his fingers with her lips and shook her head.