“By the way, I love your haircut,” Jess said. “It’s a statement. I know what it means. You’re ready to move on.” She reached across the table and took Veronica’s hand gently in hers. “What if I give Michael your office number?”
“Is there any way I can stop you?”
Jess grinned and rolled her eyes upward. She gave Veronica’s hand a squeeze.
“Fine,” Veronica said. “My office number. And you owe me for this.”
“No, you owe me, Professor.” Jess flashed Veronica a triumphant smile. “You’ll see.”
* * *
“You’re up for tenure in January.” Regina Brack, dean of Alameda University’s College of Arts and Sciences, repositioned herself on her plush throne of an office chair. “That’s only four months away, and you haven’t completed your monograph?”
Veronica felt a pinching at the base of her skull, like someone squeezing her nerves with a pair of pliers. The office décor didn’t help matters any. A row of colorful butterfly specimens were displayed in a glass-fronted box on the wall behind Dr. Brack. Pins impaled their delicate abdomens, as if they’d displeased some medieval despot.
“I’ll admit, I don’t understand the attraction,” Dr. Brack said. “Nicholas and Alexandra Romanov are the most spectacular failures in Western political history. Why devote an entire book to the woman?”
Veronica tried to read Dr. Brack’s stoic expression. Was she suggesting Veronica would fail spectacularly as well? “I guess I’m just a sucker for history’s losers.”
Dr. Brack frowned. Not that she’d really been smiling in the first place. “With a subject this well known you need to find a unique angle. Some of your colleagues feel you haven’t yet refined your argument well enough to claim such an angle.”
A quiver of panic bristled in Veronica’s chest. Still, she knew better than to let this woman see her rattled. Regina Brack collected information as methodically as she collected butterflies. Any change in Veronica’s demeanor would be noted, logged, and no doubt passed on to key members of her tenure review committee.
Dr. Brack formed a steeple underneath her chin and tapped her index fingers together. Veronica once watched her make this same gesture in a seminar, right before she publicly decimated an untalented student. “You want me to be honest, right?”
Veronica’s fingers clawed the sides of her chair and she scanned her brain for something diplomatic to say. “Sure.”
“If the committee voted today, you wouldn’t make tenure.”
Veronica’s panic morphed into a shimmering wave. If she failed to make tenure, her career was over. Russian historians were like three-legged puppies, pitied but seldom adopted because the upkeep was too expensive. She imagined standing under the freeway with a sign: Will explain the dynamics of imperial Russian court politics for food.
“Can we discuss this, at least?” Veronica managed.
Dr. Brack nodded toward a sturdy duffel bag and a glass jar propped beside it. “Maybe next week. I’m headed out the door. I’m collecting specimens in the Mojave this weekend.” Her eyes momentarily brightened. “Have you ever been?”
Dr. Brack would spend the weekend tramping around the desert on her skinny little legs, trapping butterflies for her ghoulish collection. Meanwhile, Veronica would retreat to the darkest recesses of the library trying to resuscitate a career that might already be over. “I’m not much of an outdoorswoman.”
“How unfortunate.” Dr. Brack began to shut down her computer. “In the meantime, keep an eye out for job postings. That’s all I have to say about that.”
The last twelve years of her life—poof—into thin air. Veronica’s career was in shambles and not one strand of Regina Brack’s helmet of a bob had fallen out of place. Veronica slipped into a sloppy Southern accent. “And that’s all I have to say about that.”
Dr. Brack looked at Veronica like she was from outer space.
“It’s how Forrest Gump ended his stories,” Veronica explained.
“Oh. I don’t watch films like that.”
Veronica slung her bag over her shoulder and eyed Dr. Brack’s skewered butterflies for a last time. Once full of life, now useless. Veronica could relate.
“I only need access to the right materials. I’ll finish my monograph.” Even as Veronica articulated the thought, she heard the off-putting tentativeness in her voice. She felt the dull ache of tears and blinked them back, refusing to give this woman the satisfaction. “I’ll find a publisher.”
“I hope so. From what I understand, university presses aren’t as indulgent with junior scholars as they once were.” Dr. Brack gave her a prim smile.
As Veronica walked down the stairs, back to her office, the clean lines of the administrative suite gave way to disorder: vintage travel posters clumsily tacked to walls, bulletin boards overflowing with flyers for study-abroad programs, outdated political cartoons taped to office doors. For a flashing moment, the bohemian chaos of her department inspired her. She would jump-start her brain with strong coffee and lots of sugar. If she determined what to write next, a sentence even, surely the rest of the chapters would flow.
At this hint of blossoming confidence, the voices in Veronica’s head began to hiss. They had snakes for tongues, mythological beasts. You’re an academic fraud. What makes you think you can publish a book?
Veronica hummed to drown out the voices. She reached her office and fumbled for her key. When she turned it in the lock, the door gave way too easily. Veronica shared her office with an adjunct professor, but he should have left by now. She kept her hand on the knob, confused, and peered inside.
Her officemate had pinned five new pages from his graphic novel-in-progress to the back wall, zombie knight crusaders in chain mail and bloodied tunics. A man stood before the pictures, bending from the waist to examine each one.
Veronica felt her heart thump in her chest. She left the door open, in case she needed to scream for help. Clutching her bag tightly to her chest, she stepped inside. “May I help you?”
The man spun around. The curl in his lashes and the arch of his brows made his face look innocent and ironic at once. Flecks of gray speckled his dark, wavy hair. Veronica put him at six foot four, but then she was short and given to overestimating.
“Dr. Herrera? I’m sorry to startle you. A student at the front desk let me in.”
Veronica made a mental note to speak to the student first thing on Monday.
“I’m Michael Karstadt, Jessica’s friend.” He drew his right leg back and bowed to her, his left hand over his heart. Like an imperial courtier. Veronica took in the French cuffs on his shirt. A pulse of nervous energy shot from her stomach to her throat.
“Who?” she heard herself ask.
Michael quickly straightened again to his full height. He looked a little full around the waist, but his shoulders were broad and his suit tailored so cleverly it didn’t matter much. “Jessica told you I was coming, right?”
“There may have been a misunderstanding,” Veronica said carefully. She set her book bag on the chair behind her desk.
“She gave me your office number.” Michael motioned toward the numbers on the door. “She said you expected me to stop by.”
What a sneaky cousin she had. “She should have given you my office phone number,” Veronica told him. “I’m not accustomed to finding strange men in my office.” She cringed. She hadn’t meant to sound like a nineteenth-century spinster.
Michael gave a soft laugh and scratched the back of his neck. “So this is even more awkward than it should be.” He spun on his heels and wagged his finger at the pictures on the back wall. “By the way, are these yours?”
“They belong to my officemate. He’s a Medievalist. They’re all nuts.”
“If they were yours I’d need to reconsider this whole thing. You might be a serial killer.” When he looked at her, his eyes danced. “You’re not the only one who worries about these things, you know.”
Veronica tried to la
ugh, but the noise got stuck in her throat. Jess had a big mouth, all right. “I might be a serial killer regardless. You never know.”
“I’ll take that risk.” He picked up an old postcard of Alexandra Romanov from the corner of Veronica’s desk. As he looked at the picture, his expression pinched. “Tell me about your book. Why did you decide to write about the empress?”
“The empress?” The sudden reverence in his voice seemed odd. Instinctively, she took a step back and away from him. “You make it sound as though she’s still alive.”
“You evaded my question.” Now he sounded playful again, more like one of Jess’s attorney friends. “Why are you writing a book about Empress Alexandra?”
“I’ve never been a fan of happy endings.”
Michael looked at her, brows raised. “That’s it?”
Veronica glanced at the picture on the postcard. It had been taken at the height of Alexandra’s celebrated beauty. Even so, Alexandra appeared ill at ease, her back too straight and her head too primly tilted. She may have been Empress of all the Russias, but she’d never mastered the art of posing for a camera. “She always looked so stiff and awkward,” Veronica said. “I guess I can relate.”
He turned the postcard over and examined the note on the other side. “The woman who wrote this had grandchildren in Moscow. She wants them to visit her.”
“I know. I read Cyrillic. Kind of goes with the job.”
“Sorry,” he said. “There’s just something exciting about that alphabet.”
The back of Veronica’s ears tingled. She wished she hadn’t been so quick to sound like a pompous twit. She couldn’t seem to strike quite the right note around this man. “I feel the same way, actually.”
Michael set the postcard down and swung his hands behind his back. Veronica had known him for all of five minutes and had yet to see him stand still. “I know it’s early,” he said, “but maybe we can get dinner.”
She focused on his gold tie clip, glittering in the early evening light. The words sputtered forth. “Jess may have given you the wrong idea. I’m not really dating now.”
His smile collapsed.
“I’ve had a horrible day,” she added, remembering how deeply romantic rejection stung. “I wouldn’t be good company.” Her vision clouded with brown spots.
“Hey…” she heard Michael say. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes started to burn. “I’m fine.” She’d get fired. She’d return to her grandmother’s house in Bakersfield with nothing to show for twelve years in Los Angeles except a mountain of debt. She could hear Abuela already. Oh mija, what happened? You’re such a clever girl.
Veronica shuddered. Before she could say anything, Michael stepped forward. He didn’t exactly sweep her into his arms, but somehow her head pressed lightly against his chest. A pleasant scent clung to his jacket. It reminded her of sunshine on an autumn day.
Still, she wasn’t in the habit of falling into strangers’ arms. She pulled away. A little wet pool of tears stained his jacket. Humiliation complete.
Michael reached into his pocket and fumbled for something. She expected a tissue. Instead, he withdrew a monogrammed handkerchief and handed it to her.
Veronica hesitated. “Are you kidding?”
“It’s pristine.” She still didn’t take it, but he kept his arm extended. “I promise.”
She accepted the handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, avoiding the elaborately intertwined M and K on the corner of the fabric. “Do you think I’m a freak?”
“I think something’s bothering you. Maybe I can help.”
Veronica twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Can you fly me to the state archives of the Russian Federation in Moscow?”
“I don’t have a pilot’s license.” He dipped his head, so that despite the difference in their height, he seemed to look up at her. “But I collect books on the Romanovs.”
“No offense, but I doubt your home library rivals the state archives.”
“I didn’t mean to imply it did. You saw the list though, right? The one I wrote for Jess? Maybe you’re curious? Why don’t you let me take you to dinner?”
Veronica met his gaze. His eyes were hazel and far prettier than she first realized. “Will you ask me more questions about ‘the empress’?”
Michael raised his hands, palms forward. “Probably.”
“So is this dinner for business or pleasure?”
The curve of his mouth was crooked and sweet at once. She wondered if it was meant to provoke her. “I’m not sure. It might be fun to find out.”
Despite everything, Veronica had to admit going out with him held more appeal than going home and obsessing over her grim tenure prospects. The bar for the night had been set damn low.
She decided to let Michael Karstadt distract her from her problems. Not charm her or seduce her, just distract her.
* * *
Bright murals and tapestries draped the walls of Electric Lotus, the luscious scents of cumin and coriander drifting from the kitchen to the dining room. Yet the fluttering in Veronica’s stomach tempered her appetite. Michael Karstadt didn’t eat either, just pushed potatoes smothered in curry around his plate. He kept looking over his shoulder like he thought they’d been followed.
She craned her neck to look as well, but saw nothing of concern. “All clear?”
He turned back in her direction, almost startled, like he’d forgotten they were on a date. Or were they? Veronica realized she wasn’t sure.
“Why don’t you tell me more about your books,” she said. “You mentioned they belonged to your grandmother. Was she nobility? Is that why you call Alexandra ‘the empress’”—Veronica made air quotes—“and talk about her as if she’s alive?”
Michael placed his fork on his plate and smiled. She noticed a small gap between his front teeth. It lent an off-kilter charm to his features. “You get straight to the point.”
“I’m no good at small talk, or so I’ve been told.”
“Give it a try. You might acquire a taste for it. How about ‘What do you do?’”
“You’re an attorney. Jess already told me about you.”
“I’ll try, then.” He was still smiling, but his jaw tensed. “Why do you study history? Did you start by looking into your own family’s past?”
Veronica sliced into a samosa with a greater degree of intensity than the flaky pastry warranted. “Hardly. I see history as cheap time travel. I delve into other people’s problems so I don’t have to think about my own.”
“Tell me a story about a dead Russian celebrity. Peter the Great perhaps?”
She had to admit, it felt good to share space with a history geek. “When Peter first set out to westernize Russia, he invited the Muscovy boyars to dine with a group of European ambassadors. The boyars wore smelly fur coats and beards down to their knees. They slurped borscht straight from bowls. Peter was so angry he grabbed a knife and lopped their beards off.” She paused for a sip of beer. “A little Freudian, don’t you think? Not that you can blame Peter. Rude manners should be suitably punished.”
Michael’s features relaxed again. “You must love your job. What a cushy gig.”
She choked on her beer. “I’m writing a four-hundred-page book with a fifty-page bibliography. That’s your idea of a cushy gig?”
He laughed softly. “I only meant you get to study Russian history. Nicholas and Alexandra are fascinating characters. They represent the final standoff between autocratic monarchy and constitutional democracy.”
Veronica reached for a piece of fluffy naan, liking his nimble mind. Without thinking, she touched his arm. “I wish you’d talk to my dean, this battleax named Regina Brack. She doesn’t get their appeal at all.”
Michael studied Veronica, his hand on his mouth. “Your eyes take on a gold tint in this light.” He moved his hand to emphasize the point. “And your face is shaped like a heart. You’re very striking.”
Tiny goose bumps rippled across her shoulders. Veron
ica ran her fingers along the rim of her glass, her mind reeling. She needed to watch herself. She’d been burned before by semi-glamorous men.
If she refused to look at Michael, she couldn’t fall under his spell. Instead, she watched the hostess lead a couple to the table directly behind them. The girl could have passed for Angelina Jolie’s kid sister and the guy had the doe-eyed soap star look. The part of Veronica that devoured Entertainment Weekly was captivated by their effortless beauty. Another part of her resented always feeling like a hobbit in a land of lithe elves.
The guy ignored his date, talking on his phone instead. He cursed loudly, spewing misogynist nonsense that would have made the crew on Entourage blush. A mother at a nearby table scowled. Her little girl had black hair gathered into the same type of pink ponytail holder Veronica used when she was a kid. The little girl started to giggle. For some reason, this made Veronica sad. Life shouldn’t turn coarse so early.
The guy took a seat directly behind Veronica and pushed his chair back so he was practically shouting in her ear.
At least now Veronica had an excuse to change the subject of conversation. “Speaking of rude behavior,” she told Michael. “Even the Muscovy boyars couldn’t compete with this.”
Every muscle in Michael’s face tightened, like he’d bitten into something sour. “Dr. Veronica Herrera,” he said. “I’m disappointed.”
“Why?” she cried, before realizing how pathetic she sounded. She lowered her voice. “What did I do?”
“It’s what you won’t do. Most people figure the past is the past and who cares. I think you immerse yourself in another time because the present is…” Michael rolled his eyes, as though the right word might drop from the ceiling. “… disheartening. We spend our days stuck in traffic or fretting over insurance or collecting friends we hardly know on the Internet. No one can tell this guy to watch his mouth around kids?”
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 2
