Charlotte moved faster, trying to shake the guilt. She would help Kshesinskaya. But first, she needed to find a safe place for Laurent to stay. Juggling him to one side, Charlotte thrust her hand in her pocket. She shook a few coins from her handbag and offered them to the attendant.
Once she stood on the deserted station platform, catching her breath, holding her son, Charlotte realized how isolated she’d become. She didn’t have enough money for a hotel. She didn’t know where to sell the diamonds. All of her friends, save Kshesinskaya, who insisted she had enough of fleeing soldiers for one lifetime, had left the city long ago. Paris was no longer the dream world she’d entered, as a starry-eyed provincial girl, twenty years earlier.
Kshesinskaya had said to go to her parents. She said they would explain. Explain what? Her words made no sense. But Charlotte realized now how much she ached to hear her father’s gruff voice and the endless barking of his retrievers, how desperately she wanted to draw in the crisp scent of clean country air. Most of all, she wanted her mother’s arms around her. She wanted to feel protected and safe. She wanted someone to help her keep Laurent safe.
The Nazis had established checkpoints all around the city. To leave, she needed help. Who else would be stubborn enough to stay in Paris? Only one person came to mind.
A horn blasted. A gust of gassy exhaust fumes assaulted them as a train rumbled into the station and then ground to a halt. Through the gray film of dust on the window, she caught a glimpse of the passengers: a man with broken glasses bent over a newspaper and a woman in an old housedress clutching a small, shivering dog.
She couldn’t become like these people, hunched and scared, trying not to be noticed. She would take Laurent to her parents’ house, just as Kshesinskaya had said to. She only needed somewhere to stay for a night or two, to strategize how to get past the Germans’ checkpoints.
The train’s doors slid open before them. Charlotte saw no other choice. She needed to find her husband.
Three
LOS ANGELES
PRESENT DAY
MICHAEL KARSTADT (1969–)
Heir Apparent
Veronica set the binder down on the desk, staring at Michael’s name. Earlier this week, she’d stated her goal in dating: don’t get killed by a serial killer. Sure, Michael wasn’t hiding any bodies in his closet, but she took a step back and away from him nevertheless. Why hadn’t he wanted her to see his family tree?
Michael drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk, not quite in time to Ian Curtis’s brooding baritone, still blasting in all its analog glory from the stereo upstairs. She felt flustered. Whenever she felt flustered, she had one defense. Sarcasm. “So what’s the proper protocol here? Should I fall down on one knee, Tsar Mikhail?”
He choked on a laugh. It emboldened her. “Why didn’t you want me to see this?”
“You caught me off guard. I wasn’t planning to mention it.”
“You invited a Russian history professor into your home,” she said. “Somehow I think you wanted to slip this little detail into the conversation.”
“Look, it’s not a big deal.”
“This says you’re a grand duke and heir to the largest country on earth.”
“According to that family tree, I’m not a grand duke, only a prince.”
“Only a prince. How modest.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I only keep these records because they’re important to my mother. They were extremely important to my grandmother. That’s why they’re important to me.”
His voice faltered. Veronica didn’t know what did it, the note of sadness when he spoke of his grandmother or the gentleness with which he passed his hand over his mouth. But she suddenly found it difficult to summon any more flip remarks.
Veronica tried to view Michael through new eyes. She saw no resemblance to the last tsar, Alexandra’s adored but incompetent husband Nicky. Still, Michael didn’t claim to be a direct descendant of Nicholas II, but of the nineteenth-century Iron Tsar, Nicholas I. Michael fit that genetic template well enough. Even his behavior earlier at Electric Lotus was a sort of contemporary noblesse oblige. “If this is accurate, your claim to the Romanov throne is strong,” she said. “Have you thought about this at least?”
He dipped his head so it seemed he was looking up at her. His shoulders moved back. She still found it hard not to look at his shoulders. “Thought about what?”
“You know.” She extended her hands and mimed placing a crown on his head.
“It’s difficult to claim a nonexistent throne,” Michael said. “Besides, laws of succession are never foolproof, as I’m sure you know. If a rogue nation launched a nuclear attack on the United States, and the president, vice president, and speaker of the house didn’t make it to the bunker, what would we do?”
“The president pro tempore of the Senate assumes the presidency,” Veronica said, “and then the secretary of state, and then—”
“Okay. I get the idea.” Michael smiled. “The Romanov chain of command is far less organized, as I’m sure you know. And that’s assuming the dynasty will ever be restored, which is a long shot at best.”
“You have a two-fold claim and a sentimental link to Nicholas and Alexandra.” Veronica tapped the genealogical chart. “Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich? Your great-great-grandfather? He married one of Nicholas II’s sisters. You’re the great-grandnephew of the tsar.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Michael said. “Russians shouldn’t restore the monarchy.”
“You think too much like an American. You assume monarchies are anti-democratic. I’ve read quite a bit on this topic. Monarchies can be progressive and help construct a common cultural landscape.”
“Cultural landscape? You think too much like an academic.”
She did think like an academic. How could she help it? Her brain was trained to doubt and question. She closed the binder and stroked the embossed double eagle on the cover. “Did you figure I’d help you prove your claim?” She tried to sound nonchalant, but caught herself babbling. “Keep in mind I’m an untenured history professor. No one pays any attention to me except my students. Scratch that. No one pays any attention to me, especially my students.”
“You’re the one who started snooping around my office.”
“Some coincidence, though. The Romanov heir happens to meet my cousin who happens to mention I’m writing a book on Alexandra.”
“Jessica said she’d thought we’d get along. She said you were lonely.”
Michael clamped his lips shut. Veronica’s heart sank. Maybe he wasn’t a con artist or a predator or anything of the sort. Just a nice guy. Too nice. Somehow, that was even worse. “So you felt sorry for me.”
“I don’t agree to meet women out of pity, thank you. I have more respect for everyone’s time, including my own. I agree to meet women who sound interesting.” He placed his hand on hers. Every one of Veronica’s nerve endings rose to immediate, thrilled attention. “Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with being lonely,” he added. “Not that you are lonely.”
“Tell me the truth,” she said. “That’s all I ask. Do you want something from me? Do you want me to help you somehow? I won’t hold it against you.”
Michael turned her palms over. Veronica sucked in a quick breath and looked away, worried about her ragged nails and short, clumsy fingers. He brushed his lips across the inside of her wrist and she shivered. His mouth inclined to her ear, not quite touching it. She felt the soft rush of his breath on her neck.
“You’re gorgeous, smart, funny, and your skin feels like silk.” He touched her cheek with his nose. “That’s why I want to spend time with you.”
He kissed her cheeks and then kissed her softly on the lips. A lock of Veronica’s hair fell forward, tickling the bridge of her nose. He pushed it out of the way and stroked the back of her ear. “Do you believe me?”
She nodded, spinning with desire. He leaned in to kiss her again, but the clacking of claws against the hardwood
floor distracted him. The furry chow poked her nose in the room, panting in their general direction.
“Impeccable timing, Ariel.” Michael’s arms remained around Veronica’s waist.
What was she doing? Veronica pulled away, smoothing out her skirt and blouse. Her lips were tingling and she was convinced he had noticed somehow.
“I should get going,” she told him. “I have a pile of essays to grade. I can see the rest of your books on the Romanovs next time.” Her cheeks warmed. “If you want there to be a next time. I mean, that’s up to you.”
“Is tomorrow too soon?”
Ariel’s big wet nose nudged Veronica’s leg. Veronica ruffled the silky fur on the back of the dog’s neck and the chow gave a low grunt of appreciation, absurdly content.
“I’d like to take you to dinner, but we should do something else as well,” he said. “I know you’re into alt rock, but how about swing? Have you ever tried swing dancing?”
“Swing dancing?” she said. “You’re on the cutting edge of 1996.”
“Cutting edge of 1946, actually. I’d like to take a lesson. What do you think?”
He took her hand in his and started a few impromptu steps. Veronica had to admit, he twisted his body around with a certain bulky grace. Few men, at least in her admittedly limited experience, let themselves look so vulnerable in front of a woman.
“I should have known,” she said. “All the Romanovs loved to dance. Unfortunately, I’m no Romanov.”
Michael’s grin buckled and his grip on her hand loosened abruptly. Veronica stepped back, sudden cold washing over her. She had a flashback to her fiancé dropping her hand. It always seemed like he let go first, like he couldn’t wait to get away from her. She tried to imagine letting her aching humpty dumpty of a heart free again. If it fell this time it would shatter beyond repair.
But she couldn’t be the only one taking a risk. You couldn’t get to a certain age without having the humpty dumpty pulled on your heart a time or two. Michael must have been hurt before. Perhaps he was wary of starting over as well, of risking getting hurt again.
“You’re serious about all this?” she asked tentatively.
Michael ran his hand back through his hair. “Veronica, I like you. I want to get to know you better.”
“I meant the genealogy,” she said. “You really believe you’re the heir?”
He bent down to scratch Ariel’s ears. Veronica decided to drop the subject, at least for now. She knew better than to try to talk him into making a play for the Russian throne, at least not this evening.
* * *
When the phone rang, lingering images from Veronica’s dreams fluttered away like butterflies. Bright North Hollywood sunshine seeped through the blinds, illuminating a crack in the ceiling her landlord assured her would be fixed one of these days. She groaned and pressed the pillow to her ears.
At last, the answering machine picked up. “Not out of bed yet, mija?”
Her grandmother’s dramatic voice roused Veronica to full, guilty attention. She grabbed the phone and cradled the receiver between her shoulder and ear. “Hello?”
“You sound sleepy.” It came out as an accusation.
Veronica adjusted her body on the mattress. “It’s Saturday.”
“I didn’t hear from you this week. I started to worry. How is your writing? We’re all wondering when we’ll see your book.”
Veronica felt the first pangs of a headache. Abuela took credit for Veronica’s Ph.D. and her special interest in history. History books filled the house while Veronica was growing up, and Abuela took her to the library whenever she asked. Abuela had been especially supportive when Veronica decided to focus on Russian history, and always encouraged her, even when she didn’t understand the mechanisms of academic life.
So Veronica knew it was a shame to dampen her grandmother’s enthusiasm. But she didn’t want to give her false hope either, not after her latest conversation with Regina Brack. “I don’t think my monograph will hit the shelves anytime soon.” She remembered the neat squares on Michael’s family tree and smiled. “You never know, though,” she added. “There might be renewed interest in the Romanovs.”
“That’s the spirit!” Abuela gushed. “Why don’t you come home this weekend so we can chat? We’ll get dinner tonight. I’ll invite your cousin Nina and her family.”
The prospect of a visit home ran through Veronica’s head like a bad sitcom. They’d pile into someone’s SUV and head for Applebee’s. Maybe Chili’s if Abuela felt wild. Thank God she had an excuse to skip this weekend. “I can’t. I made plans.”
“Plans?” Her grandmother stretched the word to three syllables.
Veronica didn’t respond. That was all Abuela needed.
“You met a man.”
She imagined her grandmother on the other end of the line, tapping her neatly manicured nails against the yellow paint on the kitchen table. Veronica waited.
“I hope this man appreciates your accomplishments,” Abuela said at last. “You inherited your mind from your mother. She would have finished school except—”
She got pregnant with you and that ended that. Now her grandmother would regale her with stories of Veronica’s white father and his numerous failings. In the extended version of the story, Veronica should beware of all men. Why did a smart girl like her need a man anyway? She could lead an independent life, a life of the mind. Such opportunities weren’t available to women in Abuela’s day.
But dinner and dancing with Michael Karstadt hardly jeopardized her scholarly agenda. Veronica was capable of screwing that up all on her own. “I’ll be careful.”
“I’d like to see you happy,” Abuela said, “but I’d hate to see you hurt again. After what happened with your fiancé, I worry.”
Veronica rubbed her bare left ring finger, silently imploring God. Don’t let her bring him up. I can’t handle it now. Not when this was the first morning she’d managed to wake up and not miss the warmth of him next to her in bed. She glanced at the alarm clock on her dresser, calculating how much more time she needed to devote to this conversation before she might gracefully bring it to a close.
“You’ll come home in three weeks though,” her grandmother purred. “Nina’s daughter is having her quinceañera. Then we’ll sit down and talk. I miss that.”
“I’ll be at the quinceañera.” Veronica hoped to end the discussion on a high note.
“This is an important year,” Abuela said. “Your tenure review is in January, right? You won’t let this man distract you from your work?”
Little red spots swarmed in her mind. She didn’t have enough votes for tenure. Her research was a joke. She should start to look for other jobs. Veronica squeezed her eyes shut, trying to generate more pleasant thoughts. She remembered the way she had to quicken her steps to keep pace with Michael. Last night, she’d dreamt of riding a golden barge down the Neva River, crowds of happy Russians lining the banks, waving imperial flags emblazoned with the double-headed eagle in their direction.
Veronica opened her eyes and leaned across the bed. She reached for the laptop she kept at the bottom of her nightstand. A side research project couldn’t make matters worse. Maybe it would be just the thing to kick her into action. “Don’t worry,” she told her grandmother. “Actually, I feel newly inspired. Let me tell you what I found out about his family.”
* * *
A light from the ceiling played on Michael’s hair, bringing out the gray highlights. It worked for him somehow. He had taken her to a Cuban restaurant on Hyperion Boulevard before the promised swing dancing lesson. He’d also ditched the tailored suit she’d admired the night before, though he still looked plenty dashing in jeans, an olive green shirt that complemented his hazel eyes, and a dark blazer. She sensed he was the kind of guy who wouldn’t dream of stepping out of the house without a blazer. “Why the Mona Lisa smile?” he asked.
Veronica nudged the grapes nestled on the bottom of her glass of sangria with a straw.
“I conducted a little research today.”
“A-ha!” He tried to sound lighthearted, but she heard a tremor in his voice. “And what did you discover?”
Veronica released her grip on the straw, pushed the sangria away, and folded her hands before her on the table. She looked Michael squarely in the eye. “Are you affiliated with any neo-monarchist clubs?”
Michael poked his fork into a small bowl filled with fried plantains. “Clubs for the nobility? Filled with sad old men? No way. Those are strictly for right-wing nut jobs. Why?”
“I’m curious. That’s all. I shot out an e-mail or two, just to ask questions.” Veronica felt her bottom lip twitch and tried to steady it. “Some of the clubs have questionable political views, but not all of them lack substance. After all, the Russian government reinstated the Zemsky Sobor. The Assembly of the Nobility. Legislators!”
Michael hunched forward. “I know. I went to Saint Petersburg last Christmas for a family reunion. My mother still keeps in touch with relatives there…”
As Michael spoke, a flourish of horns and maracas blasted over the speakers. The music made Veronica think of Havana in the fifties, before Fidel Castro. Men in Panama hats and women in slinky dresses enjoying decadent lives before Communism’s proverbial hammer swung down. Just like tsarist Russia. For a moment, Veronica was back in the Russian dream world of ornate palaces and complicated love affairs.
“… and believe me, no one is listening to any Zemsky Sobor.” Michael’s pragmatic tone shook Veronica out of the dream. “The fall of the monarchy is a sad fairy tale, but that’s all. Russia is a capitalist oligarchy now. It’s not a very romantic form of governance, but as long as more people get a piece of the financial pie, it will remain.”
“This is Russia’s gilded age, I get that,” she said. “Still, there’s also something to be said for salvaging national honor. That’s why many Russians support restoration.”
“God, your eyes are gorgeous. Have I mentioned you can see flecks of gold in them in the right light?”
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 5
