“Can’t you just call your parents?”
“Someone might be listening on the line. Besides, I want to see my parents. Kshesinskaya was clear. She said to go to them and they would explain everything.”
Luc lit his cigarette. The rich, musky scent of it caught her off guard. With tobacco strictly rationed, most people used foul and verdant substitutes, rolling dried grasses and herbs. Luc had an actual cigarette. Charlotte pointed an accusing finger at the box. “Where did you get those?”
“A friend.”
Charlotte’s mind raced through the possibilities. Luc was no collaborator. He must have purchased the cigarettes on the black market. The back of her neck bristled. “You’re a smuggler. Or at least you know someone who is?”
Luc didn’t answer. He glanced nervously at the front door, as though he expected soldiers to barge in at any moment and arrest them.
“You were a journalist,” she said. “You knew so many people.”
She saw the anger flare once more, but this time it wasn’t directed at her. “The Germans shut down the paper. That doesn’t mean my professional life is over.”
“You are a journalist,” she amended. “You still have connections, I’m sure. Think about it, Luc. You must know someone who can help get the right papers, fake an identification pass. Then I can get past the checkpoint. You can help us leave Paris.”
“It’s hardly that simple. I can’t clap my hands and it’s done.”
“Luc, I need you. Laurent needs you.”
He looked her in the eye. That had never been easy for him. He’d grown accustomed to maintaining a distance and didn’t talk easily about his emotions. Now, the pain was right on the surface, so tangible it hurt Charlotte to look at him. Despite the wreck of their marriage, she never doubted his love for his son. In a strange way, she never doubted his love for her. Even now.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said at last. “But I can’t make any promises.”
Five
BAKERSFIELD, CALIFORNIA
PRESENT DAY
“This is our coming-of-age party.” Veronica raised her voice above the blaring pop music and flurry of chitchat around them and tried a sip of her margarita. It tasted sickly sweet, but then this was a party for a fifteen-year-old girl. Someone had thrown a bone to spinster cousins like herself, who needed alcohol to make it through nights with her family. At least the margarita did the trick and helped steady her nerves. Michael had insisted he was game, but somehow she doubted a quinceañera was his first choice for a Saturday night date. And in a rented church hall in Bakersfield no less.
Veronica glanced at her cousin Inez on the other side of the hall, resplendent in a white satin gown, tiara, and pink lip gloss, surrounded by a giggling entourage in matching lavender dresses. They floated from table to table while a smiling videographer recorded every move. “I know it looks like a wedding, but Inez gets to wear that pretty dress without the trouble of a groom.”
“The groom’s more of an afterthought anyway, right?” Michael shifted Jessica’s new baby to his other arm. Jess had cornered them earlier and practically thrust the baby into his arms. Michael wiggled his finger. Carlos gurgled approvingly, a sliver of drool running from his chin.
Jess glowed with the pride of new motherhood and successful matchmaking.
“He looks good with a baby,” she gushed. “Don’t you think so, Veronica?”
Of course Michael looked good with a baby. What man didn’t? Veronica hardly needed further convincing. Michael had removed his jacket and she kept eying his shoulders, imagining what his arms looked like underneath the shirt.
“He likes you.” Jess put her hand on Michael’s arm. “And he doesn’t like just anybody.”
Jess was happily married and a knee-jerk flirt. Still, Veronica eyed her hand.
“Why don’t you take Carlos for a while, Veronica?” Jess chirped.
“No thanks.”
“Come on. You won’t drop him.”
“I think I’m coming down with something.”
Jess rattled the hand sanitizer she made everyone use before they held Carlos.
Michael turned to Jess, smiling mischievously. His smile reminded Veronica of the pictures of satyrs in the big book of mythology Abuela gave her on her eighth birthday. An uh-oh rang automatically in her head, along with the sound of her grandmother’s voice. Watch yourself.
“Did Veronica have a quinceañera?” Michael asked.
“Of course,” Jess said. “She let her grandmother talk her into wearing a hideous dress. It made her look like a fluffy white bird. We teased her all night.”
Michael grinned. “I bet you looked stunning,” he told Veronica.
“I was fifteen. And it was hardly my scene.”
“Understatement!” Jess cried. “You wore glasses the size of bread plates and a retainer. Don’t you remember?”
Veronica fiddled uncomfortably with one of the favors on the table, a purple butterfly made from tulle. Not that she felt particularly traumatized by the memory of her quinceañera. Her long white satin gloves were itchy, she needed help to get her dress undone to go to the bathroom, and she’d flubbed one of the lines in her speech. But Abuela had dabbed tears from her eyes with a handkerchief and beamed proudly. Veronica had no regrets.
No, it was the other memories that haunted her now, the same ones that returned whenever she visited family. Memories of long summer days, time alone in the library, prettier cousins, and her reputation as the smart, but weird one. As long as she remained in Los Angeles, she was Abuela’s precocious granddaughter the professor. Back home, she reverted once again to poor, strange little Veronica.
“I’ve always had a fetish for glasses and braces,” Michael added. “That Jan Brady thing.”
He squeezed Veronica’s hand. Guilt simmered in her chest. Once again, he was being adorable. He was making her happy. How long had it been since she’d actually felt happy? And here she was keeping a secret. She kept intending to tell him about the letter from Alexei Romanov and the Romanov Guardsmen, Keepers of the Russian Throne, but then he said something funny or cute and she didn’t want to ruin the moment.
Carlos whimpered ominously.
“I think he’s wet.” Michael passed him back to Jess, who splayed a hand on her chest and gave a motherly sigh of concern.
“I’d better take care of this.” Jess gathered her son in her arms and patted his back. “The two of you should come and visit Carlos and me and Antonio sometime though. We could all get dinner.”
“You’ll tell Michael more stories about me?” Veronica asked.
“Come on. It will be fun.”
Despite the teasing, Veronica liked Jess better than her other cousins. Even as adults, most of them barely spoke to Veronica, like it had been hammered into them not to distress the so-called genius of the family. Jess wasn’t so easily intimidated. “I’ll give you a call soon,” Veronica promised.
When Jess left, Michael glanced at his trousers.
“Did he get you?” she asked.
“Nothing an expensive dry cleaning bill won’t take care of.” Michael reached into his pocket and withdrew his handkerchief. He began to scrub his leg.
“Sorry about that. You can’t say I didn’t warn you, though.”
The music stopped and then abruptly switched tempo. After Inez’s mariachi serenade, the deejay had catered to the musical choices of fifteen-year-old girls. Strictly Radio Disney. But now Veronica heard the thrilling opening notes of “Shadowplay.”
Michael stopped scrubbing his leg and turned to her, smiling.
“Wait a minute.” She pointed a finger at him. “They must take requests. You requested Joy Division for me.”
“So let’s dance.”
This wasn’t everyone’s idea of danceable music. Still, Veronica imagined sweeping across the room hand in hand with Michael as her cousins appraised her, eyebrows arched. She was about to take his hand in hers and show him off when she spotted a ro
und figure in a pale pink dress moving with surprising speed toward their table. Veronica felt her smile collapse.
Michael scanned the room, suddenly on red alert. “What? What did you see?”
“Mija. I’m so glad you came.”
Abuela swept Veronica into a tight hug, smelling of fresh lipstick and face powder. She’d arranged her black hair in a puffy French twist bedecked with her favorite pearls. At family occasions, Abuela liked to fashion herself like an aging Broadway star, not quite ready to bow gracefully off the stage.
Michael rose to his feet to greet her. Abuela offered her hand. “I’m Ginger Herrera. I thought I should meet the man my granddaughter’s presently seeing. She may be a professor, but I still get to keep tabs on her.”
Veronica pressed her lips into an impenetrable seal.
“I’m Michael Karstadt.” He gave one of his courtly bows and they all sat down. So far so good.
“Veronica told me about your family,” Abuela said. “Intriguing coincidence.” She raised her eyebrows and threw her arms up in the air with dramatic flair. “The heir to the Russian throne meets a Russian history expert.”
Veronica bent over her margarita, avoiding her grandmother’s eyes. “She mentioned that to you?” she heard Michael say.
“How could she not? Didn’t Veronica tell you? I like to take credit for her interest in Russian history because I left an old copy of Nicholas and Alexandra out one night. I have a predilection for family dramas myself.”
Veronica peeked at Michael. He looked scared, but then that was a normal reaction to Abuela. “Anything intriguing in your family history?” he asked.
“Every family is intriguing. No Aztec princesses though, if that’s what you want to know.” Abuela brushed against Michael’s arm. Really, was there any member of her family who wasn’t planning to flirt with her date tonight? “Although, according to legend, one of my aunts dated Leon Trotsky when he lived in Mexico.”
“I bet she made Frida Kahlo jealous. Didn’t Trotsky run around with her crowd for a while?”
Abuela laughed. “Maybe women in our family lose our heads over Russian men. What is it you do for a living, Mr. Karstadt?”
“I’m an immigration attorney. Many of my clients are Russian families in West Hollywood, since I speak the language.”
Abuela cast a sly smile in Veronica’s direction, like a secretary privy to the boss’s secret bank account. She’d worked as a paralegal for years and found the law a far more stable profession than the one Veronica had chosen. Veronica felt the familiar sting. After she left home for graduate school, her grandmother couldn’t wait to turn her old bedroom into a sewing room. But she tried to preserve Veronica’s personality and their relationship just as it had been when Veronica was sixteen and in danger of instant impregnation by any guy who talked sweetly to her.
“I’m sorry if I sound old-fashioned.” Abuela patted Michael’s arm. “It’s a wonderful act, the bowing and all, what with your imperial status. It’s a fantastic story.” She raised her chin to Michael and narrowed her eyes. “Fantastical perhaps?”
Abuela loved to throw around words she’d heard Veronica use a time or two, to mixed results. It was never a good sign.
“I understand why my granddaughter finds it all so attractive,” Abuela continued. “It’s just that I’ve learned to see through that type of thing.”
Michael rubbed the back of his neck. Veronica saw the hurt in his eyes. Her grandmother’s thoughtless words had hit a mark somewhere. Anger rose in her throat. “Don’t talk to him that way.”
“He’s an attorney. I’m sure he’s heard worse.”
“It’s the way you said it. You’ve just met him and you start off by insulting him? We drove a long way for this.”
“Well, I’m sorry if you were inconvenienced.” A familiar strain of martyrdom blunted her grandmother’s inflections.
Before she moved to Los Angeles, there had been no awkwardness between Veronica and her grandmother. They went shopping together. They watched movies and telenovelas at night. As she earned her doctorate, Veronica’s world had grown larger and somehow Abuela had been left behind. But surely that hadn’t all been Veronica’s fault. “When’s the last time you drove down to see me?”
Michael grasped Veronica’s upper arm. He stood and gently pulled her out of her seat. “I see someone I know. Let’s say hello.”
“Who would you know here?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.”
“It’s all right. I need to move on myself. Good luck claiming the Russian throne. I’m sure you’ll keep my granddaughter enchanted.” Abuela took a napkin and handed it to Veronica. “Wipe your chin, mija. You hit the margarita too fast.”
Veronica watched as Abuela floated to another table, unfazed. Without thinking, she dabbed at her chin. “You don’t know anyone here,” she told Michael.
“I needed to get you out of your grandmother’s face before one of you said something you’d regret. By the way, I don’t see anything on your chin.”
She sank back down and put her forehead in her hands. “Shadowplay” had ended and the awful pop music resumed. Veronica sensed the impending headache, the red spots. “Leave if you want. I won’t make you deal with my family anymore.”
Michael laughed softly. “They’re not so bad.”
“Not so bad? Did you catch any of that?”
“All right, your grandmother’s not exactly taken with me.”
“She’s trying to protect me, I suppose,” Veronica said.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
His good humor was contagious. “She’s never had the greatest taste in men,” Veronica said. “In fact she hates most of them.”
Michael’s foot tapped the floor. He looked all around the room. Always it seemed he had his eye out for something. “She raised you? What happened to your parents?”
Veronica began to tear the napkin in her hands. “My mother contracted meningitis and died when I was two. My grandmother calls it the Virgin’s miracle I didn’t get sick.”
“I’m sorry. Do you remember your mother?”
“I don’t know.” Inez and her attendants neared their table. Hopefully, they’d get to them in time to distract Michael from this line of questioning.
“What about your father?”
The remains of the napkin fell to pieces in Veronica’s lap. “He was older than my mom. She studied abroad for a year and he was one of her professors. I don’t think they knew each other that well. I don’t care. We managed fine without him.”
“Sometimes it’s not much better when your father’s around,” Michael offered. “My father’s idea of discipline was grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me until my brain felt like jelly. He never even bothered to say what I did wrong.”
Veronica was shocked. Michael seemed so well-adjusted. “I’m sorry.”
“He was older too,” Michael told her, “and a traditional man.”
He said nothing more. Veronica remained silent, looking at him. He met her gaze and smiled. A touch of color brightened his cheeks. “What?”
“I love it that you help immigrants. Maybe you’re secretly Batman, too.”
“I’m glad you see there’s more to me than my family tree.”
“You just seem a man of many parts, all of them intriguing. Anything else I should know?”
Michael passed his hand over his mouth. “I was married before.”
Veronica smoothed her skirt. Why should this upset her? Why should it bother her to think he once looked at someone else the way he looked at her now? “Any kids?”
“When it got to that point, it was already over. I found Ariel at a rescue shelter and decided a dog was right for me instead.” He ducked his head. “It’s been several years. I gave myself the time I needed to recover.”
“It’s your business.”
“Trust me,” he said.
Veronica wanted to trust him. Desperately. But she still felt like an i
nvisible hand was pushing her beneath the surface of the ocean. She could stare up and see the sun shining. Then she thought of how badly she’d reacted to her failed engagement, the wasted days in bed, choking on her own tears. She felt herself fall back in the ocean, water filling her lungs, and she was suffocating once more.
Alexei Romanov’s warnings floated in her head as well, his accusations that Michael was a “notorious pretender.” She would tell Michael about Alexei Romanov. But not here. Not in front of her family.
“My past is more in the past than yours,” he said. “That’s all.”
She pressed his lips gently with her fingertip. He told her he’d fallen off monkey bars when he was little, splitting his bottom lip, and that accounted for the slight swelling.
“I’m not perfect,” he said. “But I would never break anyone’s heart. I couldn’t live with myself. Trust me.”
“I’ll try,” she said softly. “Believe me, I’m trying.”
* * *
On Monday morning, Veronica received another message from Alexei Romanov. It arrived in her department e-mail account, along with a deluge of messages from students griping about poor grades on the first essays. Judging from their tone, Veronica didn’t think her next crop of evaluations would exactly help her tenure chances.
Veronica sighed, letting the complaints fade into the background like white noise, and clicked on the message from Alexei Romanov.
Dear Dr. Herrera,
First of all, thank you for your prompt response. With regret, I must inform you I am not authorized to make either electronic or hard copies of the files on the Empress. These documents are highly classified and deal with the underexplored period of her life between the birth of the child martyrs Anastasia and Tsarevich Alexei. Nevertheless, I hope you will accept the invitation to visit our archives. I would be honored to provide for your airfare and accommodations, as I am anxious to hear your scholarly evaluation of these materials.
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 8