"We've never done anything else," he said with a shrug.
"Because you've always seen your father as the hero and me as the villain. That's not the way it was."
"Mother, it's over. It was over a lifetime ago. I've moved on."
She shook her head. "If you've truly moved on, leave the negatives here."
"I can't do that."
She gave him a searching look. "Why do you care about that photo?"
He debated for a second, not wanting to confide in his mother, but he had to give her some explanation, so he said, "I want to know more about that girl."
"After all these years? Why now? Has something happened?"
"No, nothing has happened," he lied, preferring not to get into the subject of Julia. "I've always wondered whether that photo was cropped, if something important was left out of it when it was published in the magazine."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why on earth would you wonder that?"
"I'm curious, and I have some time before my next assignment."
"I don't believe you, Alex." Her eyes turned reflective. "You know something you're not telling me. Your father knew something about that picture, too. He was so upset when it was published. The night before he died, he stopped by here to give me a check, and I could see that he was afraid of something." She took a breath. "I've never said this to you, Alex, but I'm not sure that car crash was really an accident."
Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He had to force some air into his chest so he could breathe. "What? What are you saying?"
She gazed straight into his eyes and said, "I think someone deliberately ran your father's car off that road."
* * *
His mother's words were still ringing through Alex's mind when he entered his apartment an hour later. His father's car hadn't been deliberately run off the road. The car crash was an accident. It had been raining. The roads were slick. The other car was simply going too fast when it sideswiped his father's car. His father lost control and drove off the edge of a cliff into the Pacific Ocean. That's what everyone had said and what he'd reminded his mother of a short while ago. But as he stared at the box now resting on his coffee table, he saw his father's face the day before his death, the fear in his eyes when he'd made Alex promise never to tell anyone about that photo or that girl. Were the two events somehow tied together?
They'd never recovered his father's body. The currents were too strong. He'd been swept out to sea.
Was that true... or a convenient explanation to cover up something more sinister?
His mother had no proof of her suspicions. She said she'd mentioned her doubts to Stan, and Stan had told her that the police report was clear that it was an accident.
They'd never found the other driver. There had been no witnesses.
Dammit. He hated all the doubts suddenly racing through his mind. Why had she brought it up now, after all these years? Just to throw him off? To create a mystery where there wasn't one? To make her widowhood even more dramatic? To get a bigger book deal?
His phone rang, and he reached for it, hoping it wasn't his mother calling him back with another bombshell. "Hello?"
"Alex, it's Julia. I found something in my mother's belongings. I want to show it to you."
"Where are you?"
"I'm at work right now. Can you meet me at my apartment in a half hour? It's in North Beach, 271 Lexington, Apartment 2C."
"What did you find?"
"I don't want to get into it over the phone, and I just have a minute before I have to go back on the air."
"On the air?" he echoed.
"I host a radio show on KCLM 86.5. I've got to run. I'll see you soon."
Julia was a disc jockey, Alex thought as he hung up the phone. That surprised him. He walked over to his stereo and turned on the radio, just in time to hear her beautiful, sexy voice.
* * *
"You're listening to 'World Journeys with Julia,' " Julia said into the microphone. "Next up is Paolo Menendez, who brings us a delicious blend of reggae, calypso, and Caribbean rhythms from Cartagena on the Caribbean Coast." Julia flipped off the microphone and pushed the button on the computer to start the next set of songs.
She sat back in her chair, staring at the matryoshka doll. Since she'd discovered it in her mother's belongings, she'd been racking her brain trying to remember where it had come from. She remembered holding on to it really tightly, and for some odd reason she had the vague feeling that someone had tried to take it away from her and she'd started crying. She hadn't stopped until the person had given it back. Unfortunately, that person was just a dark shadow in her mind. It must have been her mother. It couldn't have been anyone else.
As she was putting the doll into her large brown leather handbag, the door to the control room opened, and Tracy Evanston walked into the room. A twenty-six-year-old African-American woman with dreadlocks and a nose ring, Tracy hosted the three-to-five show featuring the best of jazz music.
"Hey," Tracy said. "I love this guy you have on now. Any chance we could get him to perform at the concert?"
"He wasn't available," Julia replied. "Believe me, I tried." It had been her job to book musicians for a special charity concert the station was sponsoring in the fall, and she'd been fortunate enough to get a good list of talent. They were hoping to raise enough money to fund music programs in the local schools, one of her pet projects.
"Too bad," Tracy replied. She tossed her keys down on the desk and picked up the schedule. "You are working too many hours, Julia. How are you going to do all this work and plan a wedding?"
Julia inwardly sighed at the mention of her wedding. "I don't know yet. I'll work it out."
"Why don't you take some time off? I'll happily take over some of your work. My little sis is off to college next year, and I want to help her if I can. So keep that in mind if you need to take off a few days. I can use the extra money."
"I will."
Tracy suddenly straightened, glancing out the glass window that led into the production room. "Oh, my. Who is that nice piece of work?" she asked.
"His name is Alex Manning," Julia replied, feeling unsettled by Alex's sudden appearance. She'd told him to meet her at her apartment, not here where she worked. She didn't want to bring up her past in front of Tracy, who wouldn't be shy about asking a lot of questions that Julia didn't want to answer.
"And how do you know him?" Tracy asked with a mischievous smile. "Is he the reason you've been stalling Michael on setting a wedding date?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I just met him yesterday."
"Well, he is fine. Don't tell me you haven't noticed."
Of course she'd noticed. But she wasn't interested in him on any sort of personal level, which meant her palms should not be sweating and there shouldn't be a shiver running down her spine, but there was, especially when Alex tapped on the window and smiled at her. She was definitely attracted. A normal response, she told herself. As Tracy had said, Alex was a good-looking man. Maybe she was just noticing because she was engaged, and she wasn't supposed to want anyone else.
What was she thinking? She did not want him. He was just the means to an end, a person to help in her search. That was it.
"Julia, ten seconds," Tracy said, motioning toward the microphone.
"Oh, right." She flicked on the microphone, watching the computer screen in front of her count down the seconds. "You've been listening to 'World Journeys with Julia.' Join me again tomorrow from one to three when we'll take a musical tour through the Congo. Next up is jazz specialist Kenny Johnson." She punched the button to play the string of commercials that separated their segments. "Have a good show," she said to Tracy as she stood up.
"You have a good—whatever," Tracy said with a sly smile. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"That leaves me a lot of options."
"Just remember you're not married yet. You can still change your mind."
"That won't happen." Julia picked up her bag and walked into t
he production room where Alex was waiting. "You were supposed to meet me at my apartment."
"I thought I'd check out where you work. I didn't picture you as a DJ," he added with a smile, "but you sound good on the radio. You have a great voice."
"Thanks." She wasn't surprised he didn't see her as a disc jockey. Most people thought DJs were wacky people, which might be true for some, but not all, especially not at KCLM, which played a wide variety of music. "I'm also a producer for some of our other shows. We're a small station. Everyone wears more than one hat." She waved her hand toward the massive collection of CDs in the room. "I'm a music fanatic, in case you were wondering."
"Then it sounds like you have the right job."
"It's perfect for me. Do you like music?"
"I play a little guitar," he admitted. "When I'm home, which isn't often. What about you?"
"I play the piano, the drums, and a little saxophone. I'm pretty much mediocre at them all," she said candidly. "I would have been a musician if I'd had any talent. Instead I play other people's masterpieces."
He grinned. "The next best thing."
"Exactly."
"I enjoyed hearing Paolo Menendez," Alex added. "I saw him perform in Cartagena. He played an acoustic guitar solo that was out of this world."
"You saw him play?" she echoed, feeling extremely envious. "It must have been amazing. I would kill to hear him in person, but he never travels to America."
"Maybe you should go to Cartagena."
"That's a thought," she replied, but she knew it was impossible. There was no way she'd ever get Michael to Cartagena.
"Does your fiancé share your passion for music?" Alex asked curiously.
She shook her head. "Not really. Michael likes pop and rock, but he listens mostly to sports radio. Anyway, I wanted to show you this." She reached into her handbag and pulled out the matryoshka doll.
"It's a Russian nesting doll. I found it in my mother's things. It's my doll. I remembered that as soon as I saw it."
She watched for his reaction, but Alex didn't give anything away. Instead he took the doll from her hand and studied the design.
"There are smaller dolls inside," she added.
He set the doll on the desk and took it apart, one piece after the other.
"What do you think?" she asked.
"I don't know. It's just a doll."
"It's a Russian doll."
"I bet they sell them here in the United States."
His pragmatic answer disappointed her. "Don't you think it's rather telling that I would have a Russian doll?" she persisted.
"Maybe, but it doesn't prove anything. The doll isn't in the photo. And there aren't any marks that identify this doll as being made in Russia."
"Look at the swans. They're just like the swan on the necklace."
"I saw that. Did you notice that there are dolls missing?" he asked her.
She sent him a blank look. "What do you mean?"
"The first two fit together perfectly, but there are gaps between the others. You have five dolls. I'm guessing that there were more."
"I can't imagine where they would be. I went through everything that belonged to my mother. This is all I came up with." She perched on the edge of the desk. "Damn, I thought I was onto something."
"You still might be," he conceded. "We can research this doll, see what we can find out. There might be some way to trace where it came from."
"That sounds like a good idea."
"I've been known to have a few."
"Where do we start? The Internet? I have a computer at home. We can go there."
"Why don't we get something to eat first?" he suggested. "I haven't had time to shop for food. Besides, we can kill two birds with one stone. There's a Russian deli near my apartment. The owner came over from Russia about ten years ago. Maybe she can tell us something about your doll."
"Another good idea," she said with a grin. "I'm impressed."
"I'm just getting started, Julia."
The smile on his face and the sparkle in his light green eyes took her breath away. Her body tingled and her heart began to race. She forced herself to look away, focusing on putting the doll back together and regaining her composure. She didn't know why Alex was having such an effect on her, but whatever the reason she had to get over it—and fast. She was engaged. She was committed. She was supposed to be in love.
"Ready?" Alex asked.
She nodded, still avoiding his gaze. As he headed for the door, she looked through the glass, catching Tracy's eye. The other woman gave her a thumbs-up sign. Julia wanted to tell Tracy it wasn't like that, that she wasn't interested in Alex, but she was afraid that would be a lie.
* * *
Dasha's Deli was located in the heart of the Haight, where parking was scarce, so they decided to leave their cars at Alex's apartment. The short walk to the deli took them past tattoo parlors, funky art galleries, jewelry stores and shops touting sixties souvenirs, flower children T-shirts, black lights, and beads. "This is a great neighborhood," she said to Alex as they stopped at a traffic light. "Have you lived here long?"
"About six years."
She sent him a sideways glance. Even though he'd cleaned up his act from the day before, his face was still bruised, his dark hair a little too long, his jeans faded, and his T-shirt a bit wrinkled. He was definitely not a nine-to-five business executive or a corporate worker bee. He was a photojournalist who roamed the world, a free spirit. No wonder he'd chosen to live here when he was in town. "This neighborhood fits you," she said.
He nodded in agreement. "It does. Freedom to be different is a luxury in many corners of the world. It's nice to be reminded that it still exists here in San Francisco."
The somber note in his voice reminded her that he'd probably seen some horrific sights in his travels. "Is it hard? Photographing how the rest of the world lives?"
"Sometimes."
"But you love it?"
"Most days I do. Lately, I don't know..." His voice dropped away. "Hey, we're here."
Julia was disappointed to see the deli sign. She wanted to hear what Alex had been about to say. "What do you mean, lately?" she prodded.
"It's a long story, and I'm hungry."
"Will you tell me the story while we eat?"
"Probably not," he said candidly. "It would kill your appetite."
"Alex. You can't start something and not finish it."
"We're here to solve the story of your life, not mine," he reminded her. "Let's keep our focus." He opened the door and waved her inside. "After you."
As Julia entered the restaurant, the delicious smells of fresh breads and cakes assailed her. The bakery counter was immediately to her left, the deli counter on the other side of the room, a crush of small tables in the middle. It was a little late for lunch, but there was still a good crowd, so they took a number and waited. As they did so, Julia searched her brain for some sense of familiarity with the Russian smells. They warmed her heart, made her mouth water, but was that just because they were so tantalizing or because she remembered them?
A short, round woman in her fifties with dark brown hair, black eyes, and a nurturing smile called their number, then greeted Alex by name when they stepped up to the counter.
"You have been a stranger," she said with a heavy accent. "Where have you been?"
"All over the world," he replied. "I brought a friend with me today. Julia, this is Dasha." Julia smiled and said hello as Alex went on to explain. "Julia has a Russian doll that she found in her mother's things. We're hoping, if you have a few minutes, you might talk to us about it."
"Of course," Dasha said. "I would be happy to look at your doll. But first you will eat. What do you like?"
"I'm not really sure," Julia said. "It all looks wonderful."
"Then we will give you a sampling. When you come back, you will order your favorites."
"That sounds perfect."
Dasha filled several plates with a variety of foods.
Julia couldn't imagine how they would get through it all. They sat down at a small table against the wall and unloaded their trays. "This is too much," Julia complained. "I'll never eat it all."
"That's what I said the first time, but I was wrong." Alex tipped his head toward the bowl of soup by her elbow. "Try the borscht first," he suggested. "It's the best."
Julia looked down in fascination at the deep purple soup, topped with a dollop of sour cream. "What's in it?" she asked.
"Cabbage, leeks, potatoes, and beets. That's what gives it the purple color."
She took a heaping spoonful, murmuring with appreciation at the delicious taste. "It's good. Hot and hearty."
"You're not a picky eater, are you, Julia?"
"Not at all. I love to try new food. You?"
"I'd starve otherwise. Where I go the food choices can be very exotic."
"What's the worst thing you've ever eaten?"
Alex thought for a moment. "A wormlike bug in the Amazon. They fry 'em up like French fries, but they still taste like worms."
"Why did you eat it?"
"I was hungry," he said with a laugh. "And I didn't want to offend my host. I was hoping to get his permission to take some photographs, so I ate what he ate."
She admired his determination. "Are there some lines you won't cross to get your shot?"
"Not that I can think of. It's my job to get the picture no one else can get. If that means eating worms, I eat worms." He pointed toward her plate. "Try the cabbage rolls next. They're stuffed with beef. Delicious. No worms, I promise," he added with a grin that was incredibly appealing—irresistible, in fact.
She found herself smiling back and thinking what an interesting man he was and how different from Michael. Alex was worldly, adventurous, and probably a little reckless, or a lot reckless. But she wasn't here to analyze him; she was here to get answers about her doll. Since Dasha still had a line of customers, Julia dug into her cabbage rolls, then a tomato and cucumber salad followed by piroshki, pastry puffs filled with chicken. When she pushed her plate away, she was completely stuffed. "I'm never eating again," she said.
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