Richard had already ordered trays of appetizers that were on the cocktail table before them. “Please help yourselves to the food. I think I over-ordered, so we’re happy to have two more mouths to feed. What would you like to drink, Maxim?”
“I’ll have champagne with the lady, if you don’t mind. You are having champagne, Rachel?”
“Absolutely! Always champagne on New Year’s Eve.” She chuckled. “And any other time.”
They all laughed.
“So tell me, why is a handsome man like you alone on a night like this?” Frenchie asked in a flirty, tipsy manner.
Paula gave her an amused startled look. It wasn’t like Frenchie to flirt in front of Lance.
Richard chuckled as he leaned back and put his arm around Amanda. It wasn’t very often one would see Frenchie inebriated. But it was okay, it was New Year’s Eve.
Maxim smiled. “Thank you, madam, for the compliment. As for being alone tonight, that isn’t the case.” He looked at Rachel. “You see, I am with this lovely woman who shares my sentiment of a magical evening. It seems we both have similar promises to keep – she to her beloved father, I to my deceased wife.”
Renewed excitement rose all around. The man is single!
Amanda quickly added, “Well, we’re tickled pink as we can be that you’re here with us, Maxim. If you don’t mind me saying so, Rachel, this is meant to be. I ain’t never seen you this happy. Oh dear. There I went and did it again. Rachel’s been helping me talk better English. Sometimes I remember, sometimes I don’t.”
Richard laughed. “Darling, you don’t have to worry about how you talk. I love you no matter what or how you say it.” He gently squeezed her shoulder, pulled her closer to him and planted a sweet kiss on her lips.
“He is right, Amanda,” Maxim said. “You are charming and delightful.”
“You should listen to these two handsome men,” Rachel said as she avoided Maxim’s pale blue eyes that were looking at her almost every second.
He reached for her hand, which forced her to look at him, and he lifted it to his lips while speaking softly, “I am so happy I met you tonight. It was a prayer answered.”
Rachel gazed into his eyes and whispered as softly, “I believe two prayers were answered.”
C O M I N G S O O N
“Midnight in Moscow”
The fourth novel in the continuing saga of Rachel O’Neill as she travels from city to city on New Year’s Eves, becoming entangled in the lives of the people she encounters. In Midnight in Moscow she meets Della Doheny, Anastasia and her brother Valentin Andreyev (Maxim Balanchine’s niece and nephew).
Excerpt
Della Doheny reminisced as she watched the villages shoot by in a blur. Here she was, on the train from St. Petersburg to Moscow, having the same break-away, run-away feelings as she usually did on holiday trips. She was fantasizing about hopping off the train to live with the Russians. She was thinking she could learn their language and could happily become another poor peasant in the Russian countryside.
She was tired of the complicated, congested life she’d been leading in New York, and wanted to cut all ties from her projects, friends and family. She felt she desperately needed a break, maybe a permanent one. As usual she’d managed to overload herself with commitments and deadlines and her mind and body ached under the weight of it all. It wasn’t easy being a publisher in the Manhattan rat race.
Her assistant had insisted she take a vacation, knowing how much she loved Russia. Della was obsessed with the Russian culture and history. So here she was, in Russia once again.
It took a few months to make the arrangements through the Russian Consulate and to obtain letters from the hotels that she’d booked in St. Petersburg and Moscow. It wasn’t as easy to go to Russia as it was for foreigners to visit the United States.
And now after spending a two weeks in St. Petersburg she was on her way to Moscow. Since leaving the U.S., she hadn’t thought about book deals and deadlines, marketing strategies, or hectic schedules at all. She was able to switch off that part of her brain easily enough. She was thinking maybe for good. Over the past couple of years her interest in publishing had waned. It didn’t have the kick she felt in the beginning years. Now it was more of a burden than anything else. In fact she was having thoughts of fazing herself out of the business.
She hadn’t thought about Kaman either. He could go to hell for all she cared.
Her immediate attention was drawn to the woman in the red and white polka-dotted dress sitting in front of her.
The woman stopped the waiter. “I would like a glass of champagne, please.”
“I am sorry, madam, champagne is by the bottle, not by the glass.”
The woman looked disappointed. “Thank you, a cup of coffee.”
As she stood up, Della glanced at the other woman across the aisle. Their eyes met and they smiled at each other.
Then Della followed the server to the next car while thinking of the woman in the polka dots, who had been sitting for quite a while in the crowded train station in St. Petersburg before boarding. She stood out because of the large red hat she was wearing and the dress. White, scuffed high heels and a white handbag topped off the attention-getting outfit, so unusual for women of Russia to be wearing.
Della noticed that she seemed to be a bit wilted, as if she’d been traveling for a couple of days. Della could tell she was feeling self-conscious and conspicuous in her attire so different from the rest of the passengers.
She reminded Della of Leslie Caron in the film Lili, although an older version of Caron of course, stouter, but with the same pixie haircut and those same endearing features and big brown eyes. She could smell her flowery perfume throughout the car. It had a hint of citrus in its aroma, too. It was a welcoming scent and camouflaged the otherwise musty, mildewy smells of the passenger car.
In the forward car where the waiter was turning in orders, Della caught up with him and asked for a bottle of champagne and two glasses, told him that she wanted to share it with the woman in the red hat.
His eyes sparkled and he seemed happy to accommodate her. He seemed to reflect her thoughts that the woman either couldn’t afford a bottle of champagne, or she didn’t want to drink more than one glass.
“That is very nice of you to do,” he said. “I will bring it to you.” He watched the American woman in the black tunic and leotards return to her seat.
The train was slowing down at a village station where the usual matchbox houses dotted the landscape. Many of the houses were side by side along the tracks, others were scattered back across the flat land, with a bit of acreage between them. Then to her delight, a huge lake appeared beyond the dwellings. It stretched for miles it seemed, unexpectedly beautiful. Now tall trees were bordering the railway, blocking the view in spots, but what she could see was wonderful and inviting.
Yes, I could live a simple life here, she was thinking as she leaned her head back and watched the changing landscape through the window.
Although every house was different from its neighbor, they all seemed to be about the same size with assorted trim and made of different materials. From the train they looked like little decorated boxes when in reality they probably were about thirty by thirty feet square, or may have been larger, it was difficult to tell at the time. She wanted to see the inside of one of them, and she wondered if the woman in the red hat was from one of the villages. Maybe she was on her way home from a visit to St. Petersburg.
One thing she noticed about the working people in St. Pete: they wore monochromatic colors. Nothing bright. Della’s shoulder-length black hair and matching clothing fit right into the general female Russian populace, as well as her stature, for most females were short and stout. For the most part they were fashionable, but they didn’t wear colorful garments. Definitely not red hats and red & white polka dot dresses. So she was curious about this woman on the train.
The waiter brought the champagne and set one glass in front of De
lla and one in front of the woman across the aisle. He spoke in Russian to the woman and nodded toward Della.
Della smiled at her and lifted her empty glass as their eyes met. She motioned for the woman to come join her at her table.
“Thank you very much,” the Leslie Caron look-alike said with a thick English-Russian accent.
“You’re quite welcome,” Della replied. “Do you live in one of these villages?”
The waiter poured the champagne into their glasses.
“In a village, yes.”
“You speak good English.” Della lifted her glass and the woman did the same.
“Za vashe zdorovye!” the Russian said.
“Cheers!” Della replied, figuring she’d just given a Russian toast.
“You are English?” she asked.
“American.”
“I would love to live in America.”
“I guess we all want what we don’t have.” Della said with a smile.
The woman took a sip of her champagne. “I was in Paris to see my sister.”
Della raised a brow that disappeared up under her straight bangs. “No kidding?”
“You are going to Moscow, no?”
“Yes. But I’d rather spend time in one of these villages instead of Moscow. I’ve seen St. Petersburg and Moscow.”
“We are a poor people. Not as it appears in Petersburg.”
Della nodded. “I figured that. I walked back away from the usual touristy areas – the city façade. It reminded me of Mexico when I was in Puerto Vallarta and went two blocks off the beaten track. Poverty-stricken. Same as in St. Petersburg.”
The woman nodded. “Yes, it is like that in all of Russia.”
“But it’s getting better, right? You’re able to come and go freely and can afford to do that?”
“Well, it took me five years to save enough money to visit my sister in Paris. But yes, some things are better. Yes.” The woman sipped her champagne.
Della could see the sadness in her eyes as she had attempted to convince Della that life was better than it used to be in Russia. But Della knew what the average wages were; she had talked to several people in St. Petersburg about it. It leads the Ukraine and Afghanistan though, with around $220 per person per month. The monthly wage is barely $25 in Afghanistan. So she knew already what the woman probably made a month, at the most, and being from a small village, unless she worked in a factory near or in the city, she probably made even less. Maybe she didn’t work at all, she thought. Maybe her husband brought home the bacon.
And here Della had been thinking that she could finally wear her full-length white mink coat in the winter if she lived here. Now she was thinking that it probably wouldn’t be gracious to wear it in one of these small poor villages. No, no mink coat. Anyway, the activists were crusading to get all the Russian women to shed their fur coats for man-made fur, same as in the States. Years of being the fur capital of the world was now on the brink of change in Russia.
Della wondered what this woman would do with the $20,000 she had spent on her mink. Of course that was a few years ago. Who knows what it would cost now? She loved Julie Christie and the fur coats in Doctor Zhivago, but her fascination of Russia went back long before Zhivago. She’d read most of what Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy wrote. Ingrid Bergman in Anastasia was superb. Chekov’s stories were fascinating. So she’d been drawn to Russia and everything about Russia for quite some time.
“What is your name?” she asked the woman.
“Anastasia.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
Anastasia looked at Della curiously, wondering why she questioned her.
“I mean, well, I’m thinking of the Czar Nicholas and Caterina. Their daughter Anastasia—”
“Oh yes. A fable. Yes.”
“You don’t think she escaped?”
She shook her head. “No. She was executed with her family.”
Della sighed. “Oh dear. I prefer to believe she lived.”
Anastasia smiled, probably thinking, crazy, gullible American. She took a sip of champagne and then asked, “What is your name?”
“Della. Della Doheny. I’m Irish. Or rather my grandparents were, and my parents. So I guess that makes me Irish, although I was born in the U.S.” She took another sip of the bubbly. “Where do you live?”
“In a small village south of Rybinsk. You know Rybinsk? A beautiful city. I will take a train from Moscow to go up to Rybinsk. My brother lives in the next village, I’m going to visit him before I go home.”
“So you have a sister in Paris and a brother near Moscow. Nice places to visit, yes?”
“Paris is nice,” she said quietly. She began sipping her drink again, not commenting on Moscow. She looked out of the window, her thoughts seeming to drift elsewhere.
Maybe it was the Russian way, but Anastasia offered no more information than what was asked.
“Does your brother have a big family?” Della asked.
“No, he is not married.”
Della poured more champagne for both of them. “He is younger than you?”
“He is my oldest brother,” Anastasia elaborated. “He never married.”
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“Four sisters, two brothers. My youngest brother lives in Switzerland and my youngest sister is in Paris. The rest are still here in Russia.”
Anastasia seemed to loosen up a little and went on to tell Della about her family, how her mother and father had been killed when terrorists blew up a bus in the Ukraine, how her husband had been killed in the war in Afghanistan, and how she was glad she didn’t have children. She told about her oldest brother and how he took care of the family and had a lucrative business in Moscow.
Della liked Anastasia. She was a sweet person and showed no animosity or anger over life’s obstacles that had been thrown her way. She was a seamstress in her small village, did piecework for a sewing factory in Rybinsk. She had designed the dress she was wearing and had been to Paris to show her designs to the owner of the retail designer shop her sister was managing. She said she felt that the meeting had been successful, and although no deals had been made, she felt sure that something would come of it. Della hoped so.
Anastasia’s tenacity and positive outlook were amazing. Traveling all that way to Paris by train had to have been utterly exhausting, and here she was as cheerful as one could be. Della had to hand it to her; she didn’t know that she would have been as cheerful after such a long train trip.
“Would you care to join us for a meal before you go on to Moscow?” Anastasia asked Della. “My brother is preparing the food and I am certain there will be enough. Other village people will be there to welcome me.”
Della’s eyes widened. “Do you think that would be alright? I mean, I wouldn’t want to intrude on your private time with your brother.”
“I am sure he will be pleased if you come.”
“Oh, this is so exciting! You have no idea. Thank you so much. A real Russian village?”
Anastasia laughed. “Yes, a real Russian village. Like the one we passed a few moments ago.”
Della stepped off the train and reached back for her bags that were sitting near the door. Another passenger beat her to them and lifted them down to the platform with ease.
“Thank you so much,” she said as the other passenger stepped back on the train and got his own bags.
One thing Della had noticed was that the people in Russia were polite and helpful, especially in the train stations.
She turned to see Anastasia hugging one of the most handsome, tall, dark, rugged men she’d ever seen in her life.
Good God! That is her brother? Della felt like she had stood there forever, staring at the man with her mouth hanging open. Finally, they came towards her.
“Della, this is my brother, Valentin.”
“Hello,” was Della’s whispery reply. It was difficult to talk. She was tongue-tied.
“I am most happy t
o meet you,” he said in a deep, pleasant voice. “Anastasia tells me you are to stay for the meal to welcome her.” His eyes were ebony and sexy and his smile revealed teeth that were perfect and gleaming.
“I hope I am not inconveniencing you,” Della managed to sputter.
“Of course not, you are most welcome. Come, I will take your bags. Go with Anastasia.”
Anastasia took Della’s arm and led her toward the opposite platform where the car was parked beyond.
“You didn’t tell me your brother is so gorgeous. I’m embarrassed at my blushing and my tongue hanging out when I saw him.”
She laughed. “Everyone reacts that way when they first see my brother.”
“I can’t imagine why he has never married. He looks like a Marlborough model.”
“Marlborough?”
“Cigarettes, The guy with tons of sex appeal that is usually sitting on a horse in the ads. American cigarette advertisements. Maybe you don’t get them over here.”
“Oh, I see. Well, Valentin has not met a woman he wants to marry, and he is such a busy man. You call it workaholic, yes?”
“Yes,” Della chuckled, remembering that was what her everyone called her—a workaholic. She hadn’t married either. And the most recent attempt at a relationship had been disastrous. She had allowed a younger man to worm his way into her life, right into her house, even, and after several times telling him to literally “get out” he still hadn’t left. She’d been staying in Manhattan in her townhouse while he was entrenched in her country home.
Before she left on the trip, her assistant said she would handle it and would make sure he was out of there before Della returned. So that’s where she left it. As it had turned out, Kaman was a con man from the get-go. A suave, good-looking Latin playboy with a hell of a phony story, and she had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.
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