Midnight in Brussels

by Rebecca Randolph Buckley

  Somehow he had gotten past her protective shield and now she was paying the price. After all these years of being wise and careful, she had fallen for the jerk’s malarkey. Handsome men have serious flaws to be wary of. This she had known for years.

  And now she had just met the most handsome man ever.

  God save me!

  “What does Valentin do? What kind of work?” she asked Anastasia.

  But before Anastasia could answer, Valentin had caught up with them.

  It was incredible how much luggage he could carry. He had two bags on one shoulder, one on another, and one in each hand. The weight alone would have flattened any other man to the ground, but his height and size made the difference.

  “Here, let me take one of those, Valentin. That’s too much for you.” Della held out her hands.

  “Thank you, no. There is the car. Please, go to the car.”

  His words, although polite, had an unmistakable finality to them. She suspected that no one ever contradicted or challenged this man. Neither would she.

  Mealtime in the Valentin Andreyev household was something to behold. The great room area situated next to the kitchen was the setting for a gigantic hand-hewn timber table with benches along each side. At each end were two gigantic armchairs that also appeared to have been handmade. The table easily sat the eighteen people that were now sitting around it. Two of Valentin’s neighbor women were serving, though they weren’t maids. They were friends who had offered to help him with the dinner he had planned for his sister.

  Anastasia sat at one end of the table, Valentin at the other. Della was sitting near Anastasia, to her right.

  As Della took in every nuance and every cheerful sound of the villagers around her, she craved more of it, didn’t want it to end. She watched Valentin connect with every person at the table over the next two hours in a clever manner. He left no one out. He was truly a wonderful host. He made her feel as if she was one of them. She was thinking that her earlier desire of disappearing in Russia was becoming stronger and stronger as she sat there soaking it all up.

  She began to wonder how she could arrange it. Where would she live? She’d need a home base. What would the legal process be? And how could she leave everything behind in the States? Her publishing company was the primary concern, only for a moment. She mentally decided she would just have to sell it, or appoint someone to run it for her. Simple.

  “Della, how do you like the Galushki?” Valentin’s voice was easy to hear over the din of conversation and broke into Della’s reverie.

  “It’s—it’s fabulous. I love it. Normally I don’t eat veal, but in this case, I’m enjoying it. Thank you.”

  “I cooked it myself,” he said as he grinned from ear to ear.

  “No! You’re kidding me.” She was taken by surprise that he had made the delicious dish. She figured one of the village women had prepared it. “Did he really make it, Anastasia?”

  “Yes, he did. He cooked most of the food we are eating. The fish Tolcheniki which are the fish balls, Nalystniki, the potato pancakes. Wait till you taste the Knydli, plum balls. Yes, he is a cook.”

  Della leaned toward her and whispered, “My God, a good cook and good-looking. There must be something wrong with him. What is it, Anastasia? Tell me.”

  They both giggled like schoolgirls and gave each other raised eyebrow glances.

  “He snores while he sleeps. That’s all I can think of,” Anastasia finally replied.

  “A set of earplugs would take care of that little problem,” Della said as she took another bite of the Galushki.

  Anastasia laughed heartily into her napkin. “For him or for the other person?”

  “The other person, of course.”

  After dinner and an assortment of pastries and desserts, the table was cleared as everybody stretched their legs outdoors on the patio where Valentin had built a fire in a rock-lined pit. Although the weather was cool, not cold, the heat felt good. It was just enough to keep the chill under control.

  Della walked around the outside of the house looking at the plants and flowers and the outbuildings. It was very homey. The houses all around were homey, with gardens and sheds. Clotheslines; she hadn’t seen clotheslines in ages. The houses were more in line with smaller tract houses in the U.S., minus the attached garages, and were spaced an acre or so apart. Chicken and pig pens were of the norm as well as vegetable gardens. Some even had goats.

  It reminded her of what she had seen in rural Oklahoma when she had visited her parents’ birthplaces the year before. They say—whoever they are—that you feel most comfortable in the surroundings of your heritage, and that you’re most likely to return to your roots in your later years. Well, her ancestors lived a long time in a rural environment, but she had no intention on returning to Oklahoma. Had even lost the accent. Now she was a New Yorker, through and through.

  “You like Russia?” Valentin startled me with his question.

  She jumped. “Oh! I didn’t see you behind me. Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Very much.” She felt nervous with him alone in front of the house, away from everyone else.

  “How long will you stay?” he asked.

  “Where? You mean in Russia? How long will I stay in Russia?”

  “Yes. That is what I mean. In Russia.” His deep voice, broad smile, and sexy eyes made her even more nervous.

  “Well, I’m not sure. I’d like to stay longer. I’d love to stay in a village like this and find out how the real people live. That’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

  “You have been to Russia before?”

  “Yes, I have. Twice. And both times the visit was too short. I’d like to go further inland and see how people live there, and maybe go to Siberia. Experience the natives, so to speak. But I have always had to get back to my work.” She gazed across the expanse of land to a train that was on its way to Moscow. I should be on that train right now.

  “You can stay here,” he offered. “I have room.”

  She jerked her gaze back to Valentin and looked into a face that clearly reflected sincerity.

  “My sister will be here a few days longer; you will be good company for her.”

  “Well, I—I don’t know.”

  “There’s enough time to decide. Come have a glass of wine. I’m opening a very special bottle; I would like to share it with you.” He reached for her arm and led her back around the house to the patio where the other guests were laughing and talking.

  Valentin left the next morning for Siberia. It was a business trip and he would be away for a week. Della agreed to stay with Anastasia. Three days later when Anastasia left for Moscow en route to her home, Della remained in Valentin’s house. Anastasia had insisted.

  Della loved being there. She didn’t want to go to Moscow. The village people were kind and she had begun to feel comfortable walking through the little settlement, stopping to talk with those who spoke in broken English. She learned a few Russian words she found on an Internet site that gave the audio pronunciation of Russian phrases. She also emailed her secretary, Terri, on Valentin’s computer to let her know what she was doing, the change in plans. Terri was thrilled and wanted to know all about Valentin. Of course Della had nothing to tell her other than what little she knew.

  She knew he was an amber dealer. He bought from amber mines and sold to jewelers. He traveled all over Russia, but mostly to the major mine in Kaliningrad, which was not far from Moscow. In fact Kaliningrad was in the most western region nearest to its European neighbors. Anastasia had said he went there more than any other place. His office was in Moscow, however. And that’s all she knew about Valentin.

  She was sad to see Anastasia leave, and promised her when she returned to Russia she would go to her town and visit her. And she invited Anastasia to the U.S. to spend time with her, said she would work it out for her. Anastasia was excited about the possibility.

  It was the perfect morning for Della to cut fresh flowers and place a bouquet on th
e center of the dining table and one on the table in front of the sofa. She opened all the windows in the house to let the cool breezes flow through.

  Then she took her cup of coffee to the porch and sat in a painted Adirondack- type wooden chair. It was a sunny April day, but the breeze was cool and nippy. Valentin was due to return home that afternoon. She hoped he wouldn’t mind that she was still there.

  She felt like a bride waiting for a groom to come home from work. She had been pretending and enjoying every minute of the imaginary relationship with anticipation. In fact she laughed out loud at herself and the fairy tale she was weaving, but it wasn’t harming anyone, she was just playing a solitary game. But she certainly was glad none of her family and friends could see her; they would think she had lost her mind.

  Valentin unexpectedly arrived at noon. He drove up the drive and stopped the car.

  Della stood up and waved at him. His look of surprise puzzled her, for she wasn’t sure if it was a pleasantly surprised look or a what-the-hell-is-she-doing-here look.

  He left the car door open and hurried to the stoop where she was standing. He stared at her for a moment and then suddenly scooped her up in his arms and hugged her tightly.

  “What a surprise that you are still here,” he said as he set her down. “I am happy to see you.”

  She pulled her shirt down and nervously straightened her collar. “I’m happy to see you, too. Anastasia said it would be alright if I stayed a few more days. I hoped you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Of course I do not mind. Excuse me; I must bring my things into the house.” He walked back toward the car.

  Della immediately tried to calm herself and willed the flush from her face and the speedy beating of her heart to subside.

  She held open the door for him as he walked through with packages and luggage—again, all hanging from him.

  He took the bags to his bedroom that was off the kitchen and great room, and then returned with a huge grin. “I have something for you.” He handed her a blue velvet box.

  She stared at it, not moving.

  “Please, it is for you. Take it.”

  She took it and opened the snap that held the lid down. It was a beautiful box, a lovely gift in itself. “Oh my goodness!” Inside was a stunning amber necklace. “This is spectacular! It’s prettier than any I’ve seen in all the jewelry stores in St. Petersburg. It’s Hermitage quality. I can’t take this from you. It’s too valuable! You must sell it to your customers.”

  “I give it to you. It is yours. Please.”

  Della couldn’t believe it. “Oh, Valentin, I love amber. In fact I have a small collection of it. But this is the grandest of all. Oh my goodness. Thank you so much.”

  She lifted the multi-strand filigree necklace with its large pendant from the case and began to open the clasp. He took it from her and placed it around her neck. Della lifted her hair and he fastened the necklace, then his huge hands rested on her shoulders.

  Her heart stopped at his touch.

  He bent down and kissed her neck.

  Goosebumps covered her entire body. She turned and looked up at him.

  Their eyes met at the same time their lips met. It was the softest, most thrilling kiss that had touched her lips in her entire life. He didn’t push further, didn’t do the tongue trick, thank god! She hated that! He just gently caressed her lips with his and then slowly leaned back.

  “You are beautiful in amber,” he whispered. “It is the same color as your hair and freckles.”

  She stepped away from him and looked into the small gild-framed mirror that was nearby on the great room wall. “It does match my hair, doesn’t it?”

  He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, clasping his hands in front. “How long will you stay with me?”

  Photo by Dennis Dillow

  Rebecca Randolph Buckley resides in Arizona with her three cats … Princie, Oreo, and Albee. She spends her spare time gardening, reading, collecting and watching classic movies – mostly romantic. She travels around the world not only for pleasure, but to find settings and character inspiration for her novels and short stories.

  www.rebeccabuckley.com

  beccabuckley@aol.com

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