Russian Gold (Russian Love Book 2)

by Holly Bargo

  They climbed back into his car. The Realtor put the car in gear and drove for a couple of minutes.

  “Wait, stop!” Cecily cried. “What about that place?”

  “What place?”

  She pointed to a large Victorian with a discreet sign posted in its small front yard: “Apartment for Rent.”

  The Realtor obliged and pulled aside. Determined to be positive, he said, “There’s a bus stop just a block away, so if the weather’s poor, you wouldn’t have to walk far.”

  They stepped onto the wide veranda and approached the green painted door with its central window of stained and leaded glass. The Realtor rang the doorbell. From deep within the house, they heard slow steps approach.

  “Yes?” inquired the elderly woman who answered.

  “Hello, ma’am,” the Realtor said and pulled out a business card to hand to her. “I’m Gordon Hanway, a Realtor here in San Antonio. My clients, Miss Cecily Carrigan and Mr. Pyotr Idaklyka, are interested in the apartment you have for rent.” He gestured toward the sign.

  “Oh? Well, come on in, then. Would you like a glass of lemonade or iced tea?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you,” Cecily replied and offered the woman a friendly smile.

  “Why aren’t you a pretty one?” the woman replied as they followed her into an old-fashioned parlor. “Have a seat, please. I’ll bring y’all something cool to drink.”

  They seated themselves. Pyotr looked around the room, noting the elaborate crown molding and baseboards and hardwood parquet floors. Their hostess returned bearing a lacquered wooden tray loaded with cut crystal tumblers filled with ice and lemonade.

  “Now tell me what brings you here,” the woman said after serving each of them a glass and taking a seat in an elegant wing chair.

  “My fiancé and I are looking for an apartment,” Cecily replied and took a sip from her sweating tumbler. “This is incredible. Did you add lavender oil to this?”

  The old woman looked both pleased and surprised. “Why, yes, I did, young lady. How clever of you to notice.” She glanced at Pyotr, who sat next to Cecily on the loveseat. “And I assume that you are the lucky young man?”

  Pyotr reached over to clasp Cecily’s left hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the back of her knuckles and replying, “Da.”

  “You ain’t from here, are you?”

  “Nyet.”

  “Pyotr’s from Ohio and I’m from Indiana,” Cecily explained. “But we really love it down here away from the cold weather.”

  The old woman frowned. That young man didn’t sound like no Yankee she’d ever heard. “I don’t hold with unwed couples living in sin.”

  “Oh, Pyotr won’t be living here right away. He has business to conclude back in Ohio,” Cecily replied. “I’m afraid it would just be me until we can get married.”

  “And t’other man there?”

  “He’s our Realtor. He’s helping us find a nice place to live, since we’re not familiar with the area.” She looked around. “This house is just gorgeous.”

  “My mama was born here and so was I and all seven of my children. I’ve lived here my whole life and ain’t never wanted to live anywhere else.”

  “That’s a fabulous history. My parents live in the same farmhouse where my dad grew up. It’s been in the family for four generations.”

  “Family history’s good. It anchors you.”

  “That’s true”

  “You have family, boy?”

  “Nyet. I am an orphan,” Pyotr answered succinctly.

  “You’re a Ruskie, ain’t you?” The old woman smiled, as though proud to have finally identified the source of his accent.

  “I am a citizen of the United States,” he retorted with quiet pride.

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” their hostess chided with an impatient wave of her withered hand. “My daddy’s parents came from Scotland and one of my mama’s parents hailed from Mexico. I ain’t got nothin’ against immigrants.”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “Well, I’s suppose you want to tour the apartment to let.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We would, please.”

  The old woman struggled to rise from the chair. Pyotr dashed forward and offered her his broad hand. She clasped it and smile at him as he gently drew her to her feet.

  “Be nice to have a big, strong man around,” she said. “You two oughta get married right quick.”

  “As soon as we can manage it,” Pyotr promised.

  “Y’all can call me Mrs. Macdougal. My husband was a Scotsman, too. Big, brawny man with hair red as a campfire,” she reminisced as she walked slowly to a wide staircase. “He’d come here to work on my pappy’s ranch. It was love at first sight.”

  Cecily sighed along with the old woman, the two of them enjoying the faded romance. Mrs. Macdougal waved her hand at the staircase. “If I accept y’all, you get the whole second story. I can’t walk stairs anymore. Go on up and look about.”

  Gordon thanked her and the three of them walked up the grand staircase which opened into a wide hallway papered in faded paisley print. A window at the end of the hallway let in the morning sunshine to brighten the space.

  They walked, opening doors to reveal three large bedrooms with no closets; a small kitchen with an electric range, full sized refrigerator, and double sink; two full bathrooms, each with an old-fashioned claw-footed tub; and, a cozy fourth room which had been outfitted as a sewing room.

  “This would make a great home office,” Gordon suggested.

  At the end of the hallway was a second staircase that led down to the house’s rear entrance. The rooms, though well appointed, featured outdated wallpaper and smelled musty from disuse. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams streaming through the windows. The bare hardwood floors occasionally creaked.

  “This is perfect,” Cecily gushed. “There’s so much character here. It’s homey.”

  “I doubt it’s up to code,” the Realtor hedged, looking at the yellowed light switch on the wall.

  “I don’t care. This is a place that feels like a home. Besides, it can’t be that hard to get internet service here. We’re still in the city.”

  “Well, it is a mature neighborhood that hasn’t deteriorated yet,” Gordon admitted thoughtfully. “Let’s find out what the monthly rental is.”

  “You’ll need new furniture,” Pyotr said.

  “I still have some money in my savings account.” Cecily didn’t mention how little remained, not wanting to admit that her long hours in Javier’s restaurant weren’t making ends meet.

  He shrugged. If his Cecily would be happy here, then here she would stay. He cared only that she was safe and content. He’d lived in worse places, much worse.

  They returned to the first floor where their hostess waited patiently. “What do you think?”

  “How much are you asking for rent?”

  The old woman named a rate and added a security deposit. “My younger daughter said I have to get a security deposit. That rate includes electricity and water so long as you don’t take undue advantage.”

  “She’s a smart woman,” the Realtor complimented. He looked at Cecily and gave her a slight nod of recommendation.

  “We accept,” Pyotr said, seeing Cecily’s expression brighten.

  “Well, that’s right nice. Let’s head to the kitchen. I’ve got all the papers there. My daughter insisted I keep them ready.”

  They followed her to the kitchen.

  “Oh, wow, what a marvelous space,” Cecily enthused as they entered the bright, airy, and spacious room embellished with miles of countertops and enough cabinets to suit any three families. A bow window over the sink looked out over a back patio. “Oh, the meals this kitchen inspires!”

  “You like to cook, Cecily?”

  “I’m a chef,” she replied with simple pride.

  “Well, ain’t that somethin’? I’ll have to see what you can do with the family recipes. My eyes ain’t so good anymore, so it
would be a treat if you could make something for me every now and then.”

  “I would be pleased to cook for you at least once a week.”

  “Well, ain’t you a sweet girl?” She looked at Pyotr and said, “Don’t let this one get away from you, young man. You marry her right quick. My mama always said that a woman who’s a good cook…” Her voice faded and her expression twisted in bewilderment. “Now, what was I saying?”

  “You were extolling the qualities of a good cook,” Cecily reminded her, keeping her tone gentle and even.

  “Ah, that’s right. My pappy always said a good cook was a man’s best treasure.”

  “Da. He was right. Cecily is my only treasure.”

  Cecily blushed and the old woman smiled, then she looked puzzled again. “Why are we here?”

  “You were bringing out the lease papers for the apartment to rent upstairs,” Gordon reminded her with a touch of impatience.

  “I was? Well, I suppose you must be right. My Caroline complains that I get a little absentminded now and again. She may have a point.”

  She handed Gordon a manila folder containing a sheaf of papers. He quickly read through them, then said in a low voice to Pyotr, “Her daughter Caroline has power of attorney. Mrs. Macdougal can’t sign the contract.”

  “Mrs. Macdougal, do you mind if we call Caroline? I want her to be assured that we’re not taking advantage of you,” Cecily said.

  “Why, yes, let’s call Caroline. Such a dear girl, always looking out for me.”

  “Her business card is in the folder,” Gordon said and quickly pulled out his cell phone to dial the phone number. After three rings, the call was answered.

  “Hello, may I speak to Caroline Zenk?”

  A receptionist put Gordon on hold for a moment, then transferred him.

  “This is Caro Zenk. How may I help you?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Zenk,” the conversation began and then proceeded with introductions and the purpose of the call.

  “I’ll be right over. Give me twenty minutes.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Zenk.”

  Twenty minutes later, a Mercedes pulled up to the house and a smartly dressed, middle aged woman entered the house. She looked over the strangers standing in her mother’s house.

  “Hello, Caroline. What are you doing here today? You don’t usually visit until Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Hello, Mama. These nice people want to rent the upstairs apartment and I need to make sure they’re not taking advantage of you.”

  “Well, that’s awfully nice of you, but where are your manners, girl?”

  The woman sighed and turned around to politely offer her hand and introduce herself: “I’m Caro Zenk, attorney.” Her sharp eyes took in the signs of fighting on Pyotr’s hands and the ink that protruded from beneath his shirt cuffs.

  Her voice was cold as she said, “I don’t rent to ex-cons.”

  “I have no prison record. You may check,” Pyotr replied just as coldly.

  “Then where did those tats come from?”

  “Russian military service.”

  She raised an eyebrow. He steadily returned her gaze. He refused to whip off his shirt to display the Bratva ink recording his career.

  “Really?”

  “Da.”

  She turned her gimlet gaze to Cecily. “And what about you?”

  Bristling from the woman’s offensive suspicion, Cecily raised her chin and said, “I’m a chef.”

  “Oh, really? Where do you work?”

  “El Buey Azul.”

  “That dive? That’s hardly the venue for a chef.”

  “Really, Caroline, there’s no reason to be insulting,” the old woman chided, her voice quavering when before it had been sure. “That nice young lady has promised to cook the family recipes for me.”

  Attorney Caroline Zenk narrowed her eyes and said, “Oh, you’d like to steal those family recipes, wouldn’t you?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t steal.”

  “Now, Caroline, you’re being worse than a damned Yankee. I like this girl and her young man has been nothing but courteous.” Mrs. Macdougal’s voice was again sure and her gaze sharp. “They’re getting married soon and every young couple needs a little help. Be a little generous.”

  “Mama, they’ll take advantage of you. He’s a thug. Look at his tattoos.”

  “Have you paid your debt to society, young man?”

  Pyotr didn’t fall into that trap. “I have no prison record, Gospozha Macdougal. There is no ‘debt to society’ to pay. I work as a chauffeur.”

  “You look like a thug.”

  He shrugged and let his accent thicken. “I was boxer as young man. Is how I come to America.”

  “Oh my, a former pugilist. How excitin’,” Mrs. Macdougal exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Why I remember once going to see young Cassius Clay. That was before he became Mohamed Ali. It was quite the event, having a black man in the tournament.”

  “Mama, this is not Mohamed Ali.”

  “I know that, Caro.” Mrs. Macdougal’s voice turned tart. “Young Mr. Clay was Black. I can tell the difference. Now, you sign that agreement. I like these young people.”

  “Mama—”

  “Caroline, you may hold power of attorney, but I am still your mother.”

  The attorney glared at Pyotr and Cecily. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you. Anything that looks odd—anything at all—and I’ll have you arrested so fast it’ll make the Roadrunner look pokey.”

  Pyotr’s puzzled expression clearly showed that he didn’t get the reference; however, Cecily did. She sought to reassure the attorney. “I’m not here to take advantage of anyone, Mrs. Zenk. It’s just this is a much safer neighborhood than where I’ve been living. I think your mama’s fantastic. It’ll be like living with my own grandma and getting to take care of her.”

  Caroline’s nostrils flared.

  “Caroline, I will not tolerate your disobedience.”

  With poor grace, she scrawled her signature on all three copies of the rental contract and shoved them toward Pyotr. He signed them, the signature clear and bold. Without a word, he turned the papers for Cecily to sign. She did so with a flourish and handed them back to Caroline.

  “I have my eye on you,” the woman warned in an undertone.

  “Now that’s settled,” Mrs. Macdougal said. “When will you move in?”

  “I’m working late tonight, but I can start moving in my things tomorrow morning, if that’s okay?” Cecily answered.

  “I will take care of moving,” Pyotr stated calmly.

  “Pyotr—”

  “Do you really think—”

  Pyotr overrode both women’s objections letting his accent thicken again. He flexed a little, the hard muscles beneath his shirt straining the cloth covering them. “Am strong. I bring furniture.”

  “Oh, my,” Mrs. Macdougal said with an admiring little flutter of her hands. “It will be nice to have a big, strong man about the house again.”

  Caroline’s upper lip curled in a silent snarl of contempt.

  The old woman looked back at Cecily. “You marry him right quick, girl. Don’t let that virile hunk of man go to waste.” Her eyes took on a naughty twinkle and she whispered just a little too loudly, “I’ll bet he’s hung like one of my grand pappy’s horses.”

  “No... er... yes, ma’am,” Cecily replied, failing to keep a straight face. She sighed and glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear! I’m going to be late for work.”

  “Spasibo, Gospozha Macdougal,” Pyotr said. “We must leave now, but we will see you tomorrow.”

  The two new renters and the Realtor left. Pyotr pulled out his wallet and handed Gordon several one hundred dollar bills.

  “Spasibo. You’ve been most helpful. Will you take her to work for me while I finish our business?”

  Gordon marveled at the commission he had been paid on a rental property that he had not even found and nodded. “Of course, Mr. Idaklyka. I’m happy to help you both.
”

  Pyotr nodded and gave the man a hard look. Gordon gulped and thought that just because his one-day client had no prison record didn’t mean he wasn’t a violent criminal.

  “Be sure she arrives safely,” Pyotr said.

  “Of course, sir. Er... do you need a ride as well?”

  “I will call taxi.”

  “All righty, then.” He turned to Cecily who was waving back at her new landlady. “Miss Carrigan, are you ready to go?”

  She turned around to look at him, her gaze questioning.

  “I’m to take you to the restaurant. Mr. Idaklyka said he would call a cab. He has some errands to run.”

  She nodded.

  “Thank you, Pyotr,” she whispered and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. He bent down, grasping her upper arms and met her mouth with his. Gordon Hanway gaped at the passion in that inappropriate kiss, then remembered his manners and averted his eyes. He wondered if he’d ever kissed his wife like that and thought he hadn’t. Then he wondered what his wife would do if he did.

  She’d probably smack him.

  Chapter 8

  “You’re late,” Javier said as Cecily walked into the kitchen.

  “I know, Javier. I’m sorry.”

  “Punctuality is important, Cecily.”

  She turned a mutinous expression toward him and said, enunciating every syllable, “I apologize for being late. It shouldn’t happen again.”

  “You mean it will not happen again.”

  “Things come up, Javier. Life’s not always neat and tidy. I cannot promise never to be late again.”

  He harrumphed and gestured to the kitchen boy, her assistant. “Salvador, get started on the soup. It must simmer for a long time before it is ready to serve.”

  “Sí, Señor de la Vieda,” the young man replied.

  “Thanks, Sal,” Cecily said as she tied on her apron and covered her hair with a bandana. “Javier, what did you decide will be today’s special?”

  “Huitlacoche, corn, and squash blossom crepes with poblano sauce,” her boss answered, eyes glittering with unholy glee.

  “Do we even have squash blossoms?” she asked.

  “We got them in just this morning.”

  “Dandy,” she muttered, disturbed by that development. She’d never cooked squash blossoms before. “What the hell is huitlacoche?”