by Megan Hart
“Yeah, yeah.” He nodded, focused on his phone, but he did give her a glance. “Meeting a . . . friend.”
“I see.” Theresa watched the server set the check on the table, midway between them, but she didn’t reach for it. Picking up the tab or even offering to pay her part of it had been a long-ingrained habit, but she’d also had her share of business meetings in which she’d allowed herself to be treated.
And dates, too.
Ilya hadn’t reached for the check at once, but when he slipped his phone into his pocket, he noticed the small faux-leather binder with the receipt sticking up. His eyes met hers for almost the first time the entire night as he took it and flipped it open to scan the numbers. “I got this.”
Yes, you do, Theresa thought somewhat coldly, forcing a distance she didn’t really feel but wanted to. He must’ve seen something in her expression, because Ilya frowned as he pulled out a wad of cash and tucked it into the binder. His brow furrowed for a moment before he smoothed his face.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow at three?” he asked. “Should we drive together?”
She frowned, thinking about being forced to spend what was now looking like it could be an awkward twenty minutes in the car together. “I have some errands I need to run in the morning, so no. I’ll meet you there.”
She didn’t imagine the look of relief on his face, and it stung. She had time to back out of this, even though it had taken a lot of effort and thought on her part to commit to it in the first place. She could change her mind. Right now. Watching Ilya check his phone again, his smile grim but still a smile for someone other than her, Theresa thought ahead to the time they’d have to spend together. How uncomfortable it could become, if they let it.
She wasn’t going to let it.
She wasn’t going in on the diner with Ilya because she wanted him. She wanted work. Success. A career. She wanted to be part of something she believed in, something that would bring her joy the way cooking had always done.
“This might be a stupid idea,” she said aloud. “It’s going to be a lot of work and frustration. It won’t be easy at all.”
“I know,” Ilya said.
They both got up. He didn’t try to hug her, and she was glad of that. Whatever was going to happen now, she told herself, it was going to be strictly business. She could handle that.
She took a detour to the restroom before leaving, and by the time she got out, Ilya had already settled at the bar next to a tall blonde who was laughing at something he’d said. Watching them, Theresa’s stomach twisted. She lifted her chin.
Next to them both, she paused, aware of how the Styrofoam box of leftover cheesecake was shaking in her hand. “See you tomorrow, Ilya.”
The blonde assessed her with a glance and must’ve found no threat. “Hi, I’m Amber.”
“Theresa. Three o’clock,” she added, looking at him even though he was definitely not looking at her.
She didn’t look back when she left, although the temptation to was strong. Outside the front doors of the restaurant, Theresa dumped the leftover container into the trash. She no longer had an appetite for dessert.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ilya wasn’t late to the meeting with the lawyer, although waking up this morning had been hell. He’d tried to get drunk last night and hadn’t been able to stomach more than a single glass of whiskey. He’d tried to get laid, too—something that should’ve been even easier than getting hammered. When it came right down to it, though, Amber’s blatant invitation had left him unsettled instead of turned on.
“Let’s go back to your place,” she’d offered first, and Ilya had told her they could not. His mother was there, and his brother. It would’ve been weird, he said. By the way she wrinkled her nose, he could tell that Amber agreed. She made another offer. “My place?”
At that point, after a few hours of his hand on the small of her back, her shoulder, his fingers trailing down her bare arm to settle on her wrist, a casual tug of that spiraling lock of hair tumbling so artfully over her breast . . . after all that, he was sure that he could take her into the backseat of his car, if he wanted. In the past, he would’ve wanted. Earlier tonight, he’d thought he wanted.
But now Ilya didn’t want.
Not Amber, anyway. It wasn’t her fault. She was as beautiful and charming and funny as he remembered from the last time they’d hooked up. He still liked her well enough, especially since he knew that whatever happened between them tonight was unlikely to lead to desperate-sounding texts or calls. Amber wasn’t the sort of girl who would ever show up on his doorstep with her makeup smeared all over her face, asking him why he couldn’t just love her.
It would’ve been sex, not too plain, and if he managed to be good at it, not very simple, but also far from complicated. Instead, he found himself alone in his own bed before two in the morning, his head clear from the blur of alcohol but nowhere near unjumbled in his thoughts. Sleep had come only when the first light filtered through his window, and he’d woken only an hour or so before it was time for the meeting.
He’d made it, though. Shaved, showered, even wearing a suit. It felt right, even though the last time he’d put this suit on had been to attend Babulya’s funeral. It was the only one he owned. He’d never had a suit-wearing job.
“It’s not like Theresa to be late.” Rita looked pointedly at her gold watch. “Are you sure she’s coming?”
“She said she would be.” Ilya’s palms itched with sweat, and so did the back of his neck. Rita didn’t seem to think much of him, which irritated him, since he was getting ready to write a check for a lot of money, a nice portion of which would go to her if this all went through.
Rita looked at her watch again with a frown. “It’s my understanding that you’ll be the one making the offer? Theresa’s not actually going to be on the paperwork for the offer, per the agreement between the two of you? That one is separate. You could get started on signing.”
“Yeah, but I’d really like to wait for her.” Ilya flashed the woman his best, most charming smile, but it didn’t seem to work. Probably because he looked like hammered shit, as evidenced by the mirror this morning that had shown off the glints of gray at his temples and the bags under his eyes.
“I have another appointment at four. If she’s not here soon, I’m going to have to ask that we get started.” Rita tapped the thick folder of papers with her very expensive pen. She managed a smile. It didn’t seem very sincere.
He was saved from further comment because Theresa came through the door. She took the seat next to his without the apology for being late that Rita was clearly expecting. Ilya wanted to kiss her for that reason alone.
“Are we ready?” Theresa smiled at him. “Let’s do this.”
It took a good twenty minutes of listening to Rita drone on while he signed page after page and then wrote the check, but while Ilya had thought he’d feel some kind of anxiety about that amount of money he was both offering to spend and what he was putting down as a deposit, all he felt was anticipation. The good kind: the sort that had him grinning and finding it hard to sit still. After hands were shaken all around, Rita packed up her files with the check, escorted him and Theresa out to the front of the office, and that was it.
“Signed, sealed, and soon to be delivered,” he said. “And in three days we’ll know if we have it or not, just like an STD test.”
Theresa recoiled with a grimace. “Oh, brother.”
“Sorry. Too crude?” She’d parked beside him, he saw, and the two of them walked toward their cars.
“I’ve had STD testing,” she told him smoothly. “It can take longer than three days.”
Ilya had also made that awkward, anxious visit to the clinic once or twice, though he’d been lucky enough for it to be a false alarm. “Sorry. I was trying to make a joke.”
Theresa unlocked her car door. “Chlamydia is not a flower, according to the pamphlet they gave me. It could’ve been worse. I could’ve not found
out, gone untreated. It could’ve been something permanent.”
“No kidding.” He shuddered at the thought. “Sorry, though. I didn’t mean to make fun of it.”
“It happens.” She opened the door but didn’t get into her car. “If you’re going to sleep around, it’s the chance you take.”
Something in the way she said it sounded like a pointed jab at him. He wanted to tell her that he hadn’t gone to bed with Amber last night, but saying it out loud would’ve seemed strange, a defensive response to an accusation it wasn’t even clear she was making. When he didn’t answer, Theresa started to get in her car.
“Wait a second. Theresa, hold on.” He put a hand on her car door to keep her from closing it. “We should . . .”
“Celebrate? We did that last night, didn’t we?”
“That was before we signed the paperwork.”
She smiled; at least there was that. “We can celebrate again when they take your offer, okay?”
“Sure. That sounds good.” He stepped out of the way so she could close the door.
She didn’t. She fixed him with a steady look that felt like it was peeling him away, layer by layer. Like she was looking right into the heart of him.
“We’re going to make this work, Ilya. It won’t be easy, but I’m trusting you to put your all into it.”
Somehow this didn’t seem like a compliment. More like a challenge. Almost a threat. Irritated by the subtle implication that he couldn’t be trusted to come through, Ilya frowned.
“Since I’m the only one of us with anything really to risk,” he said shortly, “I think you don’t need to worry about me screwing it up. You’re just along for the ride, right?”
His words had hit home. He saw it in her eyes and the way her smile became a humorless line. He would’ve regretted it if he hadn’t been pissed off.
“You don’t know me,” Ilya added when Theresa didn’t reply. “You think you do, but you don’t.”
In lieu of an answer, Theresa turned the key in the ignition. Ilya closed her car door for her. She didn’t peal out with squealing tires and a spray of gravel, or a flip of her middle finger, but the tiny wave she gave with only the tips of her fingers and the thin-pressed line of her smile was as much of a “Fuck you” as any of that would’ve been.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Niko had taken his lunch to eat at the café table in what had once passed for the backyard garden but had now become a patch of scrubby grass littered with weeds. The garden shed had never been in good repair, but over time the roof had partially collapsed, and the door hung on one hinge. If it were his decision, the whole thing would come down, but he wasn’t up to the task right now. He’d have to get Ilya out here with a couple of sledgehammers. It would be fun, the brothers knocking down the rotten wood.
For now, though, he was content to sit in the warming spring sunshine and enjoy a thick sandwich of sweet Lebanon bologna on white bread slathered with mayo. The combination was as disgusting and delicious as he’d fondly remembered from childhood. He’d traveled around the world and eaten meals ranging from basic to gourmet, but nothing had ever matched the satisfaction of the local delicacy.
He hadn’t been looking for his mother, but she was there. Incredibly, because she’d always been the sort to flip through gossip magazines but never to spend much time with novels, Galina was already at the table reading an oversize hardcover book.
She closed it when she saw him, and bent to tuck it into the giant tote bag on the ground by her feet. “Kolya, my heart. What are you eating?”
He showed her as he took the seat across from her. The chair wobbled, but so did the table. Everything around this place was falling apart. “What are you doing?”
She stretched and closed her eyes, leaning back to let the sun cover her face. “Enjoying the day. I’m not used to being cold anymore.”
“Weather’s better in South Carolina, huh?” He’d cut the sandwich in half, but it was still a mess to bite. Mayonnaise squirted. He offered her the other half, but she made a face and shook her head.
His mother made a tut-tutting noise and dug in her bag for a crumpled tissue, which she handed him. “Here.”
Niko supposed he should be glad she hadn’t licked her thumb and used it to swipe away the mess the way she’d done many a time when he was kid. He eyed the tissue before he used it, but it seemed clean enough. He wiped his lips and chewed slowly with a long sigh of delight.
“I missed Lebanon bologna like you wouldn’t believe. Scrapple and souse I could do without,” he said, naming a couple of other local favorite foods. “Shoofly pie I could go either way on. But, man, there’s nothing quite like a good, sweet bologna sandwich on white bread with some mayo.”
Galina wrinkled her nose. “I missed fresh corn on the cob. Nothing better than a crisp ear of corn covered in melted butter, with salt and pepper.”
“They don’t have corn on the cob in South Carolina? That’s weird.”
For a moment, Galina gave a soft, embarrassed laugh and shook her head. “Of course they did. I just . . . well, I didn’t realize until just now how much I was looking forward to having some. The roadside stands will be opening soon. I’ll get some then.”
Niko took another bite and pulled out his phone to check his messages. There were a few from friends back in Israel, but when he looked up as he was replying, his mother’s expression stopped him. “What?”
“I thought we could sit and talk, that’s all. Put your phone away.”
He hesitated, thinking of how he’d been looking forward to a simple lunch in the sunshine while he checked e-mails and followed up on some possible job leads. He set the phone on the table. “What’s on your mind?”
“Do I need to have something on my mind?” She reached into her bag and pulled out a package of cigarettes, lit up, and blew the smoke off to the side. “Can’t I just enjoy some time with you?”
“I guess so. Sure.” He concentrated on his sandwich, anticipating that whatever his mother had to say, she was going to get around to it no matter what he wanted, anyway.
“You could put some hives back here.”
He paused. “What?”
“You could put some hives back here.” Galina gestured at the yard. “Nobody would be bothered. Nobody would know.”
“First of all, it wouldn’t matter if anyone knew. Beekeeping isn’t illegal. But, second of all, I don’t want to add any hives here,” Niko said. “What made you think of that?”
“You spoke so fondly of your bees, that’s all. I thought you’d want some here at home.”
“They weren’t pets.” He had liked beekeeping, at least more than he’d liked any of the jobs he’d cycled through on the kibbutz until being assigned to the apiary. “You can’t just toss up some boxes and throw some bees into them. It’s more work than that. And here, the winters get cold, which makes it even harder to keep them alive from season to season.”
“Oh. I thought they just did their own thing.”
He laughed. “No, they definitely don’t just do their own thing. Not in man-made hives, anyway. And what would happen to them when I’m not here anymore?”
“Where do you plan to go?” his mother asked.
“First, Alicia and I are going to do some traveling. After that, she’s going to put her house on the market, and we’re going to look for a place together.”
“Ah.” She nodded as though she wasn’t surprised, but her fleeting look of disappointment made Niko give an inward sigh. “So it’s like that with her.”
Niko wiped his mouth once more with the crumpled, shredded napkin. “Yes, it’s like that with her.”
“After all this time I’ve been gone, and now when I come home you want to leave?”
“You can’t expect that I’d live here forever,” Niko said. “And let’s face it. You didn’t move back here so you could suddenly play house with me and Ilya.”
Galina frowned. “Have you ever thought that I might be trying
to make up for lost time?”
“You can’t make up for lost time. It’s lost. There’s nothing you can do about it.” Niko stood and took his plate, going back into the kitchen to put it in the dishwasher.
Of course she followed him. Once his mother had something in her head, she was never likely to let it go. She went to the freezer and began rustling around inside it, shifting the many frozen casseroles left over from Babulya’s shiva.
Niko put his hands on his hips, watching her pull out several storage containers with labels, look at each one, and put them back. “What are you doing?”
“I thought I would make a nice dinner. You could invite Alicia if you wanted. Theresa, too. She’s staying next door now. We’ll tell your brother to join us. It could be a nice night,” Galina said, but wistfully, as though she already knew it was unlikely to happen. She closed the freezer and settled two containers on the counter, then put a third in the microwave. She pushed a few buttons. “Like when you were kids.”
The funny thing was that Niko could remember lots of good times spent with Alicia and Ilya and Jennilynn and, for a short time, Theresa, too. But most of them had never included his mother, who’d almost always been at work or, if she wasn’t working, sleeping. There’d been few family moments, at least not ones he thought of fondly. Their family dinners had been set around the table with meals his grandmother had cooked. If Galina was there, arguments had often erupted between her and her mother, or between Galina and Ilya. Ilya and Barry had sometimes clashed, too. Family dinners at the Sterns had definitely been more of a dysfunctional family drama and not a sitcom.
“How about you be up front with me,” Niko asked. “What’s going on with you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You come back from South Carolina and tell us you quit your job at the hospital to get one at a diner—”
“What’s this about a diner?” Ilya had come in from the front door, wearing a bright, broad grin.
