The infant captivated the group for several minutes until suddenly, Elyse’s head whipped up as she realized there was a stranger in her mother-in-law’s house. She glanced around at her extended family for an explanation, but everyone seemed focused on her new daughter. All except Jon who watched her out of the corner of his eye, his heart thudding dangerously. Elyse stepped forward.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Elyse. Elyse Hewson, Christopher’s wife.” The striking brunette extended a hand toward the stunning blonde who stood slightly back from the circle enveloping the baby. Tentatively, Marika accepted her outstretched palm.
“I am Marika,” she offered, adding nothing else in spite of Elyse’s expectant look. Elyse looked around again and finally rested on Tristan’s grinning face. Her sister-in-law nodded her head toward Jon, an idiotic smile plastered on her face. Elyse’s eyes widened in understanding.
“Oh. Oh!” she said, a slow smile of her own overcoming her face. “It is lovely to meet you, Marika. I love your accent. You are Ukrainian?”
Jon cringed as Marika’s eyes turned dark but she forced a smile onto her face and shook her head.
“No. I am from Hungary. Budapest,” Marika answered but she shifted her eyes toward Jon, and he could feel a strange tension as their gazes locked.
“Oh, how strange. I studied linguistics in college. I have an ear for accents. I could have sworn you were Ukrainian. Szép, hogy itt. Hogyan van akkor ínyére ez itt eddig?”
Marika paled, and she nodded, averting her eyes. Elyse’s eyes narrowed.
“Is my Hungarian that off? I haven’t spoken it since college,” Elyse confessed, but she knew her Hungarian was flawless. Jon knew his sister-in-law spoke seven languages fluently and could write three in three others.
“No, it is fine. I – I like to speaking in English only so I can become more better.” Elyse nodded understandingly, her eyes lingering on Marika for a moment. Then turned to her husband who had not yet clued into Marika’s significance.
“Chris, have you met Marika?” Elyse asked purposefully. Chris was fixated on his baby daughter, still seemingly oblivious to the stranger in their midst.
“Hi,” he said without looking up. To Jon’s horror, Elyse cleared her throat and demanded his brother’s attention.
“Chris. This is Marika. Jon’s friend.”
These words made the oldest Hewson male look up. His face changed several times as if trying to decide on the proper reaction. Finally, it settled on a smirk.
“Oh yeah? You’re a friend of Jon’s huh?” Chris drawled without extending a greeting. Marika nodded, and Jon sensed danger well before his brother opened his mouth to speak again.
“What kind of friend? A rent-a-friend?”
Everyone gasped at his crass remark, and Tristan’s face turned into a mask of fury. Jon felt himself get weak at the knees but before Tristan could say a word, Marika spoke.
“I do not understanding this term, rent-a-friend,” she said slowly, uncertain of the dynamic but her well-honed sixth sense could feel a tightness in the air. Chris guffawed.
“I bet you don’t. Perfect, she doesn’t even speak English. You brought a Russian prostitute to meet my baby daughter, Jon? That’s pretty weird and a new low, lardo.”
The silence in the room needed to be sliced with a machete.
“You asshole – “Tristan hissed, lunging toward him but Jordan caught her arm.
“You can’t punch him. You’re pregnant,” Jordan told her dryly as Tristan struggled against his grip. Christopher howled with laughter and winked at his sister. Marika cocked her head to the side, her eyes taking on an intense, hypnotic glow. Her blue-green eyes seemed to be alight with fire as she suddenly comprehended the foe in her face. Her gaze was fixed on Chris who slowly allowed the smile to slip off his face under her scrutiny.
“I am Hungarian,” she told him. “I own multi-million-dollar company in Budapest. Yes, my English is poor but I making more money than most of Russian prostitutes.” Chris went pale as he began to take in her pricey attire and glittering jewelry.
“I, uh, I was just making a joke,” he choked, but the family glowered at him. “Oh come on! Johnny knows I was only kidding, right, Jon?”
Jon’s heart was hammering in his chest, but he willed himself to be calm, but he could not bring himself to look in his brother’s face. He could sense the combination of outrage and sympathy from his family and both reactions made him feel worse. Marika placed her hand in his and gently squeezed, smiling encouragingly. Jon steeled himself and forced himself to look at his older sibling. He grasped Marika and pulled her close to him, keeping her hand entwined in his. She put her palm above his, exposing a huge diamond ring on her left hand.
“I didn’t bring a Russian prostitute to meet your baby daughter, Christopher,” he responded coldly. “I brought my fiancé to meet my family.”
Chapter Six
“Oh, come on! Every woman wants a big wedding!” Jon protested. “You know, with the flowers and the fifty-piece orchestra and five hundred guests.”
“Not me,” Marika replied, looking down at their engagement announcement in the paper. “I do not liking this picture. I looking old.”
Jon laughed, glancing at the black and white photo again.
“If you look old, what do I look? Ancient? Prehistoric? You look gorgeous as always.” He winked at her, but only Marika shrugged and closed the page.
“Maybe we just get married at the city hall?” she continued. Jon’s jaw dropped at the suggestion.
“You can’t be serious, Marika. City Hall? We are not having a shotgun wedding!” Marika did not understand the reference, but she did not question the phrase. She sat back in her chair and sighed.
“Okay, vat you vanting?”
“We can get married in Long Island,” Jon said slowly. “It’s easier for my family, especially with the babies. Tristan will have two by September so having them make a two and a half hour drive out this way is asking a lot.” Marika nodded agreeably.
“You should contact your family. Let me know how many tickets we’ll need and the names so I can book the flights. I’m sure the sooner I do it, the better the rate will be. Any idea how many people will be coming from Hungary?”
“One.”
Jon blinked.
“One?”
“Yes. My cousin Svetlana.”
“What about your parents?”
“They are dead.” Again, Jon stared at her in shock.
“I didn’t know that!” he said. Why didn’t I know that? I could have sworn she said her parents were alive when we spoke of them. Didn’t she say she wanted to message her parents with the laptop? Was something lost in translation?
“They are dead.” There a finality to her statement and Jon closed his mouth. Abruptly he changed the subject.
“Is Svetlana’s last name Darabos like yours? I’ll set up a ticket.”
“She will find her own way here,” Marika replied, still flipping through the newspaper.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind – “
“I am sure.” Again, her tone left no room for argument. Jon was left with a feeling that something was amiss but he was not sure what it was. Instead of pursuing the matter he nodded amiably.
“I will ask my mother about booking the Timber Point Golf Course for the reception since she is closer. I should probably warn you; my mom is going to try to instill her wants and desires on you from start to finish with this wedding. As soon as she finds out your mother isn’t going to be involved, she won’t leave you alone.” Marika smiled, but her eyes looked far away.
“It’s nice,” she told him. “I do not minding.”
“Other than that, we’ll make it a small affair, friends, and family only. Okay?” Marika nodded absently, her mind elsewhere. I wonder if Svetlana is ready now. I hope enough time has passed. I promised to go back for her. God, I wish mama and papa could be here with me. Perhaps I can find away. Maybe one day
I will tell Jon the truth, and we will figure out a way. Another thought popped into her head, one of those nagging, relentless drones which seemed to follow her everywhere. You cannot marry Jon. You are already married. She scowled at the newspaper, oblivious to Jon’s pensive stare. You are married. Marika Darabos is not. Marika Darabos can marry Jon. No one ever has to know. If they had any idea where you are, you would know by now. You are Marika Darabos. You can marry Jon.
“Are you all right, Marika?” Her head snapped up.
“Yes.”
“You have a funny look on your face.”
Instinctively she pointed a manicured nail at the newspaper.
“Have you seeing what the Republican party vants to do with immigration?” she demanded, outraged. Jon nodded, the concern clearing from his eyes. He began to talk about speak about different bills which had come about, not realizing that there was nothing remotely regarding politics on the page at which Marika was staring. It didn’t matter. It was a subject which Jon could go for days. She slipped back into her thoughts as Jon’s speech escalated into rambling territory. I will send Svetlana an invitation to the wedding, she decided. Enough time has passed. It is safe now.
***
The temperatures were sub-zero when Svetlana Orlyk stumbled outside to the mailbox, her small feet in a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. In the few short steps, her porcelain face had already frozen from the cold, and by the time she had collected the few items from the box, she could not feel her fingers. Spilling back into the house, she shut the door with force as if her actions would keep the frigid air at bay, but there was no escaping the bitterness of the winters in this part of the world. She scurried toward the fireplace, her clear blue eyes trained on the letters in her hands.
“Get anything interesting?” Marko asked, but Svetlana ignored him. He arched an eyebrow as he watched the slender brunette flip through the post. Her hand paused delicately over a cream-colored envelope, and her heart began to race. She immediately recognized the handwriting.
“What is that you’re looking at?” Marko demanded, standing up from the hearth to close the distance between them.
“Nothing,” Svetlana replied, shoving the envelope at the bottom of the pile but Marko had already seen it.
“What is that?” he asked again, his voice growing sinister. “Give it to me.”
Sighing, she retrieved the card from the bottom of the pile and handed it to him, managing to hide her trembling hands. He peered at the envelope.
“What does it say?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Marko. It’s in English,” Svetlana retorted, grabbing the paperback. “Only barbarians speak English.”
“Why did someone send you a letter in English?”
“Wrong address probably. Why don’t you go ask them?”
“Seems suspicious to me,” Marko grumbled.
“Everything seems suspicious to you,” she snapped, flopping into a chair. Marko shrugged.
“You know, Lana, if you tell me where she is, we will go and not bother you again.” Marko snorted contemptuously.
“As long as I have breath you will bother me, Marko. The thought of you bothers me. It has been months. When are you going to figure out that she’s not coming here? Wherever she is, she is not contacting me, and she is not coming back.”
“I go where I am told, Lana. Don’t be mad at me. You and I used to be close once, remember? Anyway, we aren’t bad house guests, are we? We clean up after ourselves.” Marko grinned, and Svetlana looked away, disgusted at his presence. She did not appreciate the reminder of how close they had once been. He turned his green eyes toward the pile of mail which Svetlana had set down on the table at her side. He was still fixated on the letter, his eyes scrunching as he tried to understand the words written in beautiful calligraphy. Slowly, his eyes widened as he had an epiphany.
“Leonid!” Marko yelled. Instantly a towering giant appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, menacingly.
“What?”
“You speak a little English, no?”
The monster grimaced as if the question pained him deeply.
“Yes.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Svetlana muttered. “Barbarian.”
“What does this say?” Marko nimbly reached into the pile and tossed the envelope at his counterpart. The huge man peered at the writing and then tore into the paper with no finesse.
“Well?”
Leonid scowled and threw the pages onto the ground at Marko’s feet.
“It’s a wedding invitation,” he snapped. “I was watching porn, and you called me out to look at a wedding invitation.”
Leonid turned and skulked out of the room, grumbling.
“Leonid, wait!” Marko yelled.
“What?” the reply was filled with annoyance, but he did not rematerialize.
“Who is it from?”
“I don’t know, Marko. Some Americans in Connecticut.”
“What are their names, Leonid?” Marko insisted.
“Jon and Marika.”
Marko sat back in the high back wing chair, a pensive look on his mismatched face. Svetlana could feel beads of sweat forming on her brow.
“Who are these people, Lana?” Marko asked, his intelligent but frigid eyes watching her closely.
“Oh, she is a Facebook friend of mine. I haven’t even met her in person,” Svetlana answered offhandedly. “How strange she would send me an invitation to her wedding.”
“Yes, it is very strange. How did you meet her?”
“Playing Candy Crush, Marko.” She quickly rose to her feet, terrified as a dizzying feeling overcame her.
“Are you finished asking stupid questions?”
“Where are you going now?”
“To make supper. I have to eat something other than the shit pizza you idiots continue to order day after day.”
“Don’t go too far, my love,” Marko told her warningly. She shot him a disgusted look as she left the living room. As if that would ever be an option, she thought despairingly. As Svetlana entered the kitchen, she opened the fridge and pretended to busy herself with making the evening meal, but her mind was racing. Marko is not smart enough to make the connection. He has no reason to believe that she is in the States. Is that invitation real or is that simply her way of letting me know where she is and that she is okay? I must find a way to get to her. Marika Darabos was a character from books that the cousins had read in their childhood. Svetlana knew who had sent the message. She prayed that Marko did not.
Inside the front room, Marko stared thoughtfully into the fire, contemplating. Finally, he reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He pressed the last caller and waited. When a voice on the other end answered, he picked his next words carefully.
“I believe I know where she is, sir.”
“Is that right? Did she contact Svetlana finally?”
“I think so,” Marko said slowly. If he was wrong, sending the man on the other end of the phone on a wild goose chase was as good as signing his own death warrant. The other side of that coin was, if Marko said nothing while his gut screamed at him and she was in America, he would most certainly end up dead by the same fate. It was a difficult choice to make.
An ominous silence followed.
“You think so, Marko?”
“Svetlana received a cryptic invitation to a ceremony in America today. She claims she knows nothing about who sent it, but I suspect that it is she.” Marko purposely omitted the “wedding” aspect of the invitation.
“I do not pay you to think, Marko. I pay you to investigate and know,” the man told him. “If you are wasting my time based on a hunch…”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Marko said quickly. “But I can go to make certain it is her.” He had to commit or abort. He had chosen the former. Another pause ensued.
“No. Get Leonid to pack his things. You can stay with Svetlana. I will go with Leonid. If it is her, I want to be there myself.”
“Yes sir.”
“Where are we going?”
“Connecticut, USA.”
***
“Marika, you will not believe what I found at the market today!” Jon hurried into the apartment and kicked the door shut behind him. He dropped the half dozen plastic bags he was carrying onto the kitchen floor. He was grateful that he had begun taking the stairs up and down from the apartment every day but the weight of the groceries had been slightly more than he could comfortably handle up seventeen flights. He had lost twenty pounds, and the excess flab was disappearing around his arms and legs. Still, both the exercise and the trip to the market had proved very fruitful. He had gone a little overboard, but he had been overwhelmed with the sights and smells of the market. This is why you should never go shopping when you’re hungry, he thought ruefully, placing his keys upon the counter and poking his head around the corner into the living room. To his surprise, it was empty. He had been expecting to see Marika curled up on the sectional, covered by a blanket, reading a book. It had become almost a staple seeing her in that position upon his returns, but as he wandered through the apartment, he did not find her anywhere. Hmm, I wonder where she went, he thought. He had discovered that the soup lady at the market had created a tantalizing pot of goulash and Jon had purchased half of it, knowing that Marika would appreciate the taste of home. He walked back into the kitchen to put away his purchases, including two impressive sunflowers which he knew Marika would adore. As he got down to the last bag, he bunched up the plastic to stick it in the cupboard underneath the sink. That was when he saw a white piece of paper slip to the floor. Crouching down, Jon retrieved it, grinning as he realized the motion took no effort. Four months ago, I would have been panting and huffing and puffing right now. Marika has been so good for me. Every day, she pushed him further without saying a word. She inspired him to do better for himself, and soon, Jon found he didn’t hate to look at himself in the mirror anymore. Beyond that, Marika had figured out a way to incorporate his business and file his taxes appropriately, going back five years. When Jon had shown Tristan what she had done, his sister had been wowed.
The Campus Jock: A College Bad Boy Romance Page 49