Mistletoe and Magic

Home > Other > Mistletoe and Magic > Page 16
Mistletoe and Magic Page 16

by Carolyn Hughey

“The hop,” she replied through gritted teeth.

  “Okay, then.” He leaned into the car and looped an arm around her waist to pull her forward. “Let’s do it.”

  She hobbled out to stand beside him on one foot, but the backpack threw off her balance, and she tumbled against him.

  He managed to push his hip into the side of the car to remain upright. With her still pressed to him, he finagled one of the straps of the backpack down her sleeve. “First things first. Let’s leave this in the car for now.”

  “No, don’t,” she said.

  Too late. He slid the second strap off her arm, then tossed the nylon sack onto the back seat, slamming the door before she could reach over and pull it out again.

  “I need that. It has all my personal stuff in it.”

  “I promise I’ll get it once you’re settled inside.”

  From the top of the stairs, Stefan shouted out, “Agata!”

  “Come on,” Rhys said, straightening. “Before they grab the stretcher to carry you into the house.”

  She shot upright, bouncing slowly. “God, no. You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  “Unless you want to test that theory, you better shake your tail.” He flung her arm over his neck and supported her with his arm wrapped around her waist. With most of her weight on his shoulder, he drew her slowly up the driveway and toward the stairs. Once there, he didn’t offer her a choice. He scooped her up and carried her the rest of the way.

  “Hey!” This time, she made her displeasure known by pounding her fist on his shoulder. It had as much impact as hitting him with cotton balls. “Put me down. I told you not to carry me.”

  “You can’t maneuver icy steps on one foot. Just sit tight, and I’ll have you back down on solid ground in a minute.” By the time he reached the top, Stefan and Agata both waited, concern etched on their faces.

  “Bring her inside, Rhys,” Agata ordered in her brook-no-nonsense tone as she swept the door open. “Put her on the sofa, legs propped up on the pillows please.”

  He sidled past his hosts, strode directly into the living room, and set her on the prearranged couch. Several pillows piled on the opposite end would elevate her legs.

  Agata, right on his heels, switched on the lamp at Polina’s feet. “Hello,” she said in very thickly accented English, her reassuring smile aimed directly at Polina. “I am Agata, Rhys’s friend. I am going to take very good care of you. Which ankle, please?”

  “My left,” she replied.

  Agata pointed to the sock covering the injury. “I can remove this, yes?” At Polina’s nod, Agata slowly rolled the pink and white striped sock down. Careful as she might have been, Polina still winced and sucked in a sharp breath. Agata took one look at the bruised and swollen limb, then clucked her tongue. Polina struggled to rise, no doubt to finally see the injury for herself, but Agata was swift to press her down against the sofa again. “No. You must keep your serce lower than the leg.”

  Polina turned to Rhys. “Serce?”

  Agata thumped her chest, and Rhys understood what term she sought. “Your heart. Your leg has to be elevated higher than your heart.” He turned to Stefan who loitered in the corner. “I know how it looks. How bad is it really?”

  Stefan and Agata spoke in rapid Polish, then Stefan translated for Rhys and Polina. “My wife says you have a very bad sprain. You won’t be going anywhere soon. You’ll need a lot of rest, a lot of ice, a compression bandage, and a lot of time with that leg elevated. You’ll probably be off your feet for quite a while.”

  “How long a while?” Polina asked, alarm in each word.

  He spoke to his wife, then turned to Polina with an apologetic shrug. “At least two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?” Polina shot up again. “Are you kidding me?”

  Agata laid a hand on her shoulder. “Ssssh!” She then proceeded to pull a plastic bag of ice from a bowl on the table and lay it across Polina’s ankle.

  Sucking in a sharp breath, Polina flinched, nearly leaping off the couch again. “Rhys,” she said, “tell them. I can’t stay here for two weeks.”

  “Why not?” He arched a brow at her. “Are you in a rush to go back to that hostel?”

  “I have stuff I have to do.” She spoke through her teeth, eyes wide. He didn’t know whether she wanted to convey some secret message to him or to knock Agata’s probing fingers away from her injury. “Remember? The list from my mother?”

  “I know,” he assured her. “And from what you told me, that list included celebrating a traditional Krakow Christmas. You’ll do that here. With the Nowaks and with me. If there’s anything else on the list you need to see to, I’ll help.”

  “But…you can’t…I mean…” she sputtered. “You don’t have the time.”

  “We have the rest of the weekend right now. Come Monday, I’ll go into the office and rearrange my schedule so I can handle some of my work off-site. That will give me more time to be with you.”

  Polina folded her arms over her chest. “No. This is ridiculous. I barely know you.” She pointed at the Nowaks. “And I don’t know them at all. I can’t stay here.”

  Rhys perched on the edge of the couch and cupped her fingers inside his palm. “Polina, relax. You’re in very good hands here. Better hands than you’d be in at St. Thadeusz. It’s either this or a hospital.”

  “You can’t keep me here. That’s kidnapping.”

  With an impatient glance at Stefan, he rose. “No one’s keeping you here. You want to leave, go. Put on your sock and your boot and hobble yourself out of here.”

  “That’s not fair. I don’t know where I am, I can’t speak Polish, and—”

  “Rhys!” Cyryl raced into the room, eyes alight with excitement, an equally enthusiastic Hunter barking at his side. The dog seemed overjoyed to see Polina and bounded toward where she lay on the couch.

  “Hunter. Tu przyjść!” Agata immediately chastised the wolfhound, grabbed his collar, and handed him off to Stefan. “Take him out of here before he scares our guest. I need to see to dinner.” She shuffled out of the living room, Stefan and Hunter right behind her.

  Alone with Polina and the boy, Rhys ruffled Cyryl’s hair. “Cyryl. Jak są wy?” The boy replied he was well, and Rhys switched to English for Polina’s benefit. “This is my friend, Polina. She and I are staying for dinner, if that’s all right with you. She doesn’t speak Polish. Perhaps you’d like to practice your English with her?”

  The child stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Hello, Polina. You are the one Mama needs to help, yes?”

  She cast a curious glance at Rhys, who shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “How did you hurt your foot?” the boy asked.

  “I slipped on the ice while running.”

  “Oh.” He looked from Polina to Rhys, and switching to Polish, remarked, “She doesn’t say English words like you do.”

  “She’s American,” he explained.

  “Ahem!” Polina interjected. “Care to share with those of us who know you’re talking about us, but don’t understand the language?”

  “Sorry,” Rhys told her. “His English is about as decipherable as my Polish so we tend to meet in the middle. For what it’s worth, he said he thinks you’re very pretty even if your foot is currently uglier than a troll.”

  Cyryl giggled, and Polina’s cheeks flushed bright pink. “He did not.”

  “Enough teasing.” Agata reappeared in the living room, a tray full of steaming dishes in her hands. “You two.” She jerked her head at Rhys and Cyryl. “In the dining room. Before your dinner gets cold.”

  Rhys sent a glance Polina’s way, and her panicked expression nearly broke his heart. “I’m in the next room, sweetheart. Relax.”

  ***

  Relax. Yeah, right. While the ice on her ankle stung her foot into numbness, Polina’s pride urged her to run away. This was insane.

  Before she could make a move, Agata sat beside her and placed the tray on the coffee table. “Rhys said you like bigos
.”

  “Yes. My uncle used to make it. But you don’t have to bring my meal in here. I can sit in the dining room with everyone else.”

  “No, you cannot.” She tucked a napkin under Polina’s chin, then picked up the bowl of hearty stew made with several meats, root vegetables, and a thick gravy. After dipping a spoon into the bowl, the older woman gestured for Polina to open her mouth.

  “Really,” she argued softly, “I can feed myself.”

  “No. You too skinny for Polish girl. I make sure you eat more. Open please.”

  The ridiculousness of the situation struck Polina as she did what Agata demanded, and her thoughts flew to Mom’s list. Note to self: be sure to add (18.) Pretend you’re a baby bird.

  At first taste, Polina fell in love. Sure, Uncle Leo made bigos, but never like this. At home, bigos always had a greasy film on top. The older guys used to tease that Uncle Leo could use leftovers to keep the cogs spinning on some of the rides. The meat was usually stringy and tough, not tender enough to melt-in-the-mouth like Agata’s. Uncle Leo’s gravy, while thick, had lumps of flour often mistaken for bits of potato. This, though…this was heavenly. The best meal Polina had ever eaten.

  “You tell me about you?” Agata said. “You American?”

  “Yes.” The spoon appeared near her mouth, and she automatically took the stew, chewed the tender meat and vegetables, then swallowed.

  “Your mother, she was from Krakow?”

  With her mouth full of another spoon of delicious stew, she couldn’t speak, so she settled for a nod.

  “How old when she left Poland?”

  She swallowed and smacked her lips. “Ten.”

  “Like my Cyryl.”

  Unsure whether Agata compared Mom’s age or Polina’s lip-smacking to Cyryl, she nodded. “Her parents—my babcia and dziadek—died, and her godfather took Mom to live with him in America.”

  “And now she died, so you came home, eh?”

  “Not really. I mean, yes, my mother died, but I’m only here for the holiday. This isn’t home for me. Mom thought the magic of the city would refresh me.”

  “It will. You’ll see. There is nothing like Krakow during Christmas. The szopki, choinka, Wigilia, so much fun and beauty. Your mama, she was right. It is a magic time.”

  Throughout the conversation, Agata spoon fed her stew, then sopped up the last of the gravy with pieces of bread. At last, she handed her what looked like a toddler’s first cup, covered with a plastic lid and built-in straw. “Tea,” she said, “with honey and lemon.” She reached for the last item on the tray, a bottle of pills. After opening the bottle, she tapped two tablets into her palm. “This will help for your pain.” She passed the pills to Polina, then watched, eagle-eyed, until Polina swallowed the medication with sips of warm, sweet tea. “Bardzo dobry. Very good. I’ll check on the men now.”

  While Agata bustled the tray and empty dishes back into the kitchen, Polina let her gaze travel the room. She’d never spent much time in a real house. Compared to her trailer with Mom, this place was a mansion. Despite the cold outside, the whole house felt warm and cozy. No icy drafts blew in from misaligned window frames or cracks in the glass panes.

  The wallpaper, with tiny red and gold flowers dancing on an ivory background, enhanced the warm and cozy feeling. There were a lot of places for people to sit, too. Aside from the couch where she lay with her foot propped up, several other cushioned chairs clustered around the fireplace. Another pair of matching chairs gave occupants a lovely view through a very large window that overlooked the street outside, and some kind of miniature cushioned chair with no back, which might belong to Cyryl, sat between them. The living room had five tables: one on each side of the sofa, plus a long wooden oblong one in front, where Agata had set the dinner tray. Two more framed the chairs by the fireplace.

  Goodness. How much did all this furniture cost?

  And the plush carpet probably didn’t come cheap, either. Built-in shelves framed in dark wood housed rows of books. Polina loved that idea. When she finally found a house of her own, she would insist on a similar setup. Always forced to leave books behind due to space constraints, she would appreciate a permanent spot for all the imaginary friends of her childhood and the lessons she’d learned as an adult.

  In the far corner, a magnificent Christmas tree, the choinka, unlit but fully decorated with silver ribbon and delicate glass ornaments, brought the holiday spirit into the house. Even the air held that magical scent of fresh pine and gingerbread.

  But what struck her hardest were the framed photographs. Stefan and Agata’s wedding picture took center stage on the mantel above the stone wall fireplace. On either side sat half a dozen photos of Cyryl from red-faced bawling newborn to a more formal snapshot taken recently where he wore his dark blond hair slicked back and a striped blue and yellow shirt that made his blue eyes glow with electricity. Other photos decorated the walls and the three tables. In every shot, the subjects smiled out at the living room’s occupants: happy, loving, joyous.

  Was that how a family was supposed to look? Polina’s only experience with families came from watching the various guests at the thousands of fairs she’d worked over the decades. Most of them laughed too loudly, ate too much, got dizzy on the rides, and forked over more money in one night than she and her mother made in a year. Hard to imagine such activities were “normal.” Sipping her tea, she wondered. How could she ever hope to live a normal life if she didn’t have a frame of reference? She didn’t really know what was considered normal or average.

  Maybe this inconvenient ankle injury could benefit her after all. Spending two weeks here, with this happy family, could give her insight for her future that she could never gain at Saint Tadeusz.

  Yes, she would stay with the Nowaks, but not as a burden. She would find ways to be useful to them. And she would learn from them. Learn how to be the same as everyone else.

  Secure with her decision, she closed her eyes, imagining a home of her own. She would have a garden with flowers and fresh vegetables. She could picture herself, a large floppy hat shielding her skin from the sun, crouched among the greenery. Orange and black butterflies flitted from blossom to blossom. The scent of honeysuckle—her favorite—sweetened the air. In the background, her cozy little house, a real home, welcomed friends and family to come inside and spend time with her. A gray-striped tabby cat sunned himself on the porch.

  The picture in her head became a dream as she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 6

  Golden sunlight warmed Polina’s face, and she opened her eyes to find herself lying on a cloud in the middle of a floral wonderland. She scrubbed a hand over her face, blinked, and looked again. A bedroom. She was in a bedroom, but the prettiest darn room she’d ever seen. Painted red roses adorned the walls, some only buds, others in full bloom. Yellow daisies and bumble bees scattered over soft linens on the bed, and she snuggled deep into the thick mattress with a contented sigh. Stretching her limbs as far as her muscles would extend, she still didn’t hit any mattress edge. This was what she wanted for her life: a comfortable place to lay her head.

  But not here. She wanted something uniquely hers. All hers.

  Sitting up, her gaze focused on her backpack perched on a chair in the corner of the room. Through a sleepy haze, she vaguely remembered Rhys carrying her in here after dinner, over her weak protests, and his mild teasing that she shouldn’t have fallen asleep before dessert. He promised two things before he left last night: that he’d bring her backpack inside, and he’d return here in the morning. Since he’d followed through with promise-number-one, she had no doubt he was already in the dining room, indulging in whatever Agata had made for breakfast.

  On the table beside the bed sat an old-fashioned bell with a teak handle and a folded card, her name printed in block letters on the outside. Curiosity overwhelmed comfort, and she took the card, flipping it open.

  Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.

  Rhys. This had to b
e from Rhys.

  Since you barely skipped a snore when I carried you to bed last night, I assume you slept well.

  Ha. She didn’t snore.

  Did she?

  No. She shook her head and returned her attention to the card and Rhys’s bold scrawl.

  Agata insists that you stay in bed this morning until she’s had a chance to look at your ankle.

  He must have sensed she’d argue with that because the next line was in parentheses.

  (Don’t fight with me; it’s not my demand.) Ring this bell when you’re awake. DO NOT GET OUT OF BED. Seriously. She’ll punish us both.

  She giggled. For such a big man, he sure was a wuss. Agata didn’t scare her. But once again, he anticipated her reaction.

  Don’t underestimate Agata because she seems like such a good and loving lady. Take a look at your backpack. Notice it doesn’t appear as full as it was last night. That’s because Agata took your clothes. She said she wants to check them in case they need mending or laundering. Don’t kid yourself. She’s holding your garments hostage. You defy her, you’ll never see your jeans again.

  Hmmm…he might have a point. Currently, she wore a voluminous baby blue flannel nightgown, lent to her by Agata who’d been shocked to discover Polina normally slept in a t-shirt and sweat pants. At the time, dopey from pain killers and exhausted due to jet lag, she’d agreed to wear the borrowed nightgown to please such a giving, generous woman. Now, she wondered if that generosity actually hid an ulterior motive. Time would tell, since she knew for a fact her clothing was clean and in excellent condition. With so few belongings to call her own, she took extreme care with what she had.

  If Agata gives you the okay, we’ll tackle another item on your mother’s list. Something small and not too taxing. Regardless of how your ankle is healing, you won’t be running today. That, I promise. So while you’re waiting for Agata to come to you, review your list and choose one or two items we can do from here while you’re recuperating.

  From here? Only one item came to mind. Number eight. Kiss a stranger. No, they’d already gone there. No big deal.

 

‹ Prev