Nathan blows the seeds into the wind. “I enjoyed getting to know Chase on the train. He told me you’re both Christians.”
I nod, although I feel that pinch of guilt in my spirit. Yes, Chase and I attended Moscow Bible Church for the past four years, and yes, we pray at mealtime, but no, we haven’t really been on our knees together recently.
Which, perhaps, is why we ended up in Siberia.
No, no. We’re not being punished. Not being punished! I ball my chapped hands into fists.
“I saw Chase earlier today and asked him if you would be open to a project. He told me to run it by you.”
I eye him, checking my watch. “What kind of project?”
He crumbles the pod in his hand and drops it on the ground. “I’m starting a women’s Bible study. I’m wondering if you would lead it.”
My eyes widen. “I don’t—”
“Listen, I know my limitations, the biggest being that I’m, well—” he lifts a shoulder “—a man. But there are many women in this town who need God’s word in their lives. And Chase told me that you were once officially a missionary.”
I nod and can’t help the niggle of excitement inside me. Oh, I’m so pathetic.
But what if, you know, this is why I’m here?
What if God used Chase to get me here and even arranged for my beloved offspring to go to kindergarten so that I could lead hundreds—okay, maybe just a dozen—women to Christ? I now understand the sacrifices. The submission. And I can see the fruit. A group of women are packed into my living room, sitting on the fraying gold-and-brown sofas we inherited from the village elders, eating chocolate-chip cookies and discussing the book of John, the peace of the gospel changing their lives one day at a time.
Maybe I can even find a way to reach Olya.
I take a breath. The wind swirls the leaves at my feet. A tinge of smoke scents the air from the houses surrounding the kindergarten. I love the flow of seasons, the crisp anticipation of knowing things are about to change.
“I’m not sure, Nathan. I’ve never led a Bible study before.” I stand to go inside to get Chloe and Justin.
“I’ll help you,” Nathan says, and the smile he gives me makes me believe him.
The thought stays with me as I retrieve Justin and Chloe, bundling them up like it’s minus thirty out and rejoin Nathan on the street. He takes Chloe’s hand and meows to her as we head toward home. She looks at him with adoration in her eyes.
Unabashed loyalty, just because he plays to her kitty routine.
“I have errands to do,” he says, “but Chase mentioned letting me bunk with you guys. Will that work?”
“We only have a sofa.”
“I’ll make dinner,” Nathan adds, smiling.
Oh, that rat, Chase. He told Nathan about my cooking abilities. Or lack thereof.
Well, a girl does get hungry.
Bursk has a main street, with four or five rickety side streets, hemmed in by tiny houses that look identical to mine—ornate windows and outhouses in the back, ringed by wobbly fences. The roads taper off to fields and then oak and spruce forests. As in every Russian town, there are two places to shop—the gastronome and the corner market, which, in Bursk, is a few rickety kiosks offering vegetables and frozen meats, flanked by rows of people sitting on wooden crates selling jars of brusnika berries or sunflower seeds or even cigarettes displayed on old towels. Occasionally, I spot someone trying to unload a pair of shoes or homemade mittens.
Today, as we stroll by, I take in the offerings—dried herring, squares of pumpkin, a spray of chrysanthemums, and…sala. With the skin on.
I slow, and sure enough, Olya is hunched over in a ragged wool coat with fraying sleeves and a holey, knitted muffler. She glances up at me and, for a moment, our eyes meet.
And then I see it. A flicker, like a door opening, a peek into darkness.
Hope.
Just like that, it’s gone. But I know I saw it; I know it’s there.
Please God, let that hope be because she sees You, in me.
I point to the sala. “Pa chom?” I ask.
She doesn’t look at me when she names an amount.
You know, Chase will eat almost anything for a good reason. I fork over the rubles. As she hands over the piece of pig fat rolled up in a grease-dotted piece of paper, she meets my eyes again.
And smiles.
Chapter Nine
The Oddity
The first time I realized I loved Chase—or rather, wanted to let myself love him—we were making pizza in Moscow. Chase is an awesome cook, which is one of the primary reasons we are all still alive and not dead from scurvy. During my first year in Moscow, he not only surprised me with a visit, but made me dinner.
I love to watch a man make dinner.
I realize this as Nathan chops onions and browns some ground beef, using a portion of Olya’s sala. I’m holding Justin, who has fallen asleep on my lap. Chloe is in her bed, curled up like a kitty. I expected Chase to be home, and I’m waiting for him to appear. But he’s probably mending a fence somewhere or building a bridge. Chase already has a number of friends in this town, and I’m proud of him.
I do, however, feel a little strange sitting alone in the house with Nathan. Especially with him singing, making himself at home in my kitchen. He is wearing an apron and a towel hangs over his shoulder.
Darkness fills the windowpanes, and outside, it’s started to rain.
“By the way, you’re going to have to defrost your fridge soon if you hope to avoid salmonella poisoning,” Nathan says.
Oh. “And having never defrosted a fridge before…?” I smooth Justin’s hair on his head.
Nathan glances at me and laughs. “How long have you lived in Russia, anyway?”
“Four years. But I had a normal fridge.”
He laughs again. “This is a normal fridge. And it’s easy to defrost. I’ll do it tomorrow before I leave.”
He drains off grease into a tin can and adds carrots, potatoes, tomato sauce, beets and dill to the pot, along with chicken broth.
My stomach is cheering wildly, but I manage to keep my voice steady. “What are you making?”
“Borscht. I learned it from my landlady in Khabarovsk. She’s about eighty and nearly blind, but boy, can she cook.” He takes a clove of garlic and grates it into the pot.
“How long have you been here?”
“Three years. I came over for just a year, but once I got involved with the small peoples groups, I couldn’t go home.”
“Small peoples?”
He takes a spoon from the cup I keep the utensils in on the shelf. Someday I hope to have drawers in my kitchen. “It’s the Russian name for the indigenous people groups.” He tastes the soup.
“But they’re not short.”
He nearly chokes and covers his mouth, his shoulders shaking. “No. Small in population, Josey.”
He glances over at me, and my face heats.
“But that’s cute.”
Or stupid. Let’s remember, shall we, that I had two kids. At once. There’s been a serious drainage of the brain cells.
He turns back to the soup, and I lay my cheek on Justin’s downy head. “Isn’t it hard to be away from your family?”
“My family will be there when I get home. At least my parents will. My siblings are spread out all over the world. My brother is a cop in Alaska, my sister is a diplomat in London, and my other sister lives in Paris, working on her dissertation on water sources for Third World countries.” He adds salt, covers the soup and wipes his hands as he turns to me. “I come from a long line of do-gooders.”
“And chefs?”
He nods, and his smile is warm. “But I’m the only one who is doing it full-time, for the Lord.”
My brain tells me that Nathan shouldn’t be here when Chase is not, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to.
Chloe awakens and after a short, disgruntled wail, shuffles out to the kitchen. Her hair is standing on end, her face is hot and red where sh
e slept hard on her pillow and she is dragging the pink blankie my mother quilted for her. She stops just outside the kitchen, ponders me for a moment and moves toward Nathan. She leans against his leg.
He rests his hand on her head. “Hungry, Kitty?”
She nods and makes paws.
I give Nathan a look. He grins at me. Troublemaker.
Justin rouses, and I take him to the outhouse before he has an accident on my lap. Every day, the lack of plumbing bothers me less. Or maybe I’m just like the proverbial poached frog, getting used to the heat.
I’m not sure what to think about that.
By the time we get back, Nathan has ladled out soup, cut bread and put a jar of homemade smytena (sour cream, in our language) on the table.
I sit down as Nathan joins me and bows his head. “Lord, thank You for Josey and Chase, and their willingness to be used by You. Please bless their home, and family, and work.”
Amen.
He raises his eyes to mine. “Amen.”
I smile. “Thanks for the soup.”
“How did you and Chase meet?” Nathan asks. I fill him in on our courtship, beginning with the lunchbox fight at the bus stop and ending with Chase proposing to me at a bistro in Moscow.
“Did you always want to live in Siberia?”
Did I always—
“Oh,” he says, reading my expression.
“This was Chase’s brilliant idea.”
“And you agreed because…” He raises an eyebrow.
Right now, sitting in the middle of Siberia, the coal furnace kicking out heat, eating borscht, my husband conspicuously absent, well, I’m not sure. I think it was something to do with a fur hat on my head, overheating my brain.
“Because Chase and I thought we could make a difference.” I remember what Chase said about Anton, and think of Ulia. “I know we can make a difference.”
“I believe you.” Only, Nathan doesn’t meet my eyes. He is looking at my angry, chapped hands. “Josey, those look bad.”
I quickly tuck them into my lap.
“Are you washing clothes by hand?”
I lift a shoulder.
Nathan puts his spoon down. “I had no idea.”
“It’s okay. We didn’t think about a washing machine until we arrived here.”
“Chase needs to get you a machine.”
“He’s been busy. And we’re only here for a year, you know.”
But the way Nathan is looking at me, I’m thinking that doesn’t matter.
“He and I need to have a chat,” Nathan says.
I am not sure how to interpret the swell of feelings inside me.
I grew up in the age of dinner parties. My mother, although busy running Berglund Acres, always threw the annual Christmas banquet in the resort dining room, an event open only to our little country church (and occasionally crashed by the other denominations). I have vivid memories of Mom planning the appetizers (including my personal favorite: bacon-wrapped garlic bread with cheese spread), baking breads and marinating the cranberry pork roast. She’d pull out the industrial-size coffeemaker for the buffet, order cheeses from Wisconsin, and once she even asked the organist from the Methodist church to play.
I am not my mother.
But I do know the elements of a great dinner. Food. Ambience. Entertainment.
Oh, and people. And while I’m not inviting the whole town of Bursk just yet, I think entertaining the mayor and his wife merits a nod toward social decorum.
I’m very Martha when I want to be. I found a white sheet and had the kids trace their hands on it and color the tracings as turkeys. I also cut little square napkins from the ends and hemmed them. Yes, that would be with a needle. And thread.
There might have been blood involved. But it was worth it, because Chase needs to buddy up to Anton if he hopes to find out how to help this village. And I am here to support him.
Chase found a hunk of what might be pork (but could also be beef) at the market, and after lots of washing and seasoning and even some marinating in oil, wine and spices, it’s baking in our oven, nestled in a cradle of potatoes. The house smells like Sunday afternoon, and my stomach is alert and on the prowl.
I made—of course—cookies. Sugar cookies. I even rolled them in what some high-brows might call “natural sugar,” (known here in Siberia as unbleached, cheap sugar). They look sparkly and festive in the middle of the table.
Then there’s the bread I attempted to make. Let’s hope that some people like flat bread. (Maybe no one will notice.)
I found two white, slightly bent candles for ambience, and dressed Justin and Chloe up in their best brown-and-green harvest colors. I taught them “Jingle Bells” in case we need a touch of cozy entertainment.
I think my mother would be proud.
The fact is, I miss having friends. I miss Dalton and Maggie, and Caleb and Daphne. I even miss Jasmine and Milton, although a gal can only be around her former-boyfriend-turned-brother-in-law so long without dropping to her knees to thank God for his goodness. So, I’m hoping that tonight will open the door to further gatherings—maybe even game nights! Besides, I need a girl to talk to other than Chloe, who thinks active listening involves paws and purring.
I hear Chase come in, and a moment later he’s in the kitchen, brushing snow off his hair. He looks adorable tonight in a red sweater and black dress pants, his curly blond hair slightly wet. He hands me a bag. “I could only get that orange-flavored soda.”
It’s better than vodka (which, of course, I wouldn’t serve, and hope Anton doesn’t expect).
I’m hauling the roast out of the oven when I hear Chase greet our guests in the entryway. I pull the pot holders off my hands and go to the door in time to see him give Ulia a little kiss on each cheek. When did he turn European? But the big shock is Ulia’s hair. Where once it was black, it’s now…what is that color? Marmalade? Auburn? Burnt pumpkin? I’ve seen that color before in Moscow, but have never personally known anyone who has chosen it. Oddly enough, it’s a good look for Ulia.
Anton double kisses me and then sits down at the table.
Ulia hands me a jar of pickles. “Spaceeba for having us,” she says. I like Ulia, despite her reserve. She’s an orange-haired Morticia Addams tonight, dressed in a black polyester wool skirt and V-neck sweater, her long hair down. She gives me a small smile, and I think she’s trying.
I’ve already served dinner to the kids so I can have them perform (okay, maybe the performance really is just for me), and settle them in their room to play while we eat.
I make a mean roast.
Okay, Chase makes a mean roast. But I carve and serve well. Dinner is delicious, and Anton practically inhales it, cleaning his plate three times.
Ulia, on the other hand, picks at her food.
“How are the kids liking detski-sod?” she asks, not looking at me.
Anton shoots her a dark look. She ignores him and lifts her eyes to mine.
My ego is on the line here, but I nod. “They like their teacher. And Maya, the director, seems like she knows what she’s doing.”
Ulia’s lips tighten. She looks back at her food. “Just don’t let Chase pick up your kids.”
Huh? I’m not sure I heard her right, but apparently Anton has, because he drops his fork. “That’s all, Ulia.”
But Ulia just looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “Maya lost her husband about two years ago in a fire. The drunk fell asleep smoking and burned his house down.” She wipes her mouth. “So now she thinks she can have her pick of men in town.”
I glance at Chase. He’s giving Ulia a disapproving look that is reminiscent of the look he gave people dishing dirt on his poor mother in high school.
Ulia, however, doesn’t see it. I want to wave flags and warn her off.
“She seemed nice,” I offer.
“She’s nice until she gets what she wants.” Ulia takes a sip of her soda. Anton looks like he wants to strangle her. “Which is Chase.”
I glanc
e at Chase, and he’s shaking his head. “The kids sure like her.” That’s my Chase, taking the underdog’s side.
“Don’t trust her. She has a rock where her heart is.”
“Ulia!” Anton says.
She shrugs, picks up her fork again. “Then again, there’re a few men she won’t touch, like your neighbor, Vasilley.” She gives me a smile. “Have you met him yet? The town drunk?”
Anton reaches out and grabs Ulia by the arm. She raises her chin and twists out of his grip. “Josey should know who she lives next to!”
I glance at Anton, remembering his cryptic words about my health. He meets my eyes. “Vasilley has a history of getting drunk and destroying property.”
Oh. Like the fence?
“That’s why Olya has that big dog, you know. It’s not to protect her from the neighbors. It’s to protect her from her husband,” Ulia adds.
I have lost my appetite.
“Anyone want a cookie?” Chase asks.
It’s a long evening, and I find out much, much more about Bursk than I ever wanted to know. Like the fact that Misha and Anya, who moved out of here on our behalf, were actually glad to get away from our loud neighbors.
Seeing as I’ve heard nary a sound from that side of the house, I have to wonder if their move might really have to do with the roaches.
I also learn about Ulia’s daughter-in-law, Sasha, who lost her husband. She doesn’t leave her house. Ulia or Anton have to bring food for her and her children.
The fatigue on Anton’s face as Ulia shares this tugs at my heart.
I practically collapse at the table after we finally bid them good night. The roast and potatoes are cold, the cookies are gone, and Justin and Chloe are asleep in their good clothes on the sofa.
Chase folds his arms across his chest and leans against the doorjamb. “So maybe they won’t be our best friends.”
I am the most popular person in town. In my family room twenty women sit hip to hip on my sofa, on every available chair, on the arms of the chairs and on the windowsill. Others are standing. They’re all wearing their shopkas—a necessity, thanks to the blanket of snow outside. Two weeks ago, winter charged in like a herd of, well, reindeer, on a surge of arctic wind that left the town blanketed in ice and sleet.
Get Cozy, Josey! Page 10