The Storm

by Tara Wylde

  Storm grins. “I knew you could laugh if you really put your mind to it!”

  I shake my head. “Brat.”

  She sticks her tongue out at me, and instantly my pants become tighter.

  “Come on,” I say, again trying to change the subject. Distraction and distance. “Let’s head back to the house. I’ll make lunch.”

  “Okay,” she says. “What’s on the menu?”

  “Soup and sandwich?”

  She rolls her eyes comically. “I’m so giving this hotel two stars on TripAdvisor.”

  I have no idea what TripAdvisor is, but I get the joke.

  “Very funny,” I say. “We’ll see what you say after you taste it.”

  “Oh. My. GOD.”

  Storm shovels the borscht into her mouth like she hasn’t eaten in a week, which may be the case for all I know. Other than her toast last night, I haven’t seen her eat anything.

  “So,” I say. “Better than two stars?”

  She looks at me, eyes wide, her spoon in mid-scoop.

  “What’s in this? I mean, besides unicorn tears?”

  I shrug. “Beets, cabbage, onion. A little sour cream.”

  She picks up the bowl and pours the remainder directly into her mouth. “It’s amazing.”

  With the soup finished, she tucks into her sandwich – smoked salmon on black bread. Her eyes roll in ecstasy.

  “This is incredible,” she says through a mouthful of food. “I mean it. Absolutely delicious.”

  “You must not get out much,” I say, but inwardly I’m preening at the compliment.

  She finishes the sandwich and wipes her mouth on a napkin.

  “You should open a restaurant,” she says. “I mean, if you wanted to give up this rich hermit life and work all day for almost no money.”

  I grin. “I like to cook.”

  “Well, that’s perfect,” she says. “Because I like to eat.”

  “A match made in heaven, then.”

  We sit in comfortable silence for a while as the dogs eye Storm’s empty bowl with naked curiosity. On an impulse, I put it on the floor and say: “Take it.”

  They rush to it and start lapping up the meager remains with their huge tongues.

  Storm smiles. “I knew deep down you were really a big softy.”

  A big softy? I’ve been called many things in my life, by many people, but never that.

  What scares me is that I may actually be turning into one – at least when I’m with her.

  Chapter Six

  6. STORM

  Samson and Delilah snore softly beside each other on the rug in my room. They’ve finally stopped following me everywhere I go in the house, which I guess that means they’re used to me. It makes me feel a little more at home.

  I know this isn’t really my home, but it’s as close to one as I have right now. And Nick is the only person I can count on. What does it say about me, about my life, that the one person I trust in the whole world is someone I’ve known for less than two days?

  Up here on the second floor are mostly guest quarters and sitting rooms, but there’s a big open area at the end of the west hallway that I’ve only seen in passing. Now, with Nick in town picking up groceries and the dogs napping, I decide to take a closer look.

  There’s no door on this particular room; it simply opens directly from the hallway and fills the entire floor space. All I can see of it from the hall is a huge crystal chandelier that hangs in the exact center, and some antique chairs lining the far wall.

  Once inside, I recognize it immediately and my heart swells: it’s a music room! In the center at the far end is a low stage with a gorgeous square grand piano. I walk toward it as if in a dream; it’s in perfect condition, with a Brazilian rosewood finish and intricate curved legs carved in period patterns from the late 19th century. In the center of the wood above the keys is the word Hamlin.

  My pulse is racing. This is a genuine Mason & Hamlin square grand, probably circa 1885. I’ve only ever seen photos of one in a book. And here it is, in Nick’s house, of all places.

  I pull out the matching bench and take a seat at the keys, sucking down a deep breath before hitting a C chord. The sound is rich and elegant, but with an undertone of sharpness. It needs a good tuning, but you can’t argue with quality like this.

  God, it’s been so long since my fingers have touched the ebony and ivory keys. It feels so right, like coming home. My eyes close of their own accord as I run through a series of scales to warm up. Again, the sharpness, magnified by the incredible acoustics of the room, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m playing. That’s all that matters.

  My scales eventually turn into Chopin’s Prelude No. 15, also known as Raindrop. It’s a soft piece, but punctuated by strong notes that act as a counterpoint. I don’t know how long I play, or whether I finish the piece and start again. All I know is I’m transported by the sound, and that, for the first time in years, I’m feeling true joy.

  My mind registers hot tears spilling down my cheeks, but just barely. All of me is absorbed in the music, the sound of this room, the feel of the keys under my fingers and the pedals under my feet.

  Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, I stop. I know this sounds crazy, but I can almost feel an audience in the room with me, absorbing what they just heard.

  The crisp sound of clapping breaks the silence, startling me so badly I almost wet myself. I turn to see Nick standing in the hallway, staring at me intently with red-rimmed eyes. Was he – was he actually crying?

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I smile sheepishly. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to realize you’re an incredible musician. Storm, that was absolutely mesmerizing.”

  Hot blood warms my cheeks as I stand and walk off the stage.

  “I haven’t played in years,” I say. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. This piano is a work of art.”

  “It is?”

  I goggle at him. “Seriously? You don’t know that?”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” he says with a shrug. “It came with the house. I think I’ve been in this room twice in the whole time I’ve owned it.”

  “It’s a 19th century Mason & Hamlin square grand! In perfect original condition!”

  He raises his eyebrows. “And?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t believe it! There are maybe a dozen of these in the whole country in this kind of shape. I bet it’s worth a hundred grand, easy. There are collectors across America who’d do anything to get their hands on this.”

  “Huh,” he says thoughtfully.

  His response is ridiculous, and yet so utterly Nick that I can’t help but laugh.

  He smiles. “Good thing I have you to tell me these things. Maybe I’ll hire you as my antique appraiser.”

  “Sorry,” I shrug. “I only know pianos.”

  “How did you learn to play like that?”

  My stomach clenches at the memory. “We – we had a piano when I was growing up. I took lessons. But I got bored with it.”

  The piano was actually repossessed when my parents lost everything, but I’m not interested in talking about that. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

  “I hope you’ll play for me again,” Nick says.

  I smile. “I’d like that. This is the perfect room for it. But the Hamlin really needs a good tuning.”

  “Well, then,” he says, reaching into the bag on the floor at his feet. “You’d better find a piano tuner.”

  He hands me a small, white box with the words iPhone X on the side. My eyes go wide as I open it.

  “This is – is this what I think it is?”

  He frowns. “I don’t know. I asked the kid at the store to give me the best cell phone he had.”

  “These things are a thousand dollars!”

  “Is that a lot?”

  I gape at him, shaking my head. “It’s the best phone on the market.”

 
“Then, what’s the big deal? They gave me what I asked for. The kid activated it for me in the store, so you should be able to do whatever you need to on it.”

  He’s done it again. I’ve never known such kindness; I don’t know how to deal with it.

  “Thank you,” I say for the umpteenth time since he found me.

  He nods. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it. Just don’t go taking pictures of yourself all over the house, okay?”

  I giggle. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

  He reaches into the bag and pulls out another box and hands it to me. It’s another iPhone, identical to mine except black instead of white.

  “Can you set this one up too while you’re at it?”

  “What do I need a second one for?” I ask stupidly.

  “It’s for me,” he says. “Just in case – you know, you ever need to reach me.”

  The embarrassment on his face is so sweet it makes my heart melt. He got a phone just so he could stay in touch with me. The realization sends a tingle through me below the waist, but I quickly will it away. We’ve been down that road, and he doesn’t want to go there.

  Besides, I wouldn’t even know what to do if he did.

  “Okay,” I say, taking the box. “I’ll set us up with each other’s number as first in our contacts. Sound good?”

  “I don’t need any other contacts,” he says simply.

  Steady, girl. Don’t give in to impulse. The tingle will go away.

  “So what fabulous meal are you going to make me for supper tonight?” I ask, trying to avoid eye contact.

  “Stroganoff,” he says.

  “Oh, hey,” I stammer. “I was just kidding. You don’t have to –”

  “I want to. I told you, I enjoy cooking for people. For you.”

  I shake my head inwardly. What did I do to deserve this guy? Sometimes I think I must be in a dream, that I’m really at the bottom of the ocean having some final crazy vision before I drown.

  “Okay,” I say. “What can I do to help?”

  “You can call that piano tuner,” he says. “Because I can’t wait to hear you play again.”

  Chapter Seven

  7. NICK

  “You’re a natural,” I say as Storm pinches the dough closed around the wad of potato-and-onion mixture.

  “You’re just saying that,” she sighs. “I’m wrecking these.”

  “There’s an art to making piroghis. Just like playing piano. It takes time.”

  I take the dozen little dumplings she’s made and toss them into the boiling water. Then I stir a spoonful of sour cream into the stroganoff before turning off the heat. It needs to sit and settle while the flavors blend before I serve it, which will give me time to boil and fry the piroghis.

  “So,” Storm says, taking a seat on one of the stools at the kitchen island. “I may be out in left field here, but I have this crazy feeling that you might be Russian.”

  I give her a look of mock surprise.

  “Whatever gave you that idea, comrade?” I say in an accent I spent years trying to rid myself of. It sounds ridiculous to my own ears now.

  “Well, holy shit!” Storm giggles. “Nick finally makes a joke!”

  As always, her laughter makes me feel lighter.

  “Technically, it’s Nikolai,” I say, careful to avoid my last name. I doubt she’d recognize it, but we have a policy, don’t we?

  “I suspected as much,” she says with a nod. “There’s just a tiny hint of an accent in your normal voice. Like when the American actors on Game of Thrones try to sound British. It’s not something you can put your finger on, but there’s just something a little bit different about it.”

  “You’re one to talk about accents, Arkansas.”

  She claps her hands together with a grin. “Two in a row! Bravo!”

  If you had told me a week ago that I’d be laughing and making jokes with a beautiful young woman, I would have stared at you grimly until you went away. Now here I am, bantering like a kid on his first date.

  Then I push it too far.

  “You know,” I say in a comically thick accent, “in Soviet Russia, president assassinates you!”

  Storms blinks at me, uncomprehending.

  “Uh,” I mutter. “That was a Yakov Smirnoff joke.”

  She gives me a sympathetic smile – emphasis on the pathetic.

  “Sorry, I don’t know who that is.”

  What are you doing, old man? She’s a child. Of course she doesn’t know who Yakov Smirnoff is! She was born in the ‘90s, not the ‘70s!

  The piroghis thankfully choose that moment to boil over onto the stovetop, so I take advantage of the distraction to drop them into the cast iron pan with some butter and onion.

  “Can I help?” Storm asks. “I want to finish off what I started.”

  “Of course.” Her hand brushes mine as she takes the wooden spoon from me. “It’s best to keep them moving so that the dough doesn’t brown too much.”

  “Why bother frying them?” she asks as she stirs. “Everything is already cooked.”

  I shrug. “Not everyone does, but this is how my baba made them.”

  “What’s a baba?”

  “Grandmother. My mother’s mother. I never knew my father’s.”

  “I never knew any of my grandparents,” she says quietly, looking at the pan.

  “That’s a shame. My baba taught me a lot when I was young.”

  “Did she come to America with you?”

  I hesitate. “No. She died right before we emigrated.”

  In fact, she was murdered by the last remnants of the KGB before we fled under cover of darkness. But that information definitely falls under the “don’t tell” policy.

  “How old were you?” Storm asks. “When you came here?”

  “Seventeen. It was right after the breakup of the Soviet Union.”

  She nods and turns off the burner. “I think these are done. Yeah, we learned about the U.S.S.R. in school.”

  I glance at the piroghis; she’s right, they’re perfectly golden brown.

  “You really are a natural,” I say. “Time to eat.”

  We dish up – Storm takes even more than I do, which is understandable, given how little she’s eaten since she got here – and take a seat at the kitchen dinette. It occurs to me as we do that I’ve never actually eaten in the formal dining room. The very thought of a lone person eating in something so large and ornate seems ridiculous.

  Suddenly, living in this cavernous mansion alone seems ridiculous.

  “So why did you leave?” she asks, forking her first piroghi into her mouth. Then her eyes almost bulge out of her head. “Holy shit, these are good!”

  “I told you, you’re a natural.”

  She grins through the food. “Thanks. But let’s get back to the subject. I really want to know how you ended up in America.”

  I’m violating our agreement here, but some part of me also wants her to know more about me. Not everything – that’s the last thing I would ever want – but some.

  “The union was in chaos back then; everywhere there were republics splitting off and fighting for independence.”

  That much is true.

  “My father realized that there were a lot more opportunities in America.”

  That’s also true. I won’t talk about what kinds of opportunities.

  Storm takes her first bite of stroganoff and almost melts into her chair.

  “This is so freaking good,” she moans. “If you keep feeding me like this, I’m going to be huge.”

  I grin. “There’s an old Russian saying: better to see it shake than hear it rattle.”

  She snorts through her nose and almost spits out her food.

  “You’re making that up!” she blurts after swallowing.

  “Russian men like women we can hold onto,” I say, grabbing handfuls of air.

  “Stop!” she cries, holding her next forkful of beef and noodles just outside
her mouth. “I’m going to choke!”

  I give in and let her chew unmolested. Look at me, making someone laugh so hard that they can’t eat. My mother would be proud of me.

  I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if she’d been around more after we came here. Perhaps I wouldn’t have ended up so much like my father.

  Storm finishes a few more mouthfuls before picking up the conversation.

  “I’m learning way more about Russia from you than I did in that class,” she says. “What more can you tell me?”

  For a moment, I think about making another joke, but for some reason it seems more appropriate to be honest with her.

  “Life under Soviet rule was shit,” I say simply. “No freedom, no choice. You were told what to do, and if you didn’t like it, tough. Americans don’t realize how good they have it.”

  A shadow crosses her face as she scoops up the last of her stroganoff.

  “Not all of us have it good,” she says quietly.

  Those few words tell me more about what led her here to me than anything she’s said so far. For the first time in many years, I feel the undeniable urge to touch another human being. My hand reaches out and settles on top of hers, feeling her warmth, the velvety smoothness of her young skin.

  “You’re here now,” I say. “With someone who can keep you safe. That’s what matters; not what came before. Just here and now. Deal?”

  Time stops as her eyes meet mine and she places her other palm on top of mine, sandwiching my hand between hers. Neither of us blinks.

  After long seconds, she leans forward and presses her moist lips against mine again, sparking a lightning bolt through my heart. I can taste the tang of the stroganoff as our tongues meet. It’s a tentative greeting, like our encounter in the dojo – two acquaintances saying an awkward hello. But it’s heaven nonetheless.

  She pulls away finally, letting go of my hand as she does. But her eyes are still locked on mine.

  “Just here and now,” she says softly. “Deal.”

  Chapter Eight

  8. STORM

  “Storm…” Nick begins, but I place a finger against his lips.