by Tara Wylde
I cough out a laugh through my tears and sniff back hard. You’re safe now. He can’t hurt you here. My palm strokes the side of his face, feel the wiry softness of his beard, the warmth of his cheek underneath.
“My hero,” I whisper.
His eyes lock on mine. “You have nothing to fear now,” he says. “This I swear.”
After watching him deal with Arkady, I know he’s telling the truth. But it also brings up so many questions.
“How do you know Arkady’s father?” I ask.
Nick looks away, uncomfortable.
“Come on,” I say. “I told you some stuff. You have to tell me some stuff. Quid pro quo, I think is the term.”
He nods, obviously reluctant. “You’re right. Josef Volkov and I worked together years ago.”
“You were friends?”
He looks out the kitchen window to the Atlantic in the distance.
“It’s a long story.”
Chapter Fifteen
15. NICK
“My parents and I left Moscow in the middle of the night with literally the clothes on our backs. The KGB was crumbling, and men about to lose their grip on power wanted revenge on my father. Papa was an officer in the Spetsnaz for many years before we left, and he made a lot of enemies.”
Storm’s eyes widen as I recall the night we fled Moscow. Like her afternoon on the boat, the memory has sharp edges, even now, thirty years later.
“What’s the Spetsnaz?” she asks.
“Undercover special forces, like America’s Navy SEALs. They were elite soldiers, some of the best in the world. But the fall of the Soviet Union was total chaos, and suddenly they were going months without pay. A few of them turned on their former colleagues in exchange for money from their former KGB handlers.”
“My God…”
I shrug. “It’s the law of the jungle, and Russia was a jungle then. No one knew who was in charge. There were military skirmishes everywhere, coups and counter-coups being planned. We once lived for a month on nothing but potatoes and canned meat. We had no control over our lives.”
Storm’s gaze is far away. “I can relate,” she says softly.
Is that why we’ve connected the way we have? We’re from different worlds, but we have more in common than I first realized.
“Papa called in some favors and got us passage out of Moscow into Belarus, then on to London and finally New York. But we were flat broke when we landed here.”
I don’t tell her about the night we left – the gunfire, Baba’s dying screams. It doesn’t add anything to the story that she needs to hear.
“The Volkovs – Arkady’s grandparents – helped us when we arrived. Our families had been friends for generations. Papa went to work for their… business. His skills came in handy; so did his contacts throughout the former Soviet Union. With them, the Volkovs were able to expand back into the new Russia and take advantage of the chaos there to invest in oil and other moneymakers. Soon, Papa and Evgeny – that’s Arkady’s grandfather – were partners. Not fifty-fifty, but still a partnership.”
Storm nods silently. She may be young, but she’s far from stupid – she’s reading between the lines about the family “business” and connecting it to Arkady. Which means she now understands much more about me.
And she’s still here. That’s a good sign.
“What about you?” she asks.
“Josef and I were just teenagers at the time, but we learned the business from our fathers. He always had more of a head for figures than I did. Thanks to Papa’s training, my specialty was more… hands-on. Meeting people face-to-face to discuss things. Negotiation.”
Intimidation, I don’t say. Sometimes the people we did business with would try to back out of a deal, or to take more than their share. Sometimes they made threats, or worse, hurt people.
I was the one who dealt with them.
“Like the way you negotiated with Arkady,” Storm says. “That kind of thing?”
I nod. As I said, she’s a smart girl.
“Evgeny and Papa both died around the same time, when we were in our twenties,” I say, leaving out the part about the ambush by a rival family. “Josef and I inherited the business. It was… a difficult time. I don’t like to talk about it.”
“When did you leave the business?” she asks.
When I met the woman who would become my wife, I don’t say.
“A few years later. Josef and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of things. So I took my share of the business and bought this house. I’ve been retired ever since.”
The look Storm gives me tells me she knows there’s more to the story, but she’s willing to let it go for now.
“And then fate brought us together,” she says, clinking the rim of her coffee cup against mine.
I grin. “It sure did.”
“So what do you think will happen now? With Arkady, I mean?”
“The moment Josef hears my name, he’ll tell Arkady to drop the matter. At the very worst, I might have to pay what you owe him, for the sake of honor, but I doubt it.”
“And that’s it? I don’t have to worry about him anymore?”
I shrug. “The only one you have to worry about from now on is me.”
Her smile makes my heart soar.
“I think I’ve got your number, tough guy,” she grins. “I’ll take my chances.”
She takes our empty cups to the sink and rinses them as the dogs trot off to some other part of the house. Out the window, I can see gray clouds gathering over the Atlantic. A perfect day to stay inside.
“I know I’ve said this, like, a thousand times by now,” Storm says, wrapping her arms around my waist. “But thank you.”
“And I know I’ve said this, like, a thousand times: you don’t have to thank me.”
“But I do, though.”
“Okay, then,” I say. “Thank you, too.”
She smiles, confused. “For what?”
“For giving me a reason to get out of bed every morning.”
Her eyes mist over and her smile widens. Then her face turns serious.
“There actually is one more thing we have to worry about,” she says gravely.
“What’s that?”
“We have a bunch of people coming here for a dinner party on Friday evening. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t have a thing to wear.”
Chapter Sixteen
16. NICK
The rain kindly holds off as we take my electric blue 1972 Mustang Mach 1 into town. It’s my favorite ride – it might not be as fast as the ‘Vette, but it’s a cruiser, with loads of legroom. And it’s the first car I ever finished restoring, back in the days when Josef was still willing to get his hands dirty in the garage with me.
I drop Storm at the downtown shops with a wallet full of fifties and a wide grin on her face, then make my way to Murphy’s. Unlike last time, there’s actually a customer in a booth in the corner, talking into a cellphone as he eats his fish and chips.
Finn sets my beer in front of me as I take my seat at the bar.
“Place is jumping,” I say, tilting my glass towards him before taking a long pull.
“Whazzat?” he says. “Can’t hear you over all the noise.”
I chuckle. “Just came in to say thanks for the favor.”
“I should thank you. I made out pretty well. Everything all right?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Shit through a goose.”
Finn takes down a glass from the shelf and pours himself his own draft. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him do that.
“Drinking your profits?”
“My bills are paid for the month,” he says, a little mustache of foam on his upper lip.
“You really did make out pretty well.” So why does that make me uneasy?
“Yep. Whaddaya call it? An embarrassment of riches.”
“Huh.”
He’s telling me the reward for info on the missing woman was substantial, which drives home th
e point that Arkady wasn’t interested in collecting the 50K Storm owes him. It’s personal. He lost face when she took off on him.
That’s not good. And I didn’t make it any better by mocking him.
Still, he’s Josef’s problem, not mine. Josef knows what will happen if this goes any further.
Finn turns his attention to the ESPN highlights on the little analog TV above the bar. We chat some more about baseball – it’s funny how so many of us become obsessed with it when we come to America – and finish our beers. The guy in the corner is talking animatedly through a mouthful of fish, spraying batter all over the table.
“Rowdy crowd,” I deadpan.
Finn actually cracks a smile of his own and chuckles silently.
“So everything’s okay, Nicky?”
“Right as rain, buddy,” I say, draining my beer. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to see a young lady about a dress.”
“Funny, we used to call it seein’ a man about a horse.”
It’s my turn to chuckle. “I’m serious, Finn. Catch you later.”
“Any time, Nicky. Take care of yourself. And your lady.”
“Always do.”
And your lady. It feels so odd to hear that coming from Finn. Or anyone, for that matter.
Odd, but good.
I see Storm up the street with an armful of bags, chatting with Ellie and her ponytailed husband, an aging ex-hippie named Frank. She catches my eye and motions for me to join her.
“Nick!” Frank hoots as I approach. “Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age!”
“Frank.” I nod. “Ellie. Good to see you.”
Ellie’s eyes go round.
“That’s the most he’s said in one sitting since Christmas,” she says with mock shock.
“You know, I could just as easily uninvite you,” I say.
Frank puts a hand on my arm. “Please don’t,” he pleads. “It’s Ellie’s turn to cook that night.”
The three of us laugh, but Storm doesn’t get the joke.
“Frank does all the cooking for the deli,” Ellie says. “Even though it’s my name on the door. Ellie’s Deli just had a ring to it. I take care of the business side of things, but when it comes to cooking, I’m hopeless.”
Storm grins. “I can burn water, so I hear you.”
“Storm here says you’ve been cooking for her,” Frank says. “What can we expect on Friday? Some Russian delicacy? What can we bring?”
“Wine would be great,” says Storm.
I look at her, eyebrows raised. She looks back, confused, then suddenly gets it. She gives me an exasperated nod. Yes, I’m over 21, it says.
I should have known. She worked in a bar.
“Perfect,” says Ellie. “We’re picking up Ramona and Greg, and Louis said he’d meet us at your place. He’s not sure if Chad can get off work in time for dinner, but he’ll try.”
Suddenly my guts are in knots: this dinner party is becoming real. Everything I’ve accomplished in my life – not all of it good, but none of it easy – and here I am, nervous about six people coming to my house that’s big enough for all of them to live in without me even knowing they’re there.
“Seven o’clock sound good?” Storm asks.
“See you then,” Ellie says with a wave as she heads back into the deli.
“You ever going to sell me that beauty, Nick?” asks Frank, pointing across the street to where the Mach 1 is parked.
“Sorry, Frank, the answer’s never going to change. She’s my baby.”
Storm, who’s been rooting through one of her shopping bags, suddenly stops and looks up, startled.
“What?” she yelps.
“I was talking about the car.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “Okay then.”
Frank gives me an “oh, shit” look. “On that note, I’ll get back to work. See you folks on Friday.”
Storm waves. “See you then. Nice to meet you!”
“Did you get what you needed?” I ask as Frank disappears into the deli.
“I’ll show you at home,” she says with a leer.
Home. I’m glad she thinks of it that way. We took a real step forward today, opening up the way we did. Arkady was the last stumbling block between us, and now that’s gone.
If you’d told me two weeks ago that I’d be standing downtown with a gorgeous blonde who’s half my age calling my house home, planning a fucking dinner party, of all things, I would have shook my head at you and walked away.
Now I can’t wait to get her home and see her dress.
A thought suddenly flits through my mind like a butterfly. Katrina, are you watching from where you are? Do you approve?
Something tells me she does.
Chapter Seventeen
17. STORM
The clear liquid tastes like what I would imagine gasoline tastes like and burns my throat as it heads down to my stomach, where it explodes in a nuclear fireball.
“What was that, drain cleaner?” I wheeze as I slam the shot glass back on the bar.
Nick shakes his head and knocks back his own. “You young people these days can’t drink anything unless it’s apple-cinnamon or blueberry flavored. This is real Russian vodka, made from potatoes, not corn. Strong enough to sterilize a bullet wound.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Seriously? You try to poison me, then you follow it up with a ‘young people these days’ shot?”
“That’s right,” he grins. “And while I’m on the subject, get off my lawn.”
I can’t help but giggle. “A joke and a pop culture reference from Silent Nick!”
“I’m full of unplumbed depths.”
“You’re full of something.”
“Walked right into that one,” he says with a wince.
“It’s okay,” I say, patting his hand. “The mind starts to dull a bit after a certain age.”
“That’s it,” he says coldly. “You’re going over my knee.”
I shriek and bolt from the sitting room toward the main staircase, Nick in hot pursuit. I giggle all the way down the second-floor hallway to the music room before finally collapsing, breathless, on the Hamlin’s antique bench.
“I give up!” I squeal, holding my hands up in surrender.
He takes them in his and pulls me up so that I’m sitting on the bench. He takes a seat beside me.
“Play for me,” he says.
Play for me. How many times have I heard those words in my life? Always a command, or worse, a demand. But from Nick, it’s a request, even though it’s not phrased as a question. Playing for him is a pleasure, not a chore.
“What would you like to hear?” I ask as I position myself at the keys.
“Do you know any Tchaikovsky?”
“Sure. Let me guess, you like him because he’s a good Russian composer, like your good potato wodka.” I say that last in a thick accent.
Nick shrugs. “They’re the only ones I know. We had to learn about them in school. Tchaikovsky, Shostakovich, Stravinsky, the ‘Mighty Five.’ As far as we knew, they were the only composers in the world.”
Again I’m struck by how limited his life must have been before he came to America. How small his perspective must have been. I may have had a shitty life growing up, but at least there was always the possibility of something better. Something to hope for. He never had that. Worse, he didn’t even know he could have that.
My fingers wander to the keys that start off Tchaikovsky’s Nocturne in F Minor. Some might call it a sleepy piece, but I’ve always found it has a haunting beauty to it.
Nick closes his eyes as he listens. I don’t know why, but this means more to me than I can ever say. It doesn’t come close to repaying him for everything he’s done for me, but it’s a start. He claps softly as the piece comes to an end.
“It amazes me that you can remember that without sheet music,” he says.
“It’s not really amazing,” I say. “That’s the only Tchaikovsky I know.”
“That’s lik
e saying ‘I can fly a plane, but only an F-18 fighter jet’. It’s still amazing.”
Even now, his praise makes me blush. “Thank you. Anything else you’d like to hear?”
“Play your own favorite piece.”
“My favorite?” I grin. “Okay, but you might be surprised.”
He sweeps a hand at the keys. “Now you’ve got me intrigued.”
“Remember, you asked for it.”
He nods and closes his eyes in anticipation. I guarantee he’s not expecting what comes next.
My fingers pound the keys four times, banging out the opening chords to Jerry Lee Lewis’s Great Balls of Fire, and Nick’s eyes snap open. I screech the lyrics about shaking my nerves and rattling my brains – there’s a reason I’m a pianist and not a singer – and Nick stares at me as I launch into the first verse.
There’s something primal about the song’s rollicking rhythm that I’ve loved since I was a little girl. Playing the classics can transport me and touch me deep inside, but sometimes I just want to pound the keys like a maniac and get the people around me moving.
Next thing I know, Nick is grinning and bobbing his head in time to the music. My caterwauling doesn’t seem to be putting him off, so I keep singing. By the third verse, he’s joined me.
Then I lose myself in the solo, with its sharp, driving notes, and Nick is grinning and nodding frantically along, spurring me to slam the keys down with all my strength. By the time we’re back to the chorus, both of us are screeching at the top of our lungs about chewing our nails and twiddling our thumbs.
I pound out the last four notes and we collapse into each other, laughing like kids.
“That was fun,” Nick sighs.
“I wish I’d been recording you,” I say. “I’d totally blackmail you with it. Nick the Grim is really the karaoke king of boogie-woogie.”
He straightens up immediately. “That’s not even funny.”
I nod sternly. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
Then we’re off again. When we finally calm down, Nick slides an arm around my waist. It feels so good, like a warm blanket.
“I wish I had a talent,” he says wistfully.