Winter's Gift

by Alix Nichols

  The man nodded and held out a business card. “My name is Boris Shevtsov. Please go ahead and look me and my company up.”

  Rob took the card. “Will do. I still have a couple of questions though. First, why don’t you have someone spy on the girl’s father directly? Why this roundabout approach?”

  Boris sighed. “Anton Malakhov is spy proof. He’s extremely discrete and not given to excesses of any kind. No wife or known girlfriend. Very few friends. A practically nonexistent social life.”

  “Have you tried through work? A mole intern is a textbook tactic.” Rob tried to hide his sarcasm.

  The man raised an eyebrow. “I’m familiar with it, thank you. And yes, I’ve tried it. But his people do advanced background checks on every recruit, including interns. So I figured spying on his daughter was as close as I could get to spying on him.”

  “What happens if the girl has no inclination to be friends with me? How long would you want me to keep trying?” Used to girls seeking his attention, Rob wasn’t sure how good he would be at making the first steps. Natural-looking first steps.

  Boris smirked. “Trust me, you won’t have to try for very long. I’ve watched her from afar for a week now. She’s always by herself. Doesn’t seem to have any friends in Paris.”

  “How come?”

  “She’s new here. She’s shy. And here comes a handsome educated boy like you offering friendship? Oh, I think she’ll be interested.”

  “Give me a day to think about it.”

  Boris nodded and pushed a photo in front of Rob. “Her name is Lena.”

  Rob looked at the picture, then at Boris. “That’s her? I’ve seen this girl down here a couple of times, with her books and laptop.” He paused before adding, “Are you sure it’s her?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Rob shrugged. “She just doesn’t look like a Russian minigarch to me. Where are the oversized sunglasses, tons of makeup, extravagant shoes, and the flashy Louis Vuitton handbag? She looks like the girl next door.”

  “Must be her Swiss boarding school education. Then again, Anton Malakhov isn’t your stereotypical Russian oligarch either.”

  Stepping out of the cheese shop, Lena eyed the stately—albeit a little worn—limestone building on the other side of rue Cadet.

  My new home.

  Her gaze lingered on the café, Bistro La Bohème, that occupied part of the ground floor. It had all the requisite attributes of a Paris café: red awnings, wicker chairs, and tiny round tables overflowing onto the sidewalk. Over the past week, the bistro had become her stomping ground.

  She crossed the street, keyed in the code and pushed the green gate that creaked open onto a cobbled courtyard. Across the way, she had to enter a second code to gain access to a glass door before she stepped into the foyer. The building smelled of old floorboards and something much less enchanting.

  Trash.

  What a change after her sterile student residence in Geneva!

  A few minutes later, Lena and her grocery bags were safely inside her apartment. She went straight to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, tired after her long walk and grocery shopping. But it was “good tired.” She liked the 9th arrondissement, or le neuvième, for its diversity. Quintessentially French, le neuvième was also Jewish, Armenian, Greek, and Arabic. Its arched passages cutting through handsome buildings were lined with antique shops and secondhand bookstores. Its streets ran in wayward directions, forming a web rather than a grid. She would do something celebratory, she resolved, the day she managed to find her way around the 9th without a map.

  Originally, Lena was supposed to move into a high-end apartment complex in the posh 16th arrondissement. But having spent the past seven years of her life in Switzerland, she refused to live in a place that would remind her of its eerie neatness.

  Not that she’d been unhappy in Switzerland. She’d had absolutely no reason to be. She was the pampered heiress to an oligarch. Like many minigarchs, she’d been sent to one of the best European boarding schools at the age of sixteen. When she decided to continue her education at the University of Geneva, she got her father’s full support. She’d been happy in Switzerland, Lena repeated to herself, even as her mind flashed an image of her last picnic with Gerhard. The one that put an end to their relationship.

  “I’m moving to Paris,” she had announced as soon as they sat on the campus lawn, with their croissants and paper coffee cups.

  “Oh,” Gerhard had said.

  As she waited for him to say something more, she began to feel the dampness of the grass through her jeans. She shifted to sit on her heels. An early morning picnic in April, without a blanket to buffer the dew, had been a dumb idea.

  As the silence stretched, and the dark sky threatened to burst out sobbing any minute, Lena wished they’d picked a spot by the wall.

  So that she could bang her head against it.

  “Why now? It’s only a couple of months until our graduation,” Gerhard said at length.

  “I want to write my thesis there.”

  “Isn’t it easier to write it on campus?”

  “It is. But I’d rather do it in Paris.”

  Come on, get mad. At least annoyed. Anything.

  He shrugged. “OK, then.”

  Her throat hurt. It was amazing she could still breathe given the size of the lump that had formed there. She’d been stupid to think she could provoke him into an emotional outburst. This was Gerhard—a paragon of self-control.

  “After I get the degree,” she said. “I’ll probably go back to Moscow. Or maybe stay in Paris for a year. I haven’t decided yet.”

  He stared at her.

  Ask me to stay. Please. Just ask.

  “I don’t like Paris,” he said. “It’s noisy and dirty. And polluted.”

  She gave him a long unblinking stare, and then shifted her gaze to the vast lawn. So much for her brilliant idea to shake him up a little.

  This is it—the end.

  “I’ll visit you,” he said with the enthusiasm of a child in front of boiled broccoli.

  “No you won’t,” she said with a sad smile.

  He didn’t argue.

  Over the next week, she packed up, found a place in Paris, and left.

  And now look at her! How could she feel so content only two weeks after breaking up with her boyfriend of two years? Must be this city, operating its magic. Even the embryonic state of her thesis couldn’t bring her down.

  Lena looked forward to her dad’s usual seven o’clock call so that she could share her high spirits with him.

  When he called, she had just arrived in the downstairs bistro.

  “So, how was your eighth day in Paris?” Anton asked.

  “Fantastic. But then again, how could it be otherwise?”

  “I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you. Haven’t you heard about these poor Japanese tourists?” he asked.

  “I thought they were rather rich.”

  “Poor as in unfortunate. They arrive in Paris with such an idealized image that they can’t handle its dirty streets, rude waiters, and aggressive pigeons. There’s a special agency now that repatriates them to Japan before they completely lose it and jump from the top of Notre Dame.”

  Lena laughed. “I may have arrived here from Switzerland, but let’s not forget I’m a Muscovite. I’m sure I can handle dirty streets and rude waiters. As for the pigeons, I already have an arrangement with the ones on my street.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I share my croissant with them, and in exchange they protect me from other pigeons. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Yeah, I wish the pigeons were my only worry, Lena.” Anton’s tone had grown too serious for Lena’s liking. “You’re all alone in Paris, with no one to go to if you need help.”

  Oh please, not again. Next, he’d bring up her heart condition and how she couldn’t be too careful. He made a huge deal out of her arrhythmia. Even when her cardiologist didn’t. All the good doc
tor had asked her to do was avoid strenuous effort and saunas.

  Anton took an audible breath. “In Geneva, you had Marta and Ivan. They’re like family. They know what to do, should you . . . feel unwell.”

  “Dad, I too know what to do, should I feel unwell.”

  “Of course, you do. But it’s not just that. Marta and Ivan had you over for dinner every week, you enjoyed playing with their kids, they took care of you when you had the flu.”

  All of it was true, and she didn’t know how to argue with that.

  “I don’t have anyone in Paris whom I could ask to watch over you like that,” he said.

  “I don’t need—” she started.

  “I’m going to hire someone, Lena. Besides everything else, I’m worried about your safety. There are people who may want to harm me and . . .”

  Anton didn’t finish the sentence, but Lena knew it was about his haunting fear that someone might kidnap her for ransom. Or worse—hurt her as a way of hurting him. She didn’t want to make light of his fears. But she also knew that if she didn’t nip this idea in the bud, she would find herself encumbered with a chaperon for the rest of her stay in Paris.

  “Dad, I wasn’t yet seventeen when you sent me off to Switzerland,” she said patiently. “I’m twenty-three now and I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Hmm.”

  Lena chose to ignore that. “Besides, nobody knows I’m in Paris. To anyone outside our closest circle I’m still in Geneva.”

  Anton didn’t argue with that, which was a good sign. Lena continued with as much conviction as she could muster. “I’m perfectly safe here, don’t you see? I’m a Miss Nobody. And if I ever get lonely, I can just jump on the train and go to Marta and Ivan’s.”

  Thankfully, her mention of the family friends reminded Anton to give Lena their regards, after which he told her about her grandparents’ Black Sea vacation. The conversation ended on an upbeat note, and Lena hung up relieved.

  “Ready to order, mademoiselle?”

  She looked up. The waiter standing by her table was in his midtwenties and very good-looking. Scratch that, he was jaw-droppingly handsome in that dark, intense and yet wholesome way the ancient gods could be. And it wasn’t just his face. He was tall—well, French-tall, not Dutch-tall—lean, and broad shouldered. He was wearing the same café uniform all other waiters wore: a stark white shirt, black pants, and a long black apron tied around his hips. Lena mentally whistled at how it emphasized the exquisite narrowness of said hips.

  She ordered her dish and a bottle of mineral water.

  “No wine? Are you expecting someone later or will you be dining by yourself?” the black-aproned Adonis asked.

  “It’s none of your business, monsieur,” she said curtly.

  His question made her regret she didn’t have company tonight. It made her want to tell him she was waiting for her boyfriend—no, her two boyfriends. She itched to wipe that grin off his face and tell him to find another victim for his snobbery.

  She composed herself, straightened her back, and said, looking past him, “Would you kindly relay my order to the chef and then tend to your other customers?”

  “So much impertinence in one so young.” He shook his head admonishingly. “I’ll be back with the water as soon as I possibly can. We’re very busy today, you see.” He smiled.

  Was he provoking her? She decided she didn’t care, gave him a cursory nod, and pulled out her iPad. She had a more important matter to consider than the shoulder-to-hip ratio of male servers.

  She had to figure out what to write to her mom.

  As students began to file out of the lecture hall, Rob turned to Amanda. “Did you have a chance to look at my paper?”

  “Yep.” She rummaged through her tote bag and handed Rob his draft essay.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Your verdict?”

  “Much better now, monsieur Dumont,” she said in a posh voice, imitating one of their professors. “And those charts you added—they really did the trick.”

  Rob smiled. “You have my undying gratitude, mademoiselle Roussel.”

  “It’ll fetch you another A, Robby Boy, or maybe even an A plus.” She touched his arm. “Mark my words.”

  Rob’s smile grew to a full-fledged grin. “Well, let’s hope your crystal ball tells the truth.”

  “It always does, as you well know by now.”

  “Would you like me to take a stab at yours?” he offered.

  “Nah, Mat already did. Mr. Thorough gave me twenty-five very specific suggestions to work through before tomorrow’s deadline.” Amanda rolled her eyes. “So, thanks, but no thanks.”

  “OK. Maybe next time, then.” Rob collected his papers and stood. It was the time to bottle up his French pride and go to Starbucks across the street. “Will you at least let me buy you a latte?”

  “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

  As they walked to the Starbucks, Rob whistled a silly tune. When Amanda raised an eyebrow, he just spread his arms as if to say, I can’t help it. His life was exactly what he’d wanted it to be. He had a solid chance to graduate top of his class and find a good job. His best friends Amanda and Mat were not far behind. He’d make Grand-papa proud and prove to his parents he’d made the right choice. He’d show them it had been worth it, especially the last two years of all work and no play. But didn’t all ambitious young people have to go through a few tough years if they wanted to make it in this world? At least, most of his friends did.

  Rob pulled out his cell phone. “Let me call Mat. He may want to join us at Starbucks.”

  A hint of disappointment flickered in Amanda’s eyes, but she schooled her features into a pleasant smile. “I think he has a class right now.”

  “Does he? I thought he finished before us on Thursdays . . . I’m probably confusing it with Fridays. Anyway, let me try.”

  Mat answered his phone and said he’d meet them for a mocha.

  “See? I knew he’d be free by now,” Rob said.

  “Great.” Amanda turned away from him and pushed open the door to the coffee temple.

  Ten minutes later, the three of them sprawled on soft leather armchairs and sipped their brews.

  “I wish there were more cafés in this city where you could slouch like this,” Rob said.

  “As opposed to having to keep your elbows close, so you won’t knock over your neighbors’ drinks,” Amanda said.

  Mat looked up from his mug. “Are you describing La Bohème?”

  Amanda only smiled.

  Rob gave a sigh. “Yeah, sounds like it . . . apart from those two larger tables we have in the back with padded banquettes.”

  Amanda turned to Mat. “So, Mathieu, have you made up your mind about what you want to do with your MBA? Will you stay in Paris and get a normal job or enter small-town politics in Normandy?”

  “I’m still not sure. I keep changing my mind. The thing is, I’m as attached to home as I am to Paris.”

  “How convenient for me that my home is Paris,” Amanda said.

  Mat brushed his unruly curls from his face and sighed. “It’s like asking me to choose between Calvados brandy and Bordeaux wine and stick to that choice for the rest of my life.”

  “You do realize that you don’t have to stick with your choice for the rest of your life, right?” Amanda looked at Mat like he was a confused child.

  “Yes, yes, of course I do. Anyway, I may end up in neither Paris nor Baleville if I get a job offer I can’t refuse in Singapore,” Mat said.

  “Singapore is the place to be these days. Who knows, you may love it there.” Amanda put her drink down and gave Mat a sly look. “But what about Jeanne, your blue-haired muse? You’d be so very far from her!”

  “Over the past two years of our unilateral courtship, I’ve gotten no further with Jeanne than I was on the day I first laid eyes on her lip piercing.” Mat’s gaze became unfocused behind his thick eyeglasses. “I don’t think Jeanne would notice if I left for Singapore this min
ute and didn’t show up at La Bohème for a whole week.”

  “Oh, but she would,” Rob said. “You always tip, and there isn’t a waiter on this planet who wouldn’t notice the disappearance of a loyal tipping customer.”

  Mat shrugged. “That’s all I am to her—a loyal tipping customer.”

  “Well, at least, you should be happy you can afford to tip, what with our ginormous tuition fees and the payment deadline looming,” Amanda said.

  And with that little remark, Rob’s sense of a benevolent universe vanished, along with his precious moment of self-indulgence. The specter of the tuition fee oozed into his head, chased all his lightness away, and reclaimed its royal share of his attention. His bright future would crumble like a house of cards if he didn’t pay the fees before the end of August. No degree, no good job, no prospects.

  Amanda looked at him with concern. “Rob? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Well, no, actually . . . I’m just a little worried about tuition.”

  “Now, if I know you well, a little would be a euphemism for a lot, right?” Mat said.

  “Well, no, not a lot. But maybe just a little more than a little. Let’s say, if I applied German discipline and precision to my language, I’d say I’m moderately worried.”

  Mat and Amanda both smiled, but Amanda wouldn’t let go. “I thought your tuition was taken care of. Didn’t you get a waiver?”

  “I was sure I would but it didn’t work out. And I didn’t get the loan, either.”

  “Are you serious?” Mat asked.

  “Banks in this country don’t like lending to students whose parents don’t act as guarantors.”

  “Your parents didn’t agree to be your guarantors?” Mat sounded surprised.

  “I didn’t ask them. The banker wanted proof I had a job lined up.” Rob smirked. “I gave her proof I had a part-time job waiting tables. Turned out it wasn’t the kind of job she had in mind.”

  “Why don’t you just borrow from your parents? They should be able to help you out, yes?” Amanda asked.

  “I can’t. When I left home six years ago, my parents were mad. They had other plans for me… So they told me not to expect any help from them.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t mean it,” Mat said.