“Don't be silly. I know this place like my own home.” He took her hand, and led her upstairs to the pretty bedrooms, and Zoya smiled when she saw them. The lights were turned on, and the beds were turned down, as though she were expecting guests at any moment. But the rooms were obviously unoccupied, and as Zoya turned to go back downstairs, Simon pulled her into his arms with a deep laugh, and kissed her full on the lips. She was breathless when he let go of her, and her hair looked sexy and disheveled. And then, with a teasing look, he pulled her onto the bed with him, and Zoya gave a gasp as she tried to escape his caresses.
“Simon! What will Mrs. Whitman think! Stop that! … we'll get the bed all messed up! … Simon! …”
But he was laughing at her as he sat back under the huge canopy and laughed. “I certainly hope so.”
“Simon! Will you get up?” She was laughing at him too. He looked perfectly comfortable as he sat fully dressed on the bed in one of Mrs. Whitman's two guest rooms.
“I will not”
“You're drunk!” But he'd hardly had a thing to drink all day, except for her very proper little sherry, and he hadn't had enough to make him drunk. But it was obvious that he was enjoying himself immensely. And then with a long arm, he reached out and pulled Zoya toward him.
“I'm not drunk. But you were right this morning, when you said you'd been abducted. I thought it might do you good to get away for a day or two, my love. So here we are, safely tucked into my secret hideaway.” He planted a kiss on her open lips and then smiled at her as she stared at him. “Consider yourself abducted.” He looked immensely pleased with himself as Zoya stared at him in amazement.
“Are you serious? We're staying here?”
“I am, and we are. In fact,” he looked faintly embarrassed for the first time, “I took the liberty of bringing a few things I thought you might need.” He looked sheepish and Zoya grinned at him in wonder.
“Simon, you are extraordinary!” She bounced onto the bed next to him like a child and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. As it turned out, he had bought her a beautiful satin nightgown and peignoir, matching slippers, and had bought all sorts of creams and lotions and bath oils that he had thought might please her, along with two shades of lipstick, a new toothbrush, and the brand of toothpaste he had previously observed in her bathroom. He had packed it all in a small suitcase, which he brought upstairs to her a few moments later, and set it down in the bedroom next door to his own, as she proceeded to go through it with little gurgles of delight, and then she suddenly turned to him. “What will Mrs. Whitman think of our staying here, Simon? She knows we're not married.” And she had seemed so terribly proper, although Simon knew she was far less stuffy than she looked, and had a terrific sense of humor. Besides which, it was difficult to resist two people as obviously in love as they were.
“What can she possibly think, Zoya? We have separate bedrooms.” Zoya nodded, and went back to unpacking the treasures Simon had bought her, and was touched to discover a huge bottle of her favorite perfume.
“Good lord, Simon, is there anything you didn't think of?”
“I certainly hope not.” He put his arms around her again, and then went to bring the rest of their sandwiches upstairs to their rooms with another glass of sherry. He had offered to take her out to dinner, but Zoya had insisted that she wasn't hungry.
“I'd love that.” He lit a fire in his room, and they sat cozily in front of it, eating watercress sandwiches and Mrs. Whitman's delicate little English biscuits, which she said were exactly like the ones her grandmother used to have for her when she was a child in Russia. “This is perfect, darling, isn't it?” She leaned over and kissed him again, and he looked at her contentedly. She was everything he had always wanted.
She left him around nine o'clock, and went to her own room to get ready for bed. They were both tired, and Simon sensed that she was nervous. He heard her running a bath, and it was a long time before he heard sounds in her room again. He wondered what she was doing and how she looked in the ivory satin nightgown. It was something to wear on a wedding night, which was precisely how he had pictured their secret weekend. He walked slowly to the door, and knocked softly, and when the door opened, his breath caught as he saw her. The satin gown molded her perfectly and her red hair flowed softly over her shoulders, as the creamy flesh of her neck beckoned him to touch her.
“My God … you look incredible …”
“This is beautiful, Simon … thank you …” She looked shy as she took a step back into the room and looked at him. He had never seen anyone lovelier. She managed to look both regal and inviting and it was all he could do to force himself not to reach out and grab her. But he didn't dare, she looked like fine porcelain as she stood there, like one of Mrs. Whitman's delicate English treasures in her parlor.
“Zoya …”
She smiled slowly at him, not a girl anymore, but a woman, a woman who had come to love him deeply, with all his gentleness, and his thoughtful gestures and kindness to her. She knew as she looked at him that she had been blessed the day she met him.
“Why don't you come in for a little while.” She stepped aside, and her voice was husky as she invited him in. He stepped over the threshold feeling like a boy again, and then feeling the force of his manhood push aside his reserve, he took her in his arms, and the gown slipped slowly from her shoulders as he held her. It took the merest touch to drop it to her waist and then past her slim hips, and within moments she stood naked before him.
“I love you so much.” He could barely speak as he kissed her lips and her neck, and her breasts, and then let his lips drift over her body, and then with a single powerful gesture he swept her into his arms and onto the bed, and a moment later, he lay there beside her. He made love to her as he had longed to since the day they met, and the room was quiet when they lay beside each other at last, sated, and happy and bonded for a lifetime. She was everything he had wanted her to be. She was more than he had ever dreamed of.
“I love you, Simon.” And she knew as she said the words that she loved him as she had no other man before him. She was a woman now, and she was his woman, as she always would be. The present and the future were theirs, and the past was only a dim memory, as they went back to his room and turned off the lights, and lay in his bed, watching the fire turn to embers. And after they made love again, they drifted off to sleep in each other's arms, their dreams complete, their bodies one, their lives joined as surely as if they had been married that night at Mrs. Whitman's. It was the perfect wedding night, and the next morning, their breakfast appeared mysteriously on trays in Mrs. Whitman's parlor, as Zoya donned the ivory satin peignoir over her bare flesh and followed Simon downstairs with a happy giggle.
“This feels absolutely sinful, doesn't it?” she whispered over blueberry muffins. She handed one to Simon and poured his coffee. It was as though she had never belonged to any other man. It had been so long since she had been Clayton's wife, and she was someone else now. But Simon only smiled at her and shook his head.
“I don't feel sinful at all. I feel married.”
“So do I,” she said softly, and looked at him, her eyes filled with everything she felt, and without another word, he took her back upstairs, the muffins untouched, the coffee forgotten.
CHAPTER
39
In the next two weeks, everything between them seemed to change. They belonged to each other and they knew it. The only obstacle left to overcome was the fact that Zoya hadn't met his parents. She was nervous about meeting them, but he reassured her as best he could after surprising her one Friday night by telling her he had told his mother he was bringing her to dinner.
“What did she say?” Zoya looked at him worriedly, wearing a new black dress. He hadn't warned her, so as not to frighten her. He had just said they were going out. And now, suddenly, despite all that had happened between them at Mrs. Whitman's two weeks before, she felt like a young girl again, terrified at the prospect of meetin
g his mother.
“Do you really want to know?” He laughed. “She asked me if you were Jewish.”
“Oh no … and wait until she hears my accent. When she finds out I'm Russian, it's going to be awful.”
“Don't be silly.” But she was right. Simon had scarcely introduced them when his mother narrowed her eyes at Zoya.
“Zoya Andrews? What kind of a name is that? Is your family Russian?” She assumed she had been named for a grandmother, or some distant relative. She stood almost as tall as Simon, and looked down at Zoya.
“No, Mrs. Hirsch,” Zoya looked at her with her big green eyes, praying that the storm wouldn't come.” am.”
“You are Russian?” She asked the question in her mother tongue, and Zoya almost smiled at the accent. It was the accent of the peasants she had known in her youth, and for an instant she was reminded of Feodor and his cozy wife, Ludmilla.
“I am Russian,” she admitted again, but this time in her own language, which she spoke with the smooth diction and poise of the upper classes. She knew that the older woman would recognize it instantly, and more than likely hate her for it.
“From where?” The inquisition went on as Simon looked helplessly at his father, who was also intently watching Zoya. He liked what he saw, she was an attractive woman with obvious breeding and good manners. Simon had done well for himself, but he also knew that there was no stopping Sofia, Simon's mother.
“From St. Petersburg,” Zoya answered with a quiet smile.
“St. Petersburg?” She was impressed, but she would rather have died than say it. “What was your family name?”
For the first time in her life, she was grateful that it wasn't Romanov, but her own name wasn't much better. She almost laughed as she faced the giant in the printed housedress. She had arms almost like a man's, which made Zoya feel all the more childlike. “Ossupov. Zoya Konstantinovna Ossupov.”
“Why don't we sit down while we talk?” Simon suggested uncomfortably as his mother showed no sign of relenting, and made no move toward the room's straight-backed chairs in their small apartment on Houston Street.
“When did you come here?” She asked Zoya bluntly, as Simon groaned inwardly. He suspected what was coming.
“After the war, madame. I went to Paris in 1917, after the revolution.” There was no point concealing what she was. She only felt sorry for Simon, who looked miserable as he listened to the exchange between his mother and the woman he wanted to marry. But after the bond of their lovemaking and the closeness that had been born of it, they both knew that nothing could keep them apart now.
“So, they threw you out after the revolution.”
Zoya smiled at her. “I suppose you could call it that. I left with my grandmother,” and then her eyes grew serious, “after my family was killed.”
“So was mine,” Sofia Hirsch said bluntly. Their name had previously been Hirschov, but the immigration officer at Ellis Island had been too lazy to write their full name, and without further ado they had become Hirsch instead of Hirschov. “My family was killed in the pogroms, by the Tsar's Cossacks.” Zoya had heard tales of that as a child, but she had never realized that she would one day be put in a position to defend it.
“I'm very sorry.”
“Mmm …” Simon's mother glowered and then stalked out to the kitchen to finish making dinner. And when it was ready, his mother lit the candles, and chanted the Sabbath prayer. His mother kept a kosher home, and had made the traditional challah, which they served with ceremonial wine. It was all a new experience for Zoya. “Do you know what kosher is?” she asked halfway through dinner.
“No … I … yes … well, not really.” They were still speaking Russian, and Zoya felt awkward about her lack of knowledge. “You don't drink milk with meat.” It was the best she could do, as his mother glowered at him again and referred to him constantly as “Shimon,” talking to him in Yiddish instead of Russian.
“Everything has to be kept separate. Dairy must never touch meat.” They had separate plates, and with their new prosperity, she now had two ovens. It all sounded very complicated to Zoya as she explained, but she was fiercely proud of her devotion to Talmudic law, and then she looked proudly at her son as Zoya smiled. “He's so smart, he could have been a rabbi. But what does he do? He goes to Seventh Avenue and throws his family out of the business.”
“Mama, that's not true,” Simon smiled. “Papa retired, and so did Uncle Joe and Uncle Isaac.” Zoya realized as she listened that this was an aspect of his life she hadn't truly understood. It was one thing to hear him tell about it, and another to actually meet them. She felt suddenly terrified that she would never measure up in their eyes. She knew nothing of his religion, or how important it was to him. She didn't even know if he himself was religious, although somehow she suspected that he wasn't. Her own religion wasn't extremely important to her, although she believed in God. But she only went to the Orthodox church on Easter and Christmas.
“What did your father do?” Sofia Hirsch fired the question at her, after Zoya had helped her to clear the table. She already knew that Zoya worked in a shop, and that Simon had met her in Paris.
“My father was in the army.” Zoya answered as the older woman almost shrieked.
“Not a Cossack?”
“No, Mama, of course not,” Simon answered for her, he was obviously anxious to leave, and Zoya suddenly thought it all very funny. Their two lives, from such different beginnings had met in the middle somewhere, and after years of touting her title to some, she was now having to assure this woman that her father hadn't been a Cossack. And suddenly, she saw from the corner of her eye that Simon thought it was funny too. It was as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. And he decided to tease his mother a little. He knew she would be impressed, even though she might pretend to be horrified. He already sensed that his father approved, and even if his mother did, she wouldn't admit it. “Zoya is a countess, Mama. She's just too humble to use her title.”
“A countess of what?” his mother asked, and Zoya laughed openly this time.
“Of absolutely nothing anymore. You're quite right. All of that is finished.” The revolution had been nineteen years before, and although not forgotten, it seemed like part of another lifetime.
There was a long silence then, as Simon was thinking of how to make a graceful exit with Zoya, when his mother spoke in mournful tones, as though to whatever gods might be listening. “It's a shame she's not Jewish.” Simon smiled. It was as close as Sofia would come to saying that she liked her. “Would she convert?” She asked Simon pointedly as though Zoya were not in the room, and as Zoya sat looking startled, Simon answered for her.
“Of course not, Mama. Why should she?”
His father offered her another glass of wine, as Simon patted her hand, and his mother looked at Zoya with continuing interest.
“Simon says you have children.” It was more of an accusation than a question, but Zoya smiled, always proud of them.
“Yes, I have two.”
“You're divorced.”
Simon groaned inwardly as Zoya smiled at Sofia. “No, I'm a widow. My husband died seven years ago, of a heart attack.” She decided to tell her just so she didn't think she had killed him.
“That's too bad. How old are they?”
“My son, Nicholas, is almost fifteen, and Alexandra is eleven.” Sofia nodded, seemingly satisfied for once, and Simon took the opportunity to stand up, and say they had to go, as Zoya rose and thanked her for dinner.
“It was nice to meet you,” Sofia said grudgingly, as her husband smiled. He had barely spoken all evening, except occasionally, in a low voice to Simon. He was a shy man, who had spent half a century in the shadow of the far more talkative Sofia. “Come again sometime,” she said politely as Zoya shook her hand, and thanked her again in her aristocratic Russian. And Simon knew that the next day, she would call him and he would get an earful.
He escorted Zoya to the waiting Cadillac parked dow
nstairs and heaved a sigh of relief as he slid behind the wheel, and looked agonizingly at the woman he loved.
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you here.”
Zoya laughed at the look on his face. “Don't be silly.” She leaned over and kissed him. “My mother would have been much worse. Just be grateful you don't have to face her.”
“I can't believe the questions she asks, and she wonders why I never bring anyone home. I would have to be crazy! Meshugge! “ he added in Yiddish, tapping his head to explain it to Zoya as she laughed and he drove her slowly home.
“Listen, just wait till Sasha starts giving you a hard time. So far, she's been an angel.”
“Then we're even. I swear, I'll never do that to you again.”
“Yes, you will, and I don't mind. I was just terrified she'd ask me something about the Tsar. I didn't want to lie to her, but I wasn't dying to tell her the truth,” she smiled. “I'm just glad we're not Romanovs. She would have collapsed over the dinner.” He laughed at the thought, and took her to the Copacabana for a while, to relax and drink champagne. As far as Simon was concerned, it had been a very rough evening. But Zoya was surprised at how smoothly it had gone. She had actually expected it to be worse, which horrified Simon.
“How could it have been worse?”
“She could have asked me to leave. At one point, I thought she would.”
“She wouldn't dare. She's not as mean as she looks.” He smiled sheepishly, “And she makes great chicken soup.”
“I'll ask her to teach me,” and then Zoya suddenly remembered something she had wondered. “Do we have to do kosher food?” But he couldn't stop laughing when she asked him. “Well, do we?”
“My mother would be thrilled if we did, but let me tell you, my love, I would refuse to eat at home. Just don't worry about that stuff. All right? Promise?” He leaned over and kissed her as the band started playing his favorite song, it was “I've Got You Under My Skin,” by Cole Porter. “Would you like to dance, Mrs. Andrews, or should I call you Countess Ossupov?”
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