The Wonder of You

by Susan May Warren

  “I’ll be quite wealthy, should I decide to helm the family business, as my uncle intends.”

  “Quite wealthy . . . I thought you were poor. I gave you clothes to wear. I thought . . .” She yanked her hand away.

  The floating puzzle pieces crashed down, fitting perfectly.

  Professional student. Cultured. Paris hotel. His crazy stories about sailing and climbing a mountain and . . . “Oh, my. You are a playboy!”

  “What?” He recoiled at her words, but she scooted away from him, the cheese and juice pitching together in her stomach, nauseating her.

  “You lied to me. You really, really lied to me. This is . . . epic lying!”

  His mouth tightened into a grim line. “I know. But I had to know if you loved me without the portfolio. And now I know—”

  “But you . . . you came here. You got a job. At a coffee shop! What was that? You mocking us?”

  “No! I—”

  “What was with the lumberjack competition? You must have been laughing at me every moment, trying to help you defeat Seth, making me believe you were the underdog, needing my help—”

  “I do need your help!” His voice echoed across the water.

  “You can buy a fleet of professional birling coaches, Roark. You hardly need my help for anything.”

  “But that’s just it, Amelia. You don’t see me as a man with means—”

  “Believe me, yes, I do. I see exactly who you are. And I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.”

  “Does it mean nothing to you that I came all the way over to America, tried to live your life? I’m the same man with or without my inheritance.”

  “No, you’re not. Because a man without his inheritance would have no reason to lie to me. But apparently you think because you’re wealthy, I can’t see past that? I’m so shallow that money might speak louder than . . . honesty? Character?”

  Based on his expression, that’s exactly what he thought.

  Perfect.

  Her voice fell. “Yes, it does mean something that you came here. It means my stupidity has no borders. I can be a fool on both sides of the ocean.” She was standing now, gripping the side of the boat, looking for the captain. He turned from where he stood at the helm. “Take me back to shore.”

  “But your cruise isn’t over.”

  “It is over.” She stared at Roark, her stomach hollowing, only horror remaining. “It’s most definitely over.”

  MAX WAS QUIETLY DYING. Not physically—not yet—but as the days had ticked down to Yulia’s departure, he wondered what would kill him first: watching his wife suffer with the worst of faux smiles painted on her face, or seeing Yulia’s naiveté as she wove her way into their lives, not knowing that in a few hours from now, she would be torn away from them.

  “Which one do you want, Tiger?” Darek crouched at the edge of a baby gate separating them from the squirming golden retriever puppies. The litter climbed over one another, eager to reach Tiger’s outstretched hand. Tiger giggled when one found his finger and started to gnaw with its sharp puppy teeth.

  The tiny yips, however, made Yulia pull back, and for a moment, she turned to where Max knelt behind her and cowered into his shoulder. He put his arm around her, glanced at Darek, who shrugged.

  “Shh. It’s okay,” Max said, drawing her close. “They won’t hurt you.”

  In some ways, she seemed so strong, facing the sudden loss of her family without blinking. Yes, she’d known them only for a week, their trip to the north shore having been a celebration of her arrival stateside. Still, she seemed more bonded with the Christiansens than she had with her former adoptive family.

  Probably he could blame Grace’s pampering, the endless batches of pancakes, cookies, pies, and cinnamon rolls the little girl helped make. Ingrid had even sewn Yulia her own apron, with pink ruffles and a giant pocket in front. She now pulled up a stool every time Grace entered the kitchen.

  Max could also blame himself for Yulia’s new culinary skills. After he’d cleaned the walleye, she’d helped him bread it, and they fried it up. Then he’d made homemade steak fries and let her shake the bag of seasoning.

  It turned into a sort of dance, thanks to the local radio show, and apparently started a tradition because now whenever the music played, she leaped into his arms and expected him to do a clumsy waltz around the room.

  Which he didn’t mind.

  Especially when Grace looked at him with a shine of approval in her eyes.

  He could also blame Ingrid for hauling out all the old picture books that he’d started reading aloud to Yulia. Not that she understood, but she seemed to like the pictures and settled upon The Story about Ping and Go, Dog. Go! as her favorites. Which he now had memorized. But he wouldn’t exactly complain about whiling away his evenings with her on his lap, her head on his shoulder as she dropped off into an exhausted slumber.

  She smelled like talcum powder and fresh laundry, and although clearly she had decided not to speak, her giggles sweetened the air and turned the clouds to sun.

  Now, as the puppies yipped, she trembled in his arms. “Yulia. Sweetie. It’s okay. They won’t hurt you.”

  Darek scooped one up under its belly and held it out to Tiger, who approached the animal. It licked his face, and he backed away, laughing. “It kissed me!”

  Yulia looked up, her brown eyes big.

  Max gestured to Darek, who handed him the puppy. About a month old, the animal wriggled its entire body, writhing to get away. Max held it to his chest, cupping his other hand over the body to soothe the pup. He got the puppy to settle down, then told Yulia, “You can pet him.” He kept his voice soft, his body still.

  She reached out her hand, two fingers touching the puppy’s back. The animal curled its head, trying to lick her.

  She yanked her hand away.

  “He won’t hurt you. He’s just a baby.” How much she understood, he couldn’t know, but maybe his tone bore enough calm for her to reach out again. This time she touched the pup’s nose, giggled when he licked her fingertips. She glanced at Max, her eyes brightening, and he nodded.

  She touched the puppy again, running her hand down its head, then moved closer to Max, still giggling.

  “I don’t know, Max. I think you have a new member of your family.”

  For a second, Darek’s words stopped him cold. What? No, he wasn’t—

  “Grace would love a puppy. She’s mentioned it at least twice since I said Tiger was picking from the litter.”

  Oh. Right. Max manufactured a smile, something easy, as if Darek’s words didn’t still have a vise grip on his heart.

  Because, for a second, a long second, even after Darek clarified, the image of Yulia in their lives lingered. Her laughter, that sweet smile, the way she looked at him with so much . . . trust, maybe. Or adoration?

  No. It wouldn’t work. Couldn’t work. They weren’t ready. And despite Grace’s tears at the thought of Yulia returning to Ukraine, she hadn’t mentioned adopting her, not once. As if she, too, knew it wasn’t quite time to add to their family.

  Someday. Not now. But soon, before his health started to take up too much room in their lives.

  Tiger had already picked out a different pup—bigger, rounder. “This one, Dad. I think his name is Raphael.”

  “Why not Butch or Duke?”

  “Dad. It’s after the TMNTs.”

  When Darek raised an eyebrow, Max shook his head. “Dude. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

  “Right. I feel so old,” Darek said. “Okay, pal. We’ll put your name on this one. You can pick him up in a couple weeks.”

  Max stood to put the puppy back in the cage, but Yulia grabbed ahold of his arm, shaking her head. He paused. “What is it, honey?”

  She bit her lip, pressed close to the puppy, then put her head down on its back.

  Darek waited, frowning. Max’s throat turned thick, itchy. “Sweetie, we have to give him back. He doesn’t belong to us.”

  Her bottom lip bega
n to tremble, and he felt it like claws raking over his heart. Because his very words tore through him.

  We have to give him back. He doesn’t belong to us.

  He took a breath as he put the puppy in the pen. Yulia stood silently, fighting her trembling lip. Then she turned away and headed to the door.

  “I think she’s mad at you,” Darek said, pulling out his checkbook for the breeder.

  “I’m mad at me,” Max said, not sure exactly why.

  They got in Darek’s truck and headed to the resort, Tiger talking with wild hand gestures, and without pause, to Yulia in the backseat.

  “You okay?” Darek said quietly to Max.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I was just thinking that you might be thinking about the fact that Yulia is leaving today. And that you happen to be kind of attached to her.”

  Max looked away. “She’s cute. I’ve done my part in trying to take her off Grace’s hands while they were packing her things. It’s going to be hard enough on her—seeing them pack up her stuff will only make it worse.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Darek said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that you, of all people, don’t have to live by the rules. You get to bend them. And nothing says that you can’t adopt a six-year-old a month after you’re married.”

  Crazily, Max’s eyes burned. “Yeah, well, I . . .” Shoot, his voice sounded wrecked. He swallowed. Cleared his throat. “We’re not ready. Maybe someday but . . . not now.”

  “Yeah. Totally get that.” Darek drove for a while, then said, “When will you be ready exactly?”

  “Shut up.”

  A soft chuckle on Darek’s side of the car died as they pulled up to the lodge. As Max saw Grace in the driveway, talking to a woman with short black hair, in khakis and low heels, holding Yulia’s new duffel bag.

  Darek put the truck in park, glanced at Max, then at Yulia. She danced one of Tiger’s Ninja Turtle action figures up and down her leg.

  Mercifully, Darek said nothing. But they’d all known that this day would come and had savored every moment with Yulia.

  So why did it feel as if a hand had reached in, grabbed ahold of his lungs? He got out and opened the door for Yulia, who slid out of the cab and almost instinctively took Max’s hand.

  Heaven help him, he held on.

  Grace met his eyes as he walked over. She stood with her arms wrapped around her waist, her eyes hollow and red, but she smiled, even while clearly fighting tears.

  The adoption coordinator turned, and in that instant, Yulia froze. Just stopped walking, her breath catching, her hand tightening in Max’s.

  The woman crouched. “Hey there, Yulia. Remember me? Martha?”

  Yulia began to tremble.

  It cost Max everything to crouch down beside her. To pull her into his arms. “Shh. It’s going to be okay.” Except it wasn’t, was it? In a few days’ time, they’d put her on a plane and ship her back to Ukraine, where she’d wait, hope, probably in futility, for another family to adopt her.

  Oh, he couldn’t think about that. Or the way she almost mechanically bent into him, stiff, already withdrawing.

  See, this was why he just couldn’t believe in happiness. Because it always turned on him, betrayed him.

  Especially when he wasn’t looking.

  He had no more words for her. Nothing to soothe her, because inexplicably his own heart seemed to be serrated. Especially when Grace touched his shoulder.

  And then Yulia pushed away. She let Grace hug her, almost wooden in her response. Martha took her hand, leading her to the car.

  Grace’s quick, hiccuping intake of breath nearly did Max in. He straightened and searched her face. “Grace,” he said raggedly. “We can’t . . . We just got married. We’re not ready.”

  She said nothing, just pressed her hand to her mouth. Nodded.

  He had to be right, didn’t he? Because two weeks ago the thought of adopting a child, any child, had seemed almost a crime when he stared down the road to his future. But what about right now? The years he had that would be good? Full of joy? Wouldn’t they be even better if he had not only Grace but . . . ?

  “We can’t—”

  He was about to say it—We can’t let her go—when suddenly he heard a cry behind him. High and broken and dissecting the wretched silence of his own fear.

  “Papa!” Yulia yanked her hand from the social worker and whirled around. Tears dragged down her cheeks.

  “Papa,” she said again, a whisper.

  Max couldn’t stop himself. Didn’t even want to. Just crouched and opened his arms, and Yulia launched herself toward him.

  She hit him so hard, it nearly knocked him over, but he swept her up, holding her tiny body to himself as she sobbed, “Nyet. Pshaulshta, nyet.”

  He heard it himself. No. Please, no.

  Martha set the duffel in the car. Gave him a pitying look even as she headed over to him.

  He held out his hand. “No . . .”

  “Max. Grace. I understand. Of course you’ve bonded with this child. But you’re not even the foster parents here—your parents are. You have no right to Yulia.”

  “We have every right,” Max said, finding his voice again. He set Yulia down, and she ran to Grace, clutched her around the waist. By the look in his wife’s eye, Martha didn’t have a hope of prying Yulia away.

  Max stepped in front of his girls, the eerie sense of protectiveness surging through him. “We love her. And she needs a family. She needs us. We’re her family.” He steeled himself, just in case the emotions wanted to work their way up his throat. “She doesn’t have to go back to Ukraine. We could—we will adopt her.”

  He felt Grace’s hand in his, and he curled his fingers around hers. “Show me what we have to do.”

  Martha sighed, her lips tight. “It’ll take time. And she can’t live with you while you apply for adoption. You’ll have home studies and you might have to be approved by the Ukrainian governmental agency. I don’t know, Max. I do know that Yulia has to come with me today if you have any hope of adopting her in the future.”

  She could have taken a knife to his chest and it would have hurt less.

  Martha extricated a distraught Yulia from Grace’s arms. When Yulia fought her, Max had to swoop her up, hold her against himself. Soothe her.

  “Shh.” He put his forehead to hers. “Yulia, I will find you. You will come back. I won’t let you go; I promise.”

  He didn’t know if she understood, but he prayed it, repeated it, and gritted his jaw against the tears that rimmed his eyes as he himself put her in the car.

  “Nyet, Papa. Nyet.”

  He closed the door on her, her eyes so big, so hurt, that he wanted to howl.

  Grace took his hand, probably holding him up, as Martha drove away, Yulia’s little hand on the window.

  But Max heard her words echoing over and over inside, along with his own brutal cries. Nyet, Papa. Nyet.

  “I clearly need a Mohawk and more flannel. Whose idea was this?” Roark held his free Flapjack Festival T-shirt to his chest, his prize of entry into this blasted event that he should have backed out of a week ago.

  Right about the time Amelia had slammed the door in his face, left him standing in the dirt where he’d started two months ago.

  “It was my idea, and stop your yappin’. You’re going to do just fine.” Darek led him away from the sign-in booth. One look at the competition and Roark knew the train had truly left the station. He was in for a right walloping.

  “Do you see that man over there? Roughly the size of a barge?” Roark pointed to a man who looked like he might eat a full moose for dinner. He had a handlebar mustache; his red-and-black flannel sleeves were cut off at the shoulders, revealing the kind of muscle a man only got from dragging real logs around in the woods. Not the pitiful weights Roark pumped on a regular basis at the gym. “There are women here whose arms are bigger than my legs.”

  “Calm down, 007,” Jensen said a
s he approached, holding two fish burgers. He gave one to Roark. “Have a local specialty. You’ll feel better.”

  He made a face. “Please, have mercy.”

  “I’ll take that action,” Darek said. “How long before he makes his official appearance?”

  “What?” Roark said.

  “You’ll be introduced on the grandstand with the other competitors,” Jensen said. “In about fifteen minutes.”

  A specimen to be mocked. “No. That’s not happening.” Roark was already searching for an exit from the crowded park, past the grandstand thick with spectators wearing novelty hats with axes in the top and shirts with Stihl and Husqvarna logos.

  Too many appeared as if they could wrestle Sasquatch and win.

  Main Street had become a carnival, with cheese curds, Chinese food, gyros, and popcorn stands all muddled together in a collision of smells that could turn his stomach. Face and henna painters decorated the cheeks and arms of youngsters, and a small carnival of kiddie rides played a tinny tune from a nearby parking lot.

  Smack in the middle was a tent with endless rounds of flapjacks sizzling on a griddle the size of a pickup. The feast spiced the air with the smell of bacon grease and sweet maple syrup.

  For the lumberjack games, organizers had brought in a pool of water for the birling competition, and a stage hosted the giant logs for the hot saw. On another platform, smaller logs waited for the standing chop.

  Away from the food vendors, the air smelled of fresh-cut wood. Music from a nearby band, the Millers, a group of Celtic players, drifted on the breeze.

  “Whoa there,” Jensen said. “Don’t disappear on us. I see that look on your face. It’s done. And it’s already official. It became official the minute you didn’t cut and run after Amelia left you on the front porch.”

  Darek took a bite of the fish sandwich. “You should have seen him, Jens. White as a sheet.” He looked at Roark. “When Amelia came in, I have to admit, I’ve never seen her as truly angry at anyone as she was at you.”

  Roark glanced at Jensen. “I blame you and Claire,” he said. “I do believe this is a grand plot to make me look a fool in front of the entire community, get me right good for—”