Page 9

AZERBAIJAN

TWO WEEKS LATER

NATALIA

The Merchant Baku hotel is definitely giving me a strong This is why I took the job feeling. Everything is perfect tonight as I sit in dreamy luxury on my private balcony at a tiny mosaic table with a glass of wine and a light dinner—fruit, pickles, flatbread stuffed with cheese and squash.

Purring traffic glides below in the neon-streaked dusk, and the air somehow smells colorful —green and gold, a bright warmth like… expectation? How does everything feel so right in this moment, so aligned and welcoming and exciting?

Twirling the stem of my glass, I smile.

Maybe it’s just me.

By which I mean… maybe it’s him .

Despite recognizing the risks, I’m unquestionably falling “in crush” with Klaus.

It’s now obvious he’s courting me with the aim of more than friendship.

Before I left Shanghai, he sent me two things “for your flight”—a one-player storytelling card game with gorgeous art nouveau illustrations and a newly published novel by an author I mentioned liking.

When I arrived in Baku yesterday morning and was checking into my hotel, I received a message from him saying things are unusually demanding this race week and he can’t see me in person until the press conference, but “knowing you’re in the same city makes every light sparkle a little brighter.”

Swoon.

Last night as I was fighting jet-lag insomnia and getting some writing done in bed around midnight, a text from Klaus popped up.

Charcoal Suit: Are you awake?

Me: Hmm, nope. Completely asleep.

Charcoal Suit: Dreaming of me, I hope

Me: Sir! So bold. I’m shocked.

Charcoal Suit: May I call?

Before I could reply, my phone rang with a video call. Thank God I wasn’t wearing one of the hydrating facial sheet masks that make me look like a serial killer. I dragged both hands through my hair and smeared on a little lip balm from the bedside table before opening the call.

“I couldn’t wait until Thursday to speak with you,” he told me with a wan, apologetic smile. “Something about you, kleine Hexe, makes me feel intemperate.”

“Ooh, intemperate ,” I teased. “That’s an adorably prim way of putting it. But the way you talk brings strong Jane Austen, so I won’t complain.” I snuggled deeper into my stack of pillows.

He lifted an amused eyebrow. “You find me stuffy?”

“Okay, ‘stuffy’ is too much. Maybe… straitlaced? You’re not a lighthearted guy. I don’t recommend a career pivot to stand-up comedy.”

He twisted to reach for something and held up a book—David Sedaris’s Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim . “I do appreciate humor,” he asserted with a playful scowl.

“And yet you phrase it so formally: ‘I do appreciate humor.’ I think you’ve made my point.

” I reached over my shoulder and adjusted a pillow, acknowledging to myself that I was doing it so I could give Klaus an “accidental” flash of my braless chest in a thin pink tank top.

“If you’re such a funny guy, tell me a joke. ”

“A joke?”

“Mmm-hmm. Impress me.”

His attractive lips scrunched in thought, and those inky eyes shifted to one side. He was holding the phone closer than I generally stand to him, so I could really see his little details, like the geometric fringe of long, spiky lashes. The memory of kissing him rose.

“All right,” he said. “A joke: Two nuns are sitting on a bench in the park. A gentleman in a trench coat runs up and flashes them. The first nun has a stroke. The second nun tries, but she can’t reach him.”

There was a pause as the punchline caught up to me. When I burst out laughing, Klaus winked.

“You see? I’m enormously funny, you dreadful girl. ‘Straitlaced’ indeed…”

We talked for over an hour, and for the first time in my life, I did something that never happened to me even as a lovestruck teen: I fell asleep with someone during a middle-of-the-night phone call.

Our voices got lighter and dreamier, our pauses longer…

and the next thing I knew, it was after two o’clock, and my phone was beside me on the bed, still open to the call.

Rising on an elbow, I took in the sight of Klaus, who’d drifted off too, lying sideways with his phone on a pillow facing him.

The view had shifted, but I could see one closed eye, an angular cheekbone, and the sleep-disheveled hair at his temple—a fan of combined silver and espresso-brown strands.

I switched off my bedside light, and the deep, steady rhythm of Klaus’s breathing escorted me back to sleep.

All day today as I’ve tried to get work done, awareness of him has danced near me, dark yet flashing, like seafoam on a midnight beach, visible only when it breaks and catches the moonlight, swirling around your bare ankles with a delicious shock.

I can’t stop thinking about him.

Sitting on the balcony tonight, picking at my dinner, I stretch my legs and flex my feet, watching my silk chiffon robe (chosen in case he calls—not gonna lie) flutter away from my calves.

I wiggle my toes, considering the chipped golden-peach polish on them and wondering if I should get a pedicure.

The image drifts into my head: Klaus moving my legs over his shoulders… both of us still speckled in shower water… the cool marble countertop beneath me… the anticipation of his mouth as those beautiful lips advanced up my inner thigh…

I pull in a startled gasp through my nose as my phone rings with the FaceTime tone. I glance at the incoming call, but it’s not Klaus—it’s Auntie Min.

It’s early afternoon in my hometown, eight hours later here. Usually our weekly “catch-up” calls are Mondays at seven a.m. her time, so a prickle of panic goes through me.

I tap the call open. “What’s wrong?” I ask in greeting, clambering to sit up straight. “Are you okay?”

“Good grief, Natty,” she replies with a mild chuckle. “Nothing—

I’m fine.”

Pressing one hand over my heart, I let out a relieved sigh. “Oh, okay. Just wasn’t sure why you’re calling now.”

“I’m calling because I miss you.” She gives me a significant half-smile. “Do I need a reason?”

I recognize immediately what she’s referring to. For at least a year after my parents left me, if the house got especially quiet, I’d be overcome with anxiety that I’d been abandoned again, and race from room to room looking for Auntie Min.

When I’d skid to a halt, having located her, I’d always self-consciously manufacture some excuse for needing to talk to her. Um… is… is it supposed to rain today? I’d stammer, thinking on my feet. Or, Can we have chicken stew for dinner? Or maybe, Do you need me to do any chores right now?

She’d pull me into her arms, answer my made-up question, then tell me, You don’t ever need a reason to be near me, Natty. I’ll always be here for you.

My aunt hadn’t expected, all those years ago, to take in a seven-year-old grandniece when she was in her midforties, but she was an amazing “mom” to me after my parents flitted off to California and forgot I existed.

My father—whom I’ve referred to as “Jason” since I was about twelve (Mom became “Sherri” the same year)—is Minnie’s nephew.

A sigh of embarrassed laughter escapes me. “Of course you don’t need a reason, Auntie Min.” I scooch down into the chair. “I worry, being so far away now, that’s all. In New York I was only a two-and-a-half-hour flight away. Now it’d take me a full day from some of these grand prix spots.”

“Well, lucky for you I’m healthy as a danged plow mule,” she assures me.

“I’ve got a new walking route with Naomi—three miles.

Volunteering on Tuesdays and Fridays… oh, and there’s square dancing now at church!

” With a wry smile, she adds, “Naomi’s tickled to have an excuse to hold hands with that retired veterinarian who moved to town. She’s set her cap for him.”

Hearing news from home brings on a twinge of pain, and I’m not sure if that’s how everyone feels about their hometown. Is that ache just part of the human condition, or does it imply that I’m not meant for the new life I’ve worked so hard to create?

As much as I adored New York while living there, and as fun as it is to fly all over the world and see things most people will only ever read about…

I’m most relaxed, most myself , after I drive past the big blue barn at the Marshall farm, on the two-lane highway leading into the town where I grew up.

Passing that landmark—the location of one of my happy (and rare) memories of my father, how he’d take me there to feed apples to the horses—is when I know I’m about to settle into the comfort of home, like a deep, warm bath.

“Well, best of luck to Naomi in bagging the veterinarian,” I say with a laugh. A moment later, stumbling into the hollow of my homesickness, I look into my lap and blurt out, “Speaking of crushes… I think I’ve met someone I like too, Auntie Min.”

There’s a silence, and I glance at the screen to make sure the call is still connected.

“Well, all right… tell me more,” she says in the tone she uses when she’s trying to be fair—a stiff pleasantness that telegraphs, I won’t hurt your feelings by saying this is probably going to be a disaster.

I fight the urge to backpedal. Why should I be apologetic?

Maybe because I’ve come home crying, again and again, about various complete jerks…

“It’s just a friendship,” I amend quickly. “Early, early stages.”

“That’s wise,” Minnie says, her brow relaxing. “Give it enough time to make sure you know, uh… everything you need to.”

I stop myself before I can blurt out, This one isn’t married!

“Oh, definitely,” I assure her. “No rushing into things.”

Aside from the one-nighter in Abu Dhabi nearly five months ago, but who’s counting?

Minnie gently clears her throat. “Not to make this awkward,” she ventures, “but please try not to, uh…” Her hands drop audibly to her lap. “To jump into bed with this one. The part of you that yearns for approval might, um… sometimes be awful quick to offer men more than they deserve.”

I make a face. “Auntie Min, that’s so—”

“And I’m not being some Goody Two-shoes,” she goes on. “In my younger days, I was as close to a seventies feminist as gals got in this town. I’m not saying you have to get married to… do that . Hell, I never got married myself. I just want you to spare yourself heartache.”

“I know.” I keep my face sober, giving nothing away.

“Getting tangled up with someone while you’re in a job that hauls you from pillar to post… it might not be fertile ground for a stable relationship. That requires trust, and a deeper connection. Time to take firm root and grow.”

My gaze drops. “I knowIknowIknow—I’ve messed up a million times jumping in too fast, and I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Natty.” She sighs. “Don’t apologize. Everyone makes mistakes! We’re so proud of you, but we just worry sometimes, and—”

As her words cut off and I look up, her free hand goes to her braid end, combing it with her fingers in a stress-tell I know well. My mind rewinds her last few sentences.

“Hold on. ‘We’ who?” I ask.

“Oh, just… everyone. Me and Naomi, the whole town! Everyone knows how well you’ve done.” Her fingers comb faster and she pours out more words. “Liza at the post office told me yesterday how much she loves those YouChannel videos you do—”

“You Tube .” My eyes narrow. “Are you hiding something?”

“Well, listen to you,” Minnie drawls in the deadpan delivery that means I’m trying her patience.

“Got your reporter hat on, thinking everything’s a secret to bust open.

” Her focus darts up to the chicken-shaped clock I know is on the kitchen wall.

“I’ve gotta go, Natty. I’ll run late for quilting with the gals if I dillydally. ”

It doesn’t escape my notice, as we sign off, that she hasn’t answered my question. In the back of my mind, a warning beacon thrusts one beam through the fog:

Does the “we” she’s talking about include Jason and Sherri?

In the absence of information, I’ve made up multiple explanations for their disappearance over the past twenty-seven years—everything from a child’s fairy-tale whimsy to a teen’s Shakespearean tragedy.

With the sometimes-morbid perspective of adulthood, I occasionally wonder if they died, under circumstances owing to the same reckless decision-making that propelled them out of my life in the first place.

I’ve never let myself look them up online, though I’ve been tempted many times. The idea of doing so feels like letting them win. I refuse to care about them more than they ever cared about me. They walked away and didn’t look back.

Or… did they look back?