Page 35

35

LUCIA

W e take lunch on the terrace, beneath a trellis dripping with purple wisteria. The air is scented with citrus and jasmine from the trees, and the terracotta tiles are cool underfoot. The table is wrought iron topped with Moroccan tiles, and is currently covered with a variety of dishes, silver cutlery Ofelia took from an old wooden box, and linen napkins in monogrammed rings. The samovar has been replaced by pottery jugs of watered-down wine and a soft drink for the children.

“I’m a cactus,” Masha is telling Papa proudly. “Luce made my costume.”

“A cactus.” Papa nods solemnly over his soup, his blue eyes twinkling.

“We do the cactus dance. ’Felia,” Masha says authoritatively, “show Deda the dance.”

Ofelia and Mickey both tense, looking nervously around the table. My knife clatters onto my plate. I glance furtively at Roman, unsure what he’s going to make of Masha referring to Papa as “Grandfather.”

“Perhaps another time, Masha.” Roman grins, seemingly entirely unconcerned by the familiarity. “Deda and I have a game of chess to finish after lunch.” He’s seated at one end of the long table, Papa at the other. I’m sitting opposite Masha, who insisted on sitting next to Papa. Ofelia is next to me, Mickey on the other side.

“Okay.” Masha wriggles in her seat. “May I be ’scused? I want to find Mr. Potato.”

“Mr. Potato will be fine for a little while.” I smile at Anna as she clears our plates. “Let’s wait until after we’ve eaten, shall we?” I put some salad and chicken on Masha’s plate, cutting the meat into smaller pieces.

“Mickey,” Roman says, turning to his godson. “Tell me about the sound you’ve set up for the parade tomorrow. What program did you use?”

I’ve been too worried to really look at Papa since the moment Mickey called Roman. I’ve been caught in a nervous storm, unsure both of how Roman would handle the situation and, perhaps more pertinently, how Papa would react to meeting Roman. As relieved as I was to emerge onto the terrace and find them amicably playing chess together, the lack of guns blazing is still a far cry from domestic bliss. I’m not sure what my proud father is going to make of being called grandfather by children he’s only just met.

But when finally I dare to glance at him, I find no trace of the grim, hawkish man calculating the odds, nor of the hard expression that precedes an argument. Even the polite mask he reserves for carers seems to have been dropped. Instead of being upset by Masha’s use of the word Deda , Papa’s face is strangely soft.

“Will you help me look for Potato?” Masha asks him, spearing a piece of chicken.

Papa’s mouth twitches at the corners. “After—chess—Deda needs—siesta.” Masha knocks over her cup, and he catches it just in time, setting it gently back upright. “Masha—siesta—too,” he says, smiling at her.

Masha pouts. “Chess is boring.”

“ Nyet .” Papa shakes his head. “Lucia learned—when she was—your age.” His eyes flicker to me. Suddenly I am back in our Miami home, sitting in a courtyard not unlike this terrace, my brother and father laughing as they try to teach me the names of the pieces.

Alexei. My heart clenches as I remember my conversation just before Roman arrived. Alexei has been in touch. Has tried to warn us. Anxiety races through my system again, the permanent reminder that no matter how calm this setting might be, danger lurks just beyond the terrace.

“Prawn,” my father says softly. I look up to find him watching me, his eyes shadowed with memory.

“Prawn?” Ofelia looks at me curiously.

I swallow hard to clear the lump in my throat. “I couldn’t remember what the little chess pieces were called,” I explain. “So my brother called them prawns, because there’s so many of them in the sea.”

Mickey’s head lifts in interest. “You have a brother?”

Oh, crap. “Yes,” I mutter, glancing surreptitiously at Papa. His lips press together, emotion flickering behind his own eyes. He glances at Roman. Something passes between them, the kind of silent understanding I recall seeing between Papa and his men, years ago.

“Ofelia,” Roman says, breaking what was about to become an awkward pause. “After lunch, perhaps you could play piano for us? Masha can show us her dance before I take you home for siesta.”

Ofelia flushes with pleasure. Papa asks her how long she’s been playing, and the awkward moment passes as conversation resumes.

Lunch passes pleasantly. Afterward, Papa and Roman resume their game, and Ofelia sits down at the piano inside, beginning to play as Mickey and I clear the table, waving Anna away. “I can take care of the dishes,” I say, smiling at her. “We’ve kept you late enough as it is. Why don’t you go home, join your own family for lunch?”

Mickey and I wash up to the sounds of hilarity upstairs, as Masha demonstrates her cactus dance moves, encouraged by Ofelia. I hear the low rumble of my father’s laughter. I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh. It’s a bittersweet joy, one full of memories, of the life we once led and of a happiness I thought forever lost.

It seems incredible that I should hear that sound again. I feel almost overwhelmed by the surreal nature of the gathering, like I’m living a day in someone else’s life. It’s hard to trust the feeling of happiness, especially when I remember who we are running from and the fact that we are still living under assumed names. My two lives are merging, and yet still there remains so much that is unsaid, so many secrets that must be kept.

And I still haven’t spoken to Papa.

Roman comes into the kitchen as Mickey and I are finishing up. “Can you go and catch Masha for me?” He smiles at Mickey, who returns it. I don’t know what, exactly, Roman said to the children earlier, but whatever it was seems to have completely reset the dynamic, for which I can only feel grateful. He waits until Mickey has left before turning back to me.

“We’ll leave, give you and your father some time to talk,” he says quietly. “Come back when you’re ready. There’s no rush. Take all the time you need.”

“Roman.” I fold the tea towel slowly. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. The carer called me—”

“It’s fine.” There’s an odd gleam in his eye, a slight tension in his body that I don’t quite know how to read. “I’m glad I’ve met your father. I think it’s better, like this. And I was long past due to have an honest conversation with the children.”

“Did you?” I frown, trying to imagine what an honest conversation might have looked like.

His mouth quirks. “Honest enough. I skipped over Ofelia’s question about whether or not you were my girlfriend.”

“Oh,” I manage. It’s more of a gasp than a word. Color floods my face.

“I left that part out of my discussion with your father, too.”

“Uh.” That one doesn’t sound much better.

He’s leaning against the sink, his arms folded, watching me with a faint smile, as if he knows exactly how unsettling I’m finding this entire conversation.

Not to mention how unsettling I find his nearness. There’s something intensely intimate about being together in such a domestic space, the children’s laughter echoing off the tiles and the scent of cooking all around. Seeing Roman in a kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled up and tie loose, feels dangerously good, like the promise of forbidden fruit.

“I’m going to attend the parade with you tomorrow.”

I gulp. “You are?”

“Yep.” He nods, his smile widening at my surprise. “Masha is quite insistent that I should see the cactus dance. And I’d like to bring Pavel, one of my computer geeks, to watch Mickey work. He was the one who bought Mickey his first computer.”

I don’t miss the faint gleam behind his eyes, nor the long finger tapping against his arm. Roman has reasons for attending tomorrow beyond watching the children perform, I’m sure of it. But after today’s emotional roller coaster, I don’t feel overly inclined to ask too many questions.

And I’ve still got Papa to face.

“So.” He pushes off the sink. Glancing around to ensure we’re alone, he kisses me once, hard, on the mouth, leaving me breathless. “Until the morning, then.”

“ I ’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth.”

Papa and I are sitting either side of the chess board, a bottle of wine between us. I know he’s not supposed to drink it undiluted. On the other hand, there’s no chance I can get through this discussion without a drink, and I figure he can use one, too.

Papa gives me a rather old-fashioned look. “You told me—nothing.”

I color, staring at my wine.

“You—knew. Roman—bratva.” It isn’t a question.

“ Da .” I answer in Russian. “I knew.”

“Hmph.” Papa snorts and takes a long swallow of his wine. “Vodka,” he mutters under his breath, casting me a sideways look that I pointedly ignore. He knows better than to ask me directly. Watered-down wine I might tolerate, but there’s not a chance I’m letting him near a vodka bottle. Hard spirits are completely off the doctor’s checklist of approved substances. “Why lies?” He eyes me over his glass.

I take my time answering.

Because I knew you’d never agree.

Because I couldn’t face running.

Because I thought there was a good chance you might kill Roman before he ever said a word.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” I say eventually.

“Ha!” His derisive snort is not unlike Roman’s indignation a few days earlier. He shakes his head impatiently. “Dangerous,” he mutters.

“I know.” There isn’t much I can say to that. “But you said it yourself, Papa. The Orlovs know we’re here now. We couldn’t run even if we wanted to. This way we are safe. At least for a while.”

“Roman—knows.” Papa is frowning at the table, and I can tell his mind is racing in a thousand directions. “Orlovs.”

Which explains why Roman was twitchy as a bug on crack in the kitchen. Probably also explains why he’s bringing a tech geek to the parade tomorrow, along with, undoubtedly, a small army of security.

I take a deep breath.

I’m exhausted.

This day feels endless. This week, even. The tension is like a wire getting cranked tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. What chaos might then ensue is a terrifying prospect.

“Did you tell him about Alexei?” I ask.

“ Nyet .” He passes a hand over his face. He’s getting tired, his voice rasping, his words slurring slightly.

I cover his hand with my own. “You should rest, Papa. It’s good that Roman knows the truth. At least that way he can protect the children.”

“ Da .” Papa’s face softens, his eyes meeting mine. “Good to see you with—children, Dayushka.”

“Ha.” I try for laughter, but the emotion in Papa’s eyes stifle it in my throat. He grips my hand wordlessly. I feel in his touch all he can’t say, the regret that it should be somebody else’s children calling him Deda instead of his own grandchildren. That this life has deprived me, as he sees it, of a family of my own.

“I’m happy here, Papa,” I say quietly. “Happy with the children.”

“Happy,” he rasps, his eyes on me rather more knowing than I might like. “Happy with—Roman.”

“He’s my boss, Papa.” I avoid his eyes.

“Hmm.” He releases my hand. He doesn’t push it, but his silence speaks volumes. We sit for a short time in silence. When he speaks again, Papa’s voice is cracked with exhaustion. “Glad you have—man. Protection.” He nods slowly, his eyes sad. “Keep you—safe.”

I know what he means. I might be safe, at least for now, but Alexei isn’t. And both of us know that so long as the Orlovs have my brother, neither Papa nor I will ever truly know peace.

“We’ll get Alexei back, Papa,” I whisper, gripping his hand again. “I promise you we will.”

He nods, but he doesn’t answer, and the resignation in his eyes hurts me deep inside.

We sit on the terrace and watch the day fade, slowly drinking the rest of the bottle in a silence full of all that we have lost. I stay long after Papa has fallen asleep, tucking the blanket around him and watching the night grow. The city lights reflect off the water beyond. I wonder if my brother is somewhere here in Spain, watching these same lights.

“Alexei,” I whisper to the sultry coastal breeze. “I’ll find you, brother. Somehow I’ll find you and give us back our home.”

The wisteria vine quivers above me, my promise lost to the night.