The detail is extraordinary. The fruit catches the rays of the sun, the fat grapes a translucent purple and green in the light. The craftsmanship of the painting is spectacular. I bet Ricky would love to see this. It’s like being transported to the past. Did that scene play out here? The green lawn in the painting could easily be the palace garden in the summer. Alex did mention there used to be stables at the back.
An eerie quietness descends as I continue to study the mural. For a moment, it’s just me and the family caught in the happy snapshot of a bygone era. A clock on the mantlepiece keeps time with a soft tick-tock. It’s almost five o’clock and already dark outside. An inexplicable wave of loneliness washes over me. I feel suddenly isolated, alone with only the company of ghosts.
Needing a warm drink, I close the door behind me and go to the kitchen.
Lena is ironing table linen when I enter. Tima is presumably on his break. The kitchen is warm and humid from the vapor of the iron. The air smells like a mixture of starch and laundry detergent, transporting me to the weekends at my mom’s place. Mom always did her ironing on a Saturday. Nowadays, that only happens if her health allows.
A pang of longing pierces me. I miss my mom.
“Can I get you anything?” Lena asks, glancing up from the hissing iron.
“I’m good, thank you.” I walk to the fridge. “I just want to warm up some milk for a cup of hot chocolate.”
She folds a napkin meticulously. “The cacao is in the top cupboard on your left, and the pots are underneath the sink.”
After finding a small pot, I fill it with milk. “Would you like some?”
“No, thanks.” She runs the iron along the seam of the napkin. “If you’d prefer to wait, Tima will be back from his break in ten minutes.”
“I can make a cup of hot chocolate,” I say good-naturedly. “It’s not as if I’m doing much else.”
She gives me a fleeting look before leaving the napkin on a neatly folded stack.
I turn on the gas and find a mug while the milk heats. “Have you been working here for long?”
“Since before Mr. Volkov bought the house.”
Leaning against the counter, I shove my hands into the pockets of my skirt. “Do you know its history?”
“Some of it.” She takes a napkin from a laundry basket and shakes it out. “The previous owner’s wife made a study of the architecture and interior decorating. She collected every book on the subject she could lay her hands on.”
“Are there any in English?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Only Russian, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.”
The iron blows out a billow of steam as she drags it over the napkin. “All the more reason to learn to speak Russian.” With a haughty air, she adds, “That’s if you’re staying.”
Not forever. At least I hope not. I have a job and friends in New York, not to mention my mom. I have a life there. The nagging uncertainty tightens my stomach anew.
Busying myself with spooning cacao and sugar into the mug, I hide my expression from Lena. My tremulous feelings must be showing on my face. A part of me isn’t sure if Alex will ever let me go home. What if he’s decided to keep me here indefinitely? As kind as he’s being, I wouldn’t put that past him. He’s made it clear he won’t let me go, and if he decides to stay here, which is a very real probability, my life as I knew it will be in the past. This is home for him, after all.
The burner makes a hissing sound when the milk boils over. I grab the pot from the stove and blow on the foaming liquid.
“Will you start entertaining soon?” Lena asks.
I turn my head to look at her. “What?”
“The previous owners used to throw the most wonderful parties. They had a charity ball every year. The preparations took months. Mr. Volkov also entertains regularly, but mostly for business and on a much smaller scale. Of course, the previous mistress of the house was a direct descendant of Russian royalty, so they moved in circles that demanded lavish entertainment. Although, Mr. Volkov does mix with some families who have royal blood in their veins.”
I pour the milk into the mug and carry the pot to the sink. “He does?”
“The Turgenevs, for example. Mikhail Sergeyevich Turgenev and his family are regular callers. Mr. Volkov is a close friend of the family. Maybe you met them in New York? Like Mr. Volkov, Mr. Turgenev has a house in America for business purposes. The family spends one month there every year. They returned shortly after you, I believe.”
I still in the middle of rinsing the pot. “Dania Turgeneva? Those Turgenevs?”
“Ah.” She gives an approving nod. “Then you did meet them.”
“Briefly,” I say, putting the pot on the drip tray.
“At least you already have a friend in St. Petersburg.” She folds the napkin and sets it on top of the pile. “You should ask Mr. Volkov if you can invite Miss Turgeneva for tea. She’s such a charming young lady and from a good family too.” She gives me a sugary smile. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige, as close as they are.”
No, thanks. Not after Dania told me she was destined to marry Alex.
Lena waves a hand in the air and says with a dreamy light in her eyes, “Those dinners are simply marvelous. That’s when we take out the silver and crystal and polish everything to a shine.”
So, Dania is a regular visitor. Why does that bother me? I’ve never been the jealous type, but then again, I’ve never dated a man like Alex, a self-made zillionaire who wants me to wear a butt plug.
Warmth travels to my cheeks, and not from the hot drink I’m sipping.
Lena’s conversation has dried up. From the look on her face, she’s still at one of those fancy dinners with the Russian royals.
I’m about to take my hot chocolate to the library when the door in the back opens and Tima enters from the mudroom.
Shutting the door, he rubs his hands together. “It’s a blizzard out there.” When his gaze lands on me, he smiles. “How’s the rabbit today?”
His smile is contagious. My lips curve involuntarily in response. “I’m good, thanks.”
Lena switches off the iron and picks up the laundry basket. As she walks from the room, she says with her nose in the air, “Dinner is served at seven sharp.”
“Like every night,” Tima replies, making a face behind her back.
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in my throat. I catch it just before it slips out.
“Don’t mind her,” he says, taking an apron from a hook and tying it around his waist. “She thinks her shit doesn’t stink.”
“Tima!” I say with a chuckle. “That’s mean.”
He winks. “It’s true.”
“She says she’s been working here for a long time.”
He takes a pan from the shelf and puts it on the stove. “She grew up in this house. Her mother was the housekeeper before her.”
“Wow. She didn’t tell me that. What about you?”
“Nah.” He takes a knife from the block and pulls it through the blade sharpener. “She was here way before me. That’s why she thinks she’s the boss.”
“How long have you known Alex?”