Chapter 28
PAVEL
The books arrived in a box that Igor carried in with the particular expression of a man who has been asked to do something that falls outside his professional expectations and is adapting without complaint, which is the Igor way.
Fourteen books, which I ordered after a research exercise that began as a practical information-gathering effort and became, somewhere around midnight, something more like an obsession. I have two months to learn everything I need to be a good father, so there’s no time to waste.
I sit in the study with the first of the books, and I read about sleep schedules, developmental milestones, and the requirements of twins versus single infants, which are considerable and varied and occasionally alarming.
In six weeks, there will be two people in this house who are entirely dependent on Molly and me for everything, every single thing, including their continued existence.
It’s the best and most terrifying thing I have ever looked forward to.
Igor sums it up succinctly. “Nervous?”
“Preparing.” I am preparing. I’m also nervous. Both things are true, and neither of them is the whole picture.
My empire will have heirs. Two of them, simultaneously, which is either efficiency or abundance, depending on how you frame it.
Boys, girls, one of each—we have decided not to know, which was Molly’s preference.
I do not tell her that ignorance is not bliss, nor do I tell her I cannot prepare for that which I do not know.
She is the mother. The ultimate authority on who and what is in her body. We are following her birth plan. On all matters pregnancy, she’s the boss, as long as she stays healthy and happy.
On all other matters, I’m the boss. Which leaves me to the research.
Igor sits across from my desk and reviews the morning’s items. The supplier updates, the communications from the eastern operation, and the property maintenance report that I have requested on a regular basis since Molly moved in.
“The garden assessment came back,” Igor says, setting a page on the desk.
I look at it. “What does it say?”
“The soil is good. The positioning is right for most of what she wants to grow.” He pauses.
“The man I consulted suggests starting with raised beds for the spring. Easier to manage, better drainage, more productive in the first year. He also says tomatoes are ambitious for a first season but not impossible.”
I look at Igor across the desk. “You consulted a garden specialist.”
“You asked me to look into the garden situation.”
“I meant generally. I did not expect a specialist.”
“General inquiries produce general results,” Igor says, with the slight elevation of the brow that is his version of a shrug. “She mentioned heirloom tomatoes specifically. Three times.”
I look at the page. The specialist has included a planting schedule and a soil amendment recommendation and a section on companion planting that I didn’t know was a category of information and am now aware exists, which is the experience of the past several weeks in miniature—daily expansions of my awareness into territories I hadn’t previously mapped.
“Order the raised beds,” I say. “And whatever soil materials he recommends. I want it ready before she has the babies, so it’s there when she’s ready for it.”
Igor makes a note. Then, without emphasis, “Miss Kohler is still here.”
I look up.
“Three days,” he says, with the neutrality of a man reporting a fact.
“She’s Molly’s closest friend. She’s welcome to stay as long as she likes.”
“Of course.”
“Molly’s been isolated. Having someone she’s known since childhood here is good for her.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And that guest room is not being used for anything else.”
“It is not,” Igor agrees, and his face is doing nothing, which is occasionally more communicative than if it were doing something. He looks at his notes and makes another notation. “She asked about the library yesterday. I showed her where it was.”
I put my pen down. “Did you?”
“She seemed interested in the photography collections. There are several good ones on the east shelf.” He says this to his notes, in the tone of a man reporting something professionally relevant.
“Igor.”
“There is also a collection on mid-century theater,” he continues, “which seemed more directly applicable to her background, given—”
“Igor.”
He looks up. His face is exactly where it always is, which is composed and attentive and giving nothing away, except that I have known this face for eleven years, and I know that he’s hiding something.
He likes her.
I consider saying more. I look at Igor’s face doing its careful nothing, and I think about the fact that he hasn’t shown interest in a woman since his wife died six years ago.
“The photography collections are excellent. Good recommendation.”
Something in Igor’s expression shifts by a fraction—not relief exactly, but the adjustment of a man whose perimeter has been approached and not breached.
“She was also asking about the property,” he says, returning to his notes.
“Whether there were other houses nearby, what the community is like. She seems to be considering the area.”
“Is she?”
“So it appeared.”
I pick up my pen again. “That would be good. For Molly. The kids.”
“Agreed,” Igor says, and we return to the morning’s items, and neither of us says anything further about it.
We work through the remainder of the operational items, and then Igor sits back in the chair with a slight change in posture that signals we have transitioned from business to the marginally less formal territory.
He looks at the brownie on the corner of my desk, which Molly left there this morning.
“You’ve gained weight,” Igor says.
I look up from the page I’m reviewing. “Not significantly. But some.” I look at him with the look I give situations that do not require a response. “You bring this up because…?”
“It’s the brownies,” he says, with the thoughtful consideration of a man working through a problem. “I’ve noticed you take one every time she makes them, which has been—” He appears to calculate. “Considerable frequency, lately.”
“Igor.”
“I’m simply observing—”
“Igor.”
“You should tell her.”
“Tell her what, exactly? That I hate chocolate? That the thing she loves to make to blow off stress is the thing I cannot stand to eat most in the world?” I set the page down.
I look at the brownie on the corner of my desk.
I’ve been eating Molly’s brownies for four months.
“No. I will say nothing, and I will cram those things in my face until I die.”
Igor looks at the brownie. He looks at me. Something moves through his expression that on another face would be called delight. “You have to tell her.”
“Fine. I’ve changed. I like brownies.”
“You have never voluntarily consumed chocolate in the eleven years I’ve known you.”
“People change.”
“Pavel.”
“She makes them for the household,” I say with the dignity of a man who has committed to a position and will see it through. “I’m part of the household. It would be notable if I didn’t—”
“You would rather gain weight eating something you dislike than tell your wife you don’t like chocolate?”
“I would do anything to make her happy. If that means I gag through a snack, so be it.”
Igor grins. “You are completely whipped.”
“Watch yourself.”
He belly laughs. “The mighty pakhan, done in by brownies.”
“It’s not—” I look at the brownie. “They’re not terrible.”
“They’re excellent,” Igor says. “But that’s not the point. It’s good to see you like this. It means you’re happy.”
I look at him for a long moment, and the response that comes to mind first is a deflection. I could tease him about Carrie Ann. But we’re not kids anymore. “Yes. I am happy.”
Igor nods once and returns to the operational notes, and we finish the morning’s work.
Later in bed, I discover another good baby book.
This one covers the first weeks with twins with the systematic thoroughness I appreciate, and I’m making notes in the margin.
It’s a habit that Molly found alarming the first time she saw me do it, and has since accepted as the thing I do when I’m engaging seriously with a text.
The book is still open in my lap when Molly appears in the doorway.
I know this because she says my name, and I register it from somewhere that is not entirely awake, and I surface toward consciousness with the gradual reluctance of a man who has been more comfortable than he realized and is being recalled from it.
“You fell asleep,” she says, from very close, which means she has crossed the room while I was surfacing and is now standing over the armchair looking at me with the expression she gets when she finds something worth the observation.
“I was reading.”
“You were asleep with a baby book open in your lap, which is, for what it’s worth, one of the most endearing things I’ve ever seen.”
I look down at the book. The page I’m on contains a diagram of a sleep cycle chart that I was definitely reading before I was definitely asleep. “I was reviewing the sleep schedule research.”
“You were snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Then you were making a sound that mimics snoring,” she allows, with the generosity of a woman who has decided to give ground on the specific word. “A very dignified sound. Very pakhan-appropriate.”
I look at her in the lamplight, at the considerable roundness of her in her seventh month and the slightly crooked smile and the warmth in her brown eyes, and I feel the thing I’ve been feeling for months now with no less force for the repetition—the rightness of her in this room, in this house, in this life.
“Come to bed. But first, take that robe off.”
When she does, it’s impossible to breathe. She’s round in all the right ways, with blue and purple zigzagging stretch marks over her belly. The scars of a warrior, embracing the fight. Her breasts have grown some, nipples more pronounced now. She is every inch a goddess.
What do you do when a goddess lies in your bed?
You worship her.
I’m on my knees between her legs as soon as possible, tasting her honey. I can’t help myself. This new body of hers intoxicates me.
Perhaps that is who my wife is now. My own personal drug.
I take my time with her sweet little clit, now engorged and irresistible. My fingers keep her on the edge—approved by her doctor. She swears I won’t do damage, and I was apprehensive at first. It took many books about pregnancy sex, and three more appointments, before I trusted myself to do this.
It’s hard for Molly to reach me with her belly in the way, so she just lies back and lets me do whatever I want, which is bring her to the brink of madness. She pulls her thighs from my ears and gasps, “Now, baby. I need you now.”
But I was just getting started.
Still, I let her take the lead these days, so I roll her onto her side before I glide into her. Fuck, she feels good. Hot and wet, like always, but now the angles are different, inside and out. I have yet to find one I don’t obsess over.
When she comes, her body thrashes against me, more violent these days, like the orgasm is stronger. I hold her to me, enjoying every jerk and twitch until she calms enough that I can’t hold still any longer. I’m careful, always, but it’s hard to restrain myself with my wife.
If all goes right, I won’t have to very much longer.
I keep it slow, enjoying the feel of her body surrounding mine, while I kiss her shoulder, her neck, her cheek. I miss kissing her mouth at these times, but face-to-face is too much pressure for her comfort.
One more thing to look forward to when this is over. My balls ache at the thought.
“Baby, I’m close again,” she pants.
“Do you want to come again, pet?”
“Please.” That desperate whisper is almost enough to make me come.
I reach for her clit, and the moment I make contact, she holds her breath. She truly must be on the edge. She’s so wet that my fingers practically splash.
“You’re taking my cock so well tonight. You’ve been so good. I think you deserve another. What will you give me for it?” Teasing her makes my balls ache.
“Anything,” she hisses.
“You owe me your ass. Remember?”
“Take it!”
Fuck, that’s what I needed to hear. I won’t take her there, not now. But that willingness, the lurid desperation, that’s what I wanted. We don’t play our usual games—the pregnancy has dampened her spirit for rope. But we still have our fun.
As her body clasps around mine, that fluttering pulse ignites a fire within her, and her helpless mewling calls to my climax too. We come together, our sounds haunting the night.