Chapter 33
S amara
It was late into the evening when we finally ventured downstairs looking for something to eat. I was dressed in Gregor’s rumpled light blue dress shirt and he in his even more wrinkled grey trousers.
I cried out in delight when I saw the twinkling white lights and bright red star of the spruce tree he had set up in the center of his spacious living room.
“You have a yolka tree?”
“Of course, every year.”
Circling around its evergreen branches, I inhaled the sweet scent of the forest. The living room looked more like a wood-paneled library with its inlaid bookcases filled with maroon and gold leather volumes and its black marble fireplace.
Like the bedroom several stories above, the high ceilings allowed for sweeping arched windows.
Since it was so late, the darkness outside only provided a backdrop for the twinkling tree lights to be reflected on the panes of glass.
Gregor padded barefoot into the room and joined me on the Persian rug where I was sitting cross-legged between the unlit fire and the tree.
He handed me a heavy, earthenware bowl filled with sweet smelling porridge.
As I looked down, I could see golden drizzles of honey and plump pieces of dried fruit and nuts.
“What’s this?”
“It’s so?ivo.”
I sounded out the Russian word. “Soh-chiva?”
He nodded.
I inspected the dish. “You didn’t sneak any vegetable in here, did you?”
His eyebrows raised. “No. I promise. Your mother never made so?ivo for Christmas Eve? It’s tradition.”
I shook my head. “My parents were usually out at some party on Christmas Eve, and my mother never bothered herself about cooking or honoring any traditions. I usually just heated a pizza and watched holiday movies.”
It’s why my Russian was barely adequate, and I didn’t know any real traditions from the mother country. My parents never really behaved as if we were a genuine family. Especially after their actions several years ago and their failure to even bother looking for me, I doubted they even loved me.
“By yourself?”
I shrugged. “It’s fine.”
Holidays were usually pretty lonely for me.
Gregor and Nadia’s family usually returned to St. Petersburg for two weeks, and Yelena spent the time off from school with her mother’s side of the family, grateful to get away from her abusive father, so they typically left me alone.
These last few years, most of the time, Yelena and I were too busy moving from city to city to remember to celebrate.
“No. It’s not. Give me that.”
I hugged the bowl close to my middle. “Why? No! I haven’t even tried it yet.”
“You will, but we are going to do this the right way.”
Gregor stood and held out his hands to me. After raising me to my feet, he lifted me into his arms.
“Where are we going?” I laughed.
“To the bedroom.”
As much as I thrilled at another round of kinky sex with Gregor, the demands of my stomach objected. “But I’m starving.”
Carrying me up the three flights of stairs again, he made a sharp left just before the bedroom doors. We were inside a mostly empty large dressing room. They had emptied all the designer bags from the plane, and the contents now hung on padded hangers nearby.
Setting me down gently, he nodded toward the ivory dress with the black lace trimming.
“Get dressed. Meet me downstairs.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” he tossed over his shoulder.
About twenty minutes later, I heard Christmas carols as I reached the bottom of the stairs.
Crossing the main entryway into the living room, I smelled the pleasant acrid scent of a wood burning fire before seeing the glow of the orange and yellow flames.
As I crossed to it, Gregor emerged from the kitchen, once more carrying a tray with the two bowls of traditional porridge and two clear glass mugs filled with a steaming purple liquid I knew to be сбитень, a warm drink with honey, preserves and spices.
This time he was wearing a striking black suit with a crimson silk tie.
Setting the tray down, he handed me a mug. I inhaled the richly sweet cinnamon scent.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Ivanova,” he toasted as he clinked my glass and gave me a wink.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Ivanov.”
After taking a sip, he set the mug down and reached into his suit pocket. Clasping my right hand inside his own, he slipped a bright silver wedding band onto my finger, which fit snugly against my engagement ring. Just then, Bing Crosby’s I’ll Be Home For Christmas began to play.
Gregor took me into his arms and danced me around the yolka tree as it softly snowed outside.
Everything felt warm and cozy and safe. For the first time in my life, I felt loved. Perhaps I could allow myself to believe this was all real and that maybe, just maybe, as crazy and outlandish as it sounded, I had found a home with Gregor.
Too bad wishes on Christmas Eve were like those pretty snowflakes… fragile and fleeting.