Chapter 14 Roman
ROMAN
My bride is nervous.
I do not like sending my sons away either. I understand her nervousness. This is all built on a foundation she is unsure of. She doesn’t really know me. To be fair, I don’t really know her. But I have more security in this arrangement than she does, hence her nervousness and my lack of it.
The plane is steady. The belt sign is off. No one comes into this cabin unless I permit them. It is the one part of today that feels like a clean rule. After everything else, it gives me peace of mind to know we are here together, just the two of us.
I have never been truly alone. Growing up under my father’s roof, there were always servants and guards and associates coming in and out of the house.
I never left for school, never moved out.
He died, and I inherited the house and the servants and the guards.
Even the associates, or their successors.
And now, I am married once again. Being alone was never in the cards for me. But alone time with my bride? That is something I can have now and then.
The quiet hum of the plane is low enough to allow for conversation, but Mina’s not especially chatty since she got out all her nervous thoughts.
She stares out the oval window and pretends she is not counting minutes.
She is. I can see it in the tight line of her mouth and the way her fingers press the armrest when the plane shivers.
She is pretending for me and for herself. She needn’t do that.
But she doesn’t know that. How many times has she pretended to be okay for other people? I suppose I should get to know her better, since we’re married and will be for the foreseeable future.
“We are alone for now. Tell me something you like.”
She blinks. “Like what?”
“Anything. I will start if you want.”
She lifts her defiant chin. “You start.”
“Very well. I like kitchens that smell like coffee at five in the morning. I like when a plan is so simple my captains cannot break it. I like the way you stand when you’re angry. You plant your feet like you’re telling the floor to answer to you. And I think it does.”
Her mouth tilts. “I like to finish things before anyone remembers to ask me. I like being the person who knows where the good stapler went. I like the weight of my boys when they fall asleep and I don’t want to put them down even if my arms go numb.”
Tanner taps twice on the frame, so I click the button that allows him into my part of the cabin.
He sets a silver bucket on the credenza and leaves without speaking.
The bottle wears a strip of tamper tape I can read from here.
I tear it and check the cork for holes. I fill two flutes and set one in front of her. I also set water next to it.
“To your health.”
She touches my glass with a click that is more firm than polite. She takes a sip, and I hope the bubbles do their small trick. The tight lines at the corners of her eyes ease. “I like champagne too.”
If all it takes is a little buzz, I’ll be sure to keep a drink in her hand. “Tell me something you hate. Get it out of your mouth.”
“Thin doors,” she says at once. “And stairs that make noise. And men who think kindness is a weakness. And women who call me sweetheart in a tone that makes it an insult.” She drinks again. “Your turn.”
“Long meetings. And men who copy old mistakes because they think old men cannot be wrong. When someone has something in their teeth or a spot on their clothes, but you can’t comment for fear of being impolite.”
“Because it’s awkward?”
I nod. “I don’t do well with awkward. Or unpredictability.”
She’s quiet for a breath. “I bet today didn’t help with that.”
“Today helped quite a lot, actually. Awkward and unpredictable as it was, it told the truth about Fyodor, and that was a truth I needed.” I keep seeing his dead eyes in my head and try to reconcile his betrayal with the man I thought I knew.
But there is no reconciling betrayal, particularly when the betrayer is dead.
“Sometimes, I hate the truth. But it is useful.”
She sits back. “I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to say his name and make it bigger.”
“Then, we will not.” I don’t mind the change in topic. I’m glad for it. Perhaps thinking of other things will replace the image of his dead body in my mind. What do normal people ask when getting to know someone? “Favorite food?”
A smile slashes across her face in an instant. “Tomatoes, picked from my mom’s garden from back when we had a house, with salt. Fresh baked bread to sop up the juice. One of my favorite summertime memories from childhood. You?”
“Cabbage soup. The way my grandmother made it. No one has hit the taste since.”
“Not something fancy?”
The question makes me chuckle. “No. I’ve had fancy on three continents. It doesn’t hold a candle to a simple cabbage soup. What did you want to be at twelve?”
She laughs and sips her champagne. “A translator. I grew up with Spanish-speaking neighbors on one side and German-speaking neighbors on the other, so I learned some of both and translated between them, and loved it. I pick up languages pretty easily.”
“That’s a hell of a skill to master.”
“I don’t know about mastering it, but it’s a little like dancing.
” The sly smile at the corner of her pink lips tells me I’m onto something.
Her gaze goes wistful. “You listen to the rhythms, follow their eyes, and it’s easy to figure out what they’re talking about even when you don’t know a language.
Same with dancing—you can follow someone’s lead if you hear the rhythm and follow their eyes. ”
“You’re a quick study when it comes to a lot of things, and that is a skill most people do not have. Bravo.”
She smiles and looks at my hands. “What did you want to do at twelve?”
“To replace my father with a new one. And get a basketball hoop in the yard.” I take another small sip and set the glass down. “I have neither. It worked out in the end.”
She rolls the stem between her fingers. The ring flashes and makes the cabin look warmer. “What will you call me when we are alone?”
“Mina. Unless I’m trying to make you smile. Then I call you wife.”
She does smile. “That works.”
“What will you call me?”
“Roman. Unless I’m trying to win an argument. Then I call you darling and make you coffee.”
I smile, despite the obvious manipulation. “That works.”
She looks out at nothing. The window reflects her face back to her. The scar is only a thin line. In a strange way, it suits her. If she didn’t have it, she’d be too perfect.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say.
“I keep imagining the boys with my mother and that one woman with the steady voice. Carol. She seems very competent.”
“She’s ex-CIA. She better be competent.”
Her eyes widen at that, before she says, “I keep listing in my head what’s in the diaper bag that Mom has and wondering whether she has enough of everything with her.”
“If not, they’ll make a run into town. It will be careful and quick, and no one will know.”
That assurance lowers her shoulders half an inch.
“Tell me something nobody knows about you.”
She thinks. “I like pigeons.”
“Pigeons?”
“I know people hate them, call them rats with wings, but I like them. Their feathers shine like oil slicks, and I like the way they coo, and I like their pathetic nests and that their babies survive despite those pathetic nests. They’re survivors.”
No wonder she likes them. She can relate.
“I like ironing shirts.”
She laughs again, freer this time. “Do you actually do it or do you have Sergei do it and you supervise?”
“I do it myself. When I cannot sleep, it soothes me. It’s a good return on investment—just a few minutes of work, and you look like a million bucks.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“You married me.”
She takes another small drink. “Tell me who taught you to kiss like that.” She looks at the table like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“That is my line. You’re a hell of a kisser.”
She laughs musically. “Tell me.”
I sit back and consider the question. “My grandmother told me to pay attention to a woman. To everything. That’s the answer.”
“That’s cheating. I meant, what woman taught you to kiss like your life depends on it?”
“I merely pay attention to what gets the biggest reaction from the woman I’m kissing, so…” I shrug. “It was my grandmother’s advice that showed me the way. What do you like? Intimately, I mean.”
“Not rushing,” she says, very matter-of-fact. “Taking the time to feel everything out.”
“Good. I can do all of that.”
“You already did.” She leans into my shoulder. She fits there like I planned it. My hand closes around her knee through the fabric of the dress. I do not move it higher. I don’t need to. The heat from her skin is enough for now.
“Twenty questions,” I say. “Fast. No thinking. Ready?”
She nods.
“Beach or city.”
“City,” she says.
“Cook or order.”
“Cook. I hate waiting for someone else to feed me.”
“Dogs or cats.”
“Neither,” she says. “We have babies. Could you imagine taking care of a pet on top of them too?” She reaches up and touches my jaw.
Her thumb slides over the place I should have shaved this morning.
But my hands weren’t as steady as I need for a good shave, so I skipped it.
Her eyes go darker at the feel of it. My mouth heats.
I don’t move. I let her do it again. She does.
“What do you think when you look at me?”
“That you look like trouble. It’s how you looked the night we met, and how you look now. The thing is, I like trouble. Always have.”
Her hand draws back half an inch like she burned herself on me, then retreats to her champagne flute. I pour a little more. She takes it and makes a face that is half pleasure and half grief. “Champagne when my sons are in the woods without me. I feel like a bad person.”
“You are not. You are allowed to enjoy the moment.”
She nods. She puts the glass down and takes my water instead. “Water is probably the better call right now. I’m terrified, Roman.”
“Fear is a tool. Learn to wield it, and no one can use it against you.”
Mina smiles at that. Her hand finds mine on her knee. She threads our fingers together and squeezes once. “I want to be a good wife,” she says without opening her eyes. “Whatever that means.”
“It means you tell me the truth. Our marriage is…not anything I planned—”
She laughs. “Same here.”
“But I enjoy your company, Mina. We will make our marriage whatever we both need. I would prefer we have a friendship. If something else blooms from that, all the better. If we remain only friends and we keep our sons safe, I would still call that a good marriage, given our circumstances.”
“I can do that.” She opens her eyes. “Ask me one more. Make it hard.”
“What do you want out of our arrangement?”
She looks at the window. She looks at me. “To live a boring, long, happy life.”
“I will do my damnedest to give you boredom and happiness and many years.”
She laughs again. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“I’m thanking you in advance for all of that.” She pauses, then adds, “And for letting me hate your good plan and not punishing me for it.”
“You can hate my plans. I will still make them if it means keeping you and our boys safe.”
Her head finds my shoulder and her breaths go steady, as though she’s finally breathing again.
She smells like the last frost before springtime—frost and flowers beginning to bloom.
The weight of her head on me feels right.
I like being her support. I like that she feels comfortable enough to lean on me.
Something in my gut tells me I could also lean on her, but Fyodor’s voice in my head begs for caution. I wonder when his voice will die too.