CHAPTER 13
Vaughn
Lara’s is the first restaurant that Mikhail has launched in a while and the first “soft” opening I’ve ever attended.
While traveling south via the underground, I look up the difference between a “soft” opening and a “grand” opening, and the explanation makes sense. At a soft opening, which is generally three to four weeks before the grand opening, only a handful of select people are invited, and they are mostly made up of good-intentioned family and friends who show up for a free meal and will give the establishment a good review. The menu is often limited, and diners are expected to give feedback about the food, drink, décor, and service, so that the restaurant can perfect everything over the ensuing few weeks before the grand opening.
Mikhail’s been talking about Lara’s for two years now, so I know the restaurant concept very well. It’s all about taking traditional Russian recipes and gentrifying them in a chic and swanky space.
So, borscht, for example, a well-known beet stew meant to feed a working man, might be offered as a colorful magenta dip served with toasted bread points. Or a famous dish like Beef Stroganoff might be deconstructed into three small filets of beef set upon a bed of mushrooms with a creamy sauce ladled table-side. For dessert, Lara’s might offer diners a slice of medovik cake, served in the shape of a honeycomb, as a nod to its primary ingredient.
And the restaurant itself is Russia the way Mikhail sees it.
Black marble floors. Snow-white walls. Crystal chandeliers. Round tables with white tablecloths and red velvet chairs. Red crystal and china. Shiny silver cutlery. Red roses on every table. A white lacquer grand piano in the corner of the main dining room.
His favorite restaurant in the whole world is called Dr. Zhivago’s, located close to the Kremlin, and he’s essentially modeled Lara’s to be Dr. Zhivago’s London sibling. From what I’ve gathered, it’s just as beautiful as its forebearer.
Knowing that I’m going to see Sasha made me take extra care with my grooming and dress tonight. I’m wearing a sharp, three-piece black suit with a vest, a crisp white dress shirt with silver monogrammed cufflinks, and a blood-red tie. My brother told me he had the best tailor on Savile Row make him a custom suit in deep red dupioni silk. He’ll either end up looking supremely chic, or like a Mafia boss. It remains to be seen.
My mother and Sofia weren’t invited, and, busy with her family, Nina will miss the opening, but Galina flew into London this morning and is meeting me at Lara’s for dinner. I’m looking forward to seeing her. We haven’t spoken since my birthday.
As I walk up the stairs from the tube, I spy a blonde woman in red stiletto heels and a black fur jacket waiting on the sidewalk. She’s leaning against the metal pole of a corner stoplight, wearing sunglasses, sucking on a crimson lollipop, and scrolling through TikTok.
She’s effortlessly cool.
Galina.
“ Сестра !” I greet her. Sister!
She moves the lollipop to her cheek, lowers her glasses, and grins at me.
“ Младший брат .” Little brother , she says, winking at me.
Fun fact: the words for “little brother” in Russian sound like “m’lad, she brat,” which hits a little different if you consider your first language English.
“You look stunning, as always.”
“ Da. Of course,” she mutters matter-of-factly, taking my arm and steering us toward Lara’s. “Why did he build his stupid restaurant south of the Thames?” she asks in heavily accented English. “Why not in Soho or Mayfair?”
“Borough’s cool now,” I say. “And you know he loves the Tate.”
“The Tate.” She scoffs. “He is an idiot,” she adds, but I’ve learned that even when Galina casts aspersions on family members, she means it affectionately. She’d take a bullet for Mikhail or Nina any day, and that’s a fact.
“How was your flight?” I ask.
“Irina has jet, so I have to fly commercial,” she complains.
“First class on British Airways isn’t too shabby.”
“Private jet is better.”
True enough. My half sister is a straight-shooter, no-bullshit kinda girl, and I like that about her.
“Hey, I saw your photo at a gallery last week,” I tell her.
“What photo?”
“Of you and Nina. It was an Anna Skladmann retrospective.”
“Oh, yes. The немецкая леди .” The German lady. “I remember her.”
“You were wearing wedding dresses.”
“ Nyet. First communion dresses. But da , we looked like little brides.”
Up ahead, there is a red carpet on the sidewalk and a huge, old-fashioned, Hollywood spotlight shoots a dramatic beam of light into the night sky. Leave it to Mikhail to be subtle.
I nod at the bouncer, and he unlatches the roped stanchion, allowing us seamless entry. We don’t miss a step as we glide inside.
Suddenly, we’re transported to another world. Lara’s is impressive.
Maybe I misjudged Mikhail’s commitment to this project by thinking of him solely as “the money.” Because the space is clean, chic, sexy, and elegant all at once. I know he hasn’t had the best of luck with his other restaurants, but if the food here is any good at all, this place should have some real staying power.
The tables, with red roses and candles flickering in red crystal votive holders, are about one-third full of guests who speak in polite murmurs. The tinkle of glassware and silverware is a soft chorus. A pianist plays a Rachmaninoff waltz on the baby grand.
“It’s nice,” says Galina, which is pretty high praise from her. “Like Dr. Zhivago at home.”
I elbow her in the side. “Come on! It’s spectacular.”
She shrugs. “We’ll see.”
My brother, the only person in the room wearing red from neck to toe, is speaking to Svetlana Smirnov by the crystal-encrusted bar when he notices our entry and hustles across the room to greet us.
He claps his palms on our cheeks and kisses Galina on the lips, then me. I taste champagne and nicotine.
“My brother and sister are here!” He turns to a stick-skinny, black-haired hostess standing at the glossy white podium before us. “Special table for two!” She leads us over to a table á deux by faux windows that show a scenic view of the Kremlin in wintertime. Snow falls. Empty tree branches sway in the wind. People walk by. Mikhail grins at us as we sit down. “Curated video. Like being there, eh?”
“Nice touch,” says Galina, putting a red napkin on her nap.
“What are you drinking?” he asks.
“Vodka,” she says. “And leave the bottle.”
As Mikhail rushes away to find a server, I scan the room for Sasha. Unless she’s tucked away somewhere I can’t see, she isn’t here yet.
“Who are you looking for?” my sister asks. “No one is here. This is the soft opening.”
“There are people here.”
“No one important,” she says. “So, who are you looking for?”
“No one. Leave it.”
“Hmm,” she hums as Mikhail returns with a server who’s carrying a silver tray on which sits a silver wine bucket, bearing a bottle of vodka, and three crystal shot glasses.
“Mikhail,” she asks in Russian, “who is Ivan looking for?”
My brother puts his hands on my shoulders as the server opens the bottle with a flourish and pours us three shots.
“He’s in love with a dancer from America.”
Galina looks genuinely confused. “A dancer?”
“A ballerina,” clarifies Mikhail.
“You are in love with an American ballerina?” my sister asks, taking a full shot glass from the server.
I sigh loudly. I forgot how annoying Mikhail and Galina can be when they’re together.
“Sadly,” says Mikhail, accepting a glass, and nudging one to me, “he is.”
“To Mikhail and his Lara!” I toast, lifting the squat glass. “ За здоровье! ” Cheers!
As I raise the glass to my lips, I see a party of four enter the restaurant and stand by the white podium, waiting for a table. My heart stutters. Leaps. Drums with emotion.
Sasha.
“Oh, I see,” says Galina, gesturing to the server to refill her glass. “The blonde. By the door?”
Mikhail flicks his eyes at the entrance. “ Nyet. The brunette.”
“They all look like dancers,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “They have that starving, superior look. Like Irina.”
“ Da ,” agrees Mikhail, throwing back his second shot. “ Черт бы ее побрал .”
He mutters the last bit, so I don’t understand what he says, but I gather it’s about my mother and not very nice.
“I need to meet her…this ballerina,” says Galina, placing her empty shot glass on the table and standing up in one fluid motion.
I watch as she glides across the black marble in a short silver cocktail dress and red heels. Stopping by the podium, she puts her hands on her hips and says something to Sasha. Sasha lifts her chin and responds. Galina says something else. Sasha’s cheeks turn crimson, and her friends look uncomfortable. Galina throws back her head and laughs. She says something else to the small, startled crowd, then turns around and walks back to our table.
“So?” asks Mikhail eagerly. “What havoc did you wreak?”
“I told her I was fucking Ivan Stepanov, so she had better steer clear, or I’d scratch her eyes out. She told me that I was welcome to Ivan because she didn’t care about him. I told her she was a liar and laughed at her. Then, I confessed I am your sister, told them I was just kidding, and wished them a happy meal.”
Mikhail roars with laughter before sauntering away to visit with more friends.
“What the fuck, Galina?” I growl.
I don’t know why my siblings do shit like this. I really don’t. But I’m not amused by it. I cross my arms over my chest, trying not to be bothered by Sasha’s words and trying even harder not to look over at her.
“It was a joke. Lighten up,” she says, taking a cigarette from her bag and lighting up.
A waitress taps on Galina’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, miss, but smoking’s not allowed.”
“Bite me,” says my sister, waving the young woman away. She taps ashes in Mikhail’s empty shot glass, then looks up at me. “You really like her? The dancer?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“She’s pretty enough,” says Galina, staring at Sasha over my shoulder. “Play with her like a toy, then move on.”
I slide my glance toward the piano, where Sasha, Igor and another couple have been seated. With menus raised, they appear to be sitting in silence, no doubt discomfited by Galina’s behavior. I turn back to my sister.
“Just leave her alone, okay?”
“Whatever you say, m’lad, she brat ,” she murmurs. “Now, what are you thinking? Paté, herring, or caviar to start?”
“I don’t care,” I say.
“All three it is.”
***
Sasha
I was uneasy walking into this restaurant, into this situation.
I tried to figure out a good reason to cancel, right up until the last second.
I don’t want to be here.
I want nothing to do with Ivan Stepanov or his disturbing brother. And after what happened five minutes ago, I want nothing to do with his disgusting sister either.
“Calm down!” she’d said, laughing at me in a way that felt so condescending, it made my blood run cold. “Obviously, I don’t fuck my brothers. Я не крестьянка. Can’t you take a joke?”
I was so shocked by what she’d said I couldn’t answer. I was frozen in place, too stunned to say, “I can take a joke…but I can’t take a joke when one sibling jokes about fucking the other. Call me hopelessly old-fashioned, but I just don’t think that’s funny.”
Instead, I stood there like a fish with my mouth open, watching her walk away.
“What the hell was that?” whispers Natalia.
“Galina Stepanova,” says Igor, his voice holding a tiny bit of awe. “The Stepanovs are notorious.”
“For being jerks?” asks Marshall.
A Morticia Adams look-alike approaches us, takes my name, and leads us to a table by the piano. She hands us menus as a busboy fills our red crystal water glasses. And now I’m hiding behind said menu, wishing I had the guts to just stand up and go home. I’m clearly not welcome here, and really—
“Wow!” exclaims Marshall, his eyes sparkling when he turns to me. “Did you say this dinner is free? It looks amazing.”
“This menu has everything !” says Igor. “I wish I could taste it all.”
Natalia gasps with delight as a waitress brings us four flutes of Prosecco.
There goes my escape plan. Ballet teachers aren’t exactly millionaires. This is a special treat for my friends, and I’m not going to ruin it for them because Ivan’s bitchy sister decided to try to embarrass me.
“It does look good,” I say, peeking around my menu to scan the room for the Stepanov siblings, so I’ll be ready for the next jump-scare. Mikhail is speaking to a heavy-set woman by the bar, and I find Ivan and Galina sitting by the fake windows. She pours them each a shot of vodka. They raise their glasses to cheers, and just before Ivan drinks, his eyes slide to mine.
Stormy gray.
I stare at him for a second, then look away quickly, reminding myself, He’s not Vaughn. Vaughn’s long gone. I have no idea who Ivan Stepanov really is, and I’m not interested in finding out.
I lower my menu and smile at Natalia, who sits to my left. “What are you ordering?”
“I’m not counting calories tonight,” she says defiantly. “Cream of porcini mushroom soup to start, and Chicken Kiev for my entrée.”
“I love Chicken Kiev,” says Marshall, “but I can’t pass up a venison steak with cherries. You never see venison on menus, and I bet it’s phenomenal. How about you, Igor?”
“I’m going traditional all the way,” he says. “Caviar and paté to start. Beef Stroganoff and Siberian dumplings for my main course.”
“What are Siberian dumplings?” I ask, relaxing a touch now that we’re seated and chatting. The Prosecco isn’t hurting either.
“They look like Chinese dumplings, but they’re filled with beef and pork, with salt and pepper, then covered with melted butter, sour cream, dill, and chives.” He pantomimes a chef’s kiss. “My favorite.”
“Did your mother make them?” I ask him with a smile.
“She did,” he says. “And my aunts. And my grandmother. It’s comfort food.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“What are you having?” he asks me.
“I love blinis,” I say. “Especially with lamb meat and fried onions. So, I think I’ll start with that. Then, I’m thinking…Chicken schnitzel with cowberries.”
“What’s a cowberry?” asks Natalia.
“It’s called a lingonberry in Scandinavia,” says Igor. “It tastes like a cross between a raspberry and a cranberry. A little sweet, a little tart.”
“Yum!” says Natalia, finishing her bubbly. “My mouth is watering!”
One waitress refills our Prosecco flutes, and another presents a small plate at each of our places.
“An amuse-bouche from the kitchen,” she says. “This is a trio of one-bite pierogis. Chicken and mushroom. Suluguni cheese and spinach. And lamb with apples and raisins. Bon appétit!”
Natalia leans forward, darting her eyes to me and Igor. “What’s…sulugi?”
“Suluguni,” says Igor, grinning at her. “It’s a cheese from Georgia, a lot like your Italian mozzarella.”
“Oh! Yum, yum, yum!” says Natalia again, popping the pierogi in her mouth and ahhhhhh-ing like it’s orgasmic.
“Uh… Wow,” murmurs Marshall, staring at her like it hurts a little.
I avoid the dumplings. I don’t know which one has cheese, and I don’t have my EpiPen in my tiny purse tonight.
Maybe it’s the bubbly, or maybe I’m just feeling bold, but I look at Natalia, then Marshall, and ask (with “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” playing in my head), “Marshall, do you have a girlfriend?”
“Oh. Um. Right now? No. No. Not right now.”
“Huh. Interesting.” I slide my eyes to Natalia. “What about you? Do you have a special someone?”
“Sasha!” She glances at Marshall, her cheeks color, and she giggles. “Whatever are you implying?”
I give her a little grin and shrug. “You two would be cute together.”
“I think you’re drunk!” says Natalia, but her eyes slide to Marshall, who looks pleased as punch.
Laughing with my friends, I can’t help it that my gaze drifts over to Ivan Stepanov, who’s watching me intently. Like it hurts him. A lot. And honestly, that’s fairly maddening because he’s been nothing but cold and obnoxious since we crossed paths in London.
“Will you excuse me?” I ask my friends. “Nature calls.”
“Want me to come?” asks Natalia.
“No! I’ll be back in a flash.”
I head to the bathroom, careful of my steps across the marble floor. It wouldn’t do for a teacher at the RAB to trip and fall, even if she is recovering from a serious injury and unaccustomed to super high heels. I part a pair of black velvet curtains under a lighted sign that reads Vannaya and has stick figures of a man and woman. I try the ladies room door, but it’s locked, so I stand in the small, dimly lit corridor, waiting for my turn.
Suddenly, the curtains part again.
Ivan Stepanov joins me in the tight, dusky space.
“Oh,” I say, feigning disappointment and looking away quickly. “It’s you.”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Are you enjoying your brother’s opening?” I ask, staring straight ahead.
“Clearly, you’re having fun,” he says, without answering my question. “Laughing and chatting with Igor and company.”
He says the name “Igor” like most people say the word “fuck.”
“Yep. Why shouldn’t I?” I snap back.
“Oh! You should,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why shouldn’t a gaggle of ballet teachers enjoy a free meal?” He scoffs. “Your life is really rough.”
The end of this corridor must lead outside, because a sudden chill wraps itself around my legs and makes my bad hip ache.
“You know nothing about how hard my life has been.”
“Are you kidding? I met your family at their beach house , princess. You have it good.”
“That was a rental house, and you know it,” I say. I turn to face him, finding his eyes, which are dark and shiny in the dim light. “And to be frank, Ivan, the truth is that I had no interest in coming here tonight, but my friends were excited, and I didn’t want to let them down.”
He puts a hand over his heart. “You’re so selfless, Sasha. The patron saint of ballet dancers.”
“Shut up, Ivan.”
I’m wearing the same black cocktail dress I wore to the gallery opening, but I’ve paired it with a cropped black cardigan tonight. Another cool breeze races down the corridor, and I cross my arms over my chest, hugging myself.
“Are you cold?” he asks, his voice a little gentler. He reaches up to unbutton his jacket.
“I don’t want your jacket,” I say, looking at him with disgust. “I don’t want anything from you.”
I turn away from him, staring at the ladies’ room door, willing its occupant to come out.
He sighs softly. “Listen, Sasha, I’m…”
He pauses there, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to bark, “You what?!” but I remind myself I don’t care about Ivan Stepanov, and nothing he has to say could possibly interest me. I keep staring straight ahead at the stick figure in a skirt.
He nudges my arm. “I’m sorry about last week. My brother. At the gallery. And my sister. The way she—what she said when you arrived tonight.”
Ignoring him, I lean forward and knock on the ladies’ room door. “Hello in there! Others are waiting.”
“Sasha,” says Ivan, “did you hear me? I said I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care,” I hiss. “I don’t accept your apology.”
“Come on—”
“Your siblings,” I snarl in a low voice, whipping my eyes to his, “are assholes! And that’s exactly what you’ve turned into, too! You’re a giant asshole, Ivan Stepanov! From what I can tell, you turned into an asshole the second Irina Stepanova landed in D.C. five years ago!” Horrified by my outburst, I turn away from him and lean back against the wall, my chest heaving, my arms still crossed protectively over my body. My heart races. My cheeks are on fire. But it turns out I’m not finished. In a quieter voice, full of sadness, I hear myself whisper, “I have no idea who you are! But seeing you makes me miss Vaughn Cigno. So, please…stay away from me. Just leave me alone.”
The ladies’ room door opens. An older woman steps out, giving me a dirty look before leaving through the black velvet curtains. As I step forward, Ivan grabs my hand.
“Sasha! I’m sorry… Please…”
Without looking at him, and keeping my voice as level as possible, I say, “I said, leave me alone.”
“What if I can’t?” he murmurs.
I yank my hand away, step forward, and lock the door behind me.
***
Two hours later, after lamb blinis, a ball of mint sorbet between courses, the best schnitzel I’ve ever eaten, and half a dozen glasses of Prosecco, I’m feeling much better than before.
My gentle interference with Natalia and Marshall has led to some adorable canoodling. Igor has been a good friend. He’s not trying to push his agenda, despite wanting more than a friendship from me. The Stepanov siblings have left us alone. The food and drink have been outstanding, and the pianist has segued into a jazzy-swing vibe as the night rolls on.
I watch as an older couple takes to the dance floor, swaying to “Fly Me to the Moon,” and sigh. How lovely! I’m proud of myself for finding the courage to tell off Ivan Stepanov tonight, and further, I haven’t glanced at him once since I returned from the bathroom. I’m feeling empowered, relaxed, and happy.
But then…out of the corner of my eye—as though he realizes I’ve reached the apex of contentedness and must ruin it—I see Ivan Stepanov cross the floor toward me. At the last minute, he veers toward the pianist, bends down, and has a word. I hope against hope that he’ll go back to his table, but suddenly, a new melody fills the room.
Damn him!
My body tenses. My fingers curl. My eyes water.
Bubbie’s all-time favorite song.
I know I’ll stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me…
I haven’t heard “Somethin’ Stupid,” in years…since the night of Vaughn’s and my second date on the terrace of the Kennedy Center. I had just unintentionally friend zoned him, even though my feelings for him were growing by leaps and bounds, every minute of every day. What a bittersweet memory. How remarkable that we somehow made it past that awkward hurdle together and ended up falling in love.
A hand lands on my bare shoulder, gentle and warm.
Close to my ear, I hear Ivan’s voice.
“It’s a bolero,” he whispers. Then he adds, using my own words, from long ago, against me. “Who can resist a bolero?”
What a dirty trick.
“It’s the only dance I ever learned,” he continues softly. “I’m a great bolero partner. I promise.”
My eyes flutter closed, then reopen. Shit. If I hadn’t drunk so much, I’d tell him to go to hell, but the past— our past, which I so loved —is suddenly preying on me in the sweetest possible way.
And then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin’ stupid like I love you.
“Dance with me, котик ,” he says, tugging at my chair. “Just one dance. Come on.”
I feel the eyes of the room on me and stand up, refusing to look at Ivan as he takes my hand and leads me away from the table.
We stop in the center of the marble floor, and Ivan places his hand firmly on my waist. I place mine on his shoulder, and we clasp our loose hands together. As though the pianist senses something is about to happen, he stops playing for a pregnant second before starting the song all over again.
A playful little vamp. An introduction as we get used to each other.
“Dancing is your love language,” says Ivan Stepanov in a whisper that sounds so much like Vaughn Cigno, I think my heart might burst from my chest, adding another dramatic splash of red to Mikhail’s restaurant.
At the skin, my blood calls out to your heart .
I glance up at him, feeling angry, and confused, and— fuck me —sentimental.
My whole sky craves an island of tenderness.
“Ready?” he asks, giving me a small smile.
My rivers tilt toward you…
“I’m a dancer,” I say. “Let’s dance.”
Sliding to the left, he leads me with confidence and precision. We glide across the marble, our bodies in tandem. He lunges left, then toward me, then right, then away from me, and I follow him with a rhythm that feels organic and perfect. I unclasp his shoulder as we step forward together, then hold him again as we lean back against each other.
My breasts brush his chest, my heart thunders, my eyes seek his. And as though he’s spent every moment of the last five years preparing himself for this moment— this second, this millimeter in time —he grins at me.
There you are.
Vaughn Cigno.
Vaughn Swan.
My swan.
I smile back at him. “It’s you.”
“It’s me,” he whispers.
The pianist does a little interlude, but inevitably, the melody returns.
“Ready for a dip?” he asks.
“Always,” I tell him, holding on.
…tell you somethin’ stupid like I love you…I love you…I love you…
I am sufficiently dipped and then brought quickly upright to thunderous applause.
Vaughn grins at me, nodding with satisfaction, and—holding his hand—we bow gracefully to the other restaurant patrons before he walks me back to my table.
“Thanks for the dance,” he says.
My hand drops to the high back of my red velvet chair. I hold his eyes. My smile fades. “You’re welcome.”
“Can we talk?” he asks suddenly, the words quick and urgent. “Sunday? You’re off, right?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Almond milk?” he asks.
I understand. He’s asking if I still take my coffee with almond milk.
“I prefer oat now.”
“I’ll pick you up on the sidewalk beneath your flat at ten o’clock,” he says.
He pulls out my chair, and once I’m seated, he takes my hand, raises it to his lips, and kisses it.
“See you Sunday, котик, ” he says, still bent over my hand, his breath caressing my skin.
When he walks away, I inhale audibly, take a gulp of water, then turn to face my friends.
“What. The. Fuck?” asks Natalia, totally wide-eyed.
“That was some bolero,” adds Marshall.
“Okay. Full disclosure?” I say. “We dated for a little while. A long time ago. When I danced in D.C.”
“You… dated him?” Igor crosses his arms over his chest. “You never mentioned—”
“It felt irrelevant.”
“It doesn’t feel irrelevant anymore,” he says softly, then turns away from me, asking Marshall about his plans for Christmas.
“That was dreamy,” says Natalia, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. “If ballet doesn’t work out, you could teach a mean bolero.”
“Who can resist a bolero?” I ask her.
“Not you,” she says, “and clearly, not Ivan Stepanov. By the way, he hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he went back to his table. I think…”
“Tell me,” I say. I want to know what my friend thinks of him.
“I think you have a lot of unfinished business with him, Sasha Collins.”
I turn my head away from her, to find Ivan staring at me. I meet his eyes. I hold them.
And this time, for the first time in recent memory, Ivan looks away first.