CHAPTER 22
Sasha
We spend a festive Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family, and Vaughn makes sure that Mikhail won’t be at the house in Rublyovka when we agree to spend the first week in January in Moscow with Irina and Sofia.
As much as I want to experience my first Russian Christmas, I am nervous about spending a week with his mother and sister, a worry that he tries to allay on our flight from Washington to Moscow, as we sit side by side sipping champagne in Turkish Airlines business class.
“The only time I met her,” I remind him, “I thought you’d lured her to my apartment to impress me. I was packing up my apartment in sweaty workout clothes.”
“I doubt very much she’d judge you based on that. She’s more down-to-earth than you’d expect,” he tells me. “Remember that she was a ballet dancer before she was an oligarch’s wife.”
“Like me.”
“Just like you,” he says, leaning over the armrests to kiss me. “Only you’re better than she ever was.”
“Lies.”
“Okay,” he says. “As good.”
Still a lie, but I let it pass with a smile. “Why are you so good to me?”
“Because you saw me when I was invisible,” he says. “And not only saw me but saw the good in me. I trust you. I love you.”
After so many years apart, and such a combative reunion in London, I’m still getting used to this level of unconditional love from Vaughn, and it scares me sometimes because I’m not protecting myself anymore. Very quickly after meeting him again in August, I took that great leap of faith to trust him implicitly and love him desperately. And I hope with every beat of my heart that my trust and love are well-placed and safe.
At this point, the thought of my life without him fills me with such deep and intense pain, I don’t know how I’d stand it. After knowing the sweetness of falling asleep in his arms and the joy of waking up beside him. After knowing how it feels for him to have my back and be my partner. After sharing his apartment and, little by little, making his home mine, too. I wouldn’t survive it if we lost one another again. I might go on living, but I’d never be whole again.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“You were wincing.”
“Was I?” I ask lightly.
“Sasha.” He reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “If you’re uncomfortable staying with Irina, just say so. We can stay in a hotel. There are many—”
“No,” I say, raising his hand to my lips to kiss it. “Absolutely not. I want a fresh start with Irina. And I’ve never met your sister, Sofia. I really want to get to know her.”
“You’ll like her,” he says, gesturing to the flight attendant for more champagne. “She’s a lot like you. Gentle. Sensitive. Bright. Thoughtful. You’ll love her. I know it.”
But will she love me?
Mikhail’s awful visit made one thing crystal clear. Vaughn’s attachment to me means that he wants to build his life in the United States, instead of in Moscow, London, or St. Tropez. And his family—at least some of them—don’t like it. I have no idea how I will be greeted by Irina and Sofia.
I turn my head to the side and watch Vaughn fiddle with the in-flight entertainment, looking for something to watch. When he settles on The Notebook , tears spring to my eyes. His choice reminds me that no matter what happens in Moscow, Vaughn has promised to always put me first. I need to keep trusting in his love for me and mine for him.
With that reassurance filling my heart, I close my eyes and fall asleep.
***
The Stepanov family do not greet flights at the airport. Instead, a car is sent to collect you and handle your luggage, so Irina and Sofia aren’t waiting for us, which I find a relief. It gives me a few minutes to freshen up before seeing them.
I use the bathroom at the airport to change into a new outfit—a black sweater dress with black tights, black boots with black fur trim, and a black overcoat with a fur collar. I add some pearl jewelry, but it’s still a lot of black. I’m trusting Sayaka, who went shopping with me, and swore that I looked trés chic .
When I come out of the bathroom, Vaughn’s leaning against a concrete column in the baggage claim area waiting for me, looking infuriatingly perfect in the clothes he’s been wearing for sixteen hours. Tall and muscular, with thick, dark, tousled hair, gray eyes with impossibly long lashes, and cheekbones that still startle me with their chiseled perfection, it shocks me sometimes that he’s mine.
Back off, ladies. He belongs to me.
Women who covet him don’t know about his poet’s heart and endless capacity for love. They don’t know that every waiter in Washington, D.C., and Arlington, Virginia, has been informed of my dairy allergy. They don’t know that he carries a packet of tissues in his pocket for me when we go to the movies. They don’t know that he changed his entire life, from a playboy to a humanitarian, by sheer will and devotion. They don’t know that hundreds, if not thousands, of foster children will benefit from the program that he’s initiated and implemented. They have no idea that this man, who stands so tall and proud, once slid between the shadows, ugly, invisible, and alone.
But I do.
I was there before and after. I know him. And for as long as I live, I will love no man on earth as I love him.
His eyes meet mine as I approach, but he’s not prepared for the way I step up to him, rise up on tiptoes, cup the side of his face with my palm, and pull him down to kiss me in public. His arms come around me, and he pulls me closer as our tongues tangle together. He groans softly into my mouth, which I swallow with a satisfied moan. When I draw away from him, his eyes are wide and dilated, his lips slick.
“Whoa. What was that for?” he asks, his voice breathless, his lips turned up in a surprised grin.
“Because I love you,” I tell him. “Because you’re mine. You belong to me, Ivan, Vaughn, Cigno, Stepanov. Forever.”
“Forever, Sasha,” he promises, dropping a sweet kiss to the tip of my nose. “Ready to meet my family?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I tell him, taking his hand and following him outside into a snowy Moscow afternoon.
***
Irinia and Sofia meet us in the front foyer of the Stepanov mansion, both dark-haired, stick thin and elegant in gray outfits—a dress and pantyhose for Irinia, and a pantsuit with matching heels for Sofia.
“Welcome, Sasha Collins,” says Irina, pulling me close for a stiff two-cheek kiss. She gestures to the young woman at her side. “You do not know my daughter, Sofia.”
Sophia Stepanova, who wears glasses and has a pencil stuck in her bun, is nothing like Vaughn’s sister, Galina. She meets my gaze with clear, gray eyes, which are sincere and kind.
“Welcome, Sasha Collins,” she says, offering her hand to me and speaking impeccable English. “I am so pleased to meet you.”
I shake her hand, then impulsively pull her in for an impromptu hug, which she graciously accepts, hugging me back.
“Thank you, Sofia,” I tell her. “I’m so happy to be here. I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you.”
“Are we staying downstairs?” asks Vaughn, as the driver brings in our luggage and piles it on the marble floor of the vast foyer.
“ Nyet ,” answers Irina. “That was for bachelor. You bring Sasha, you stay upstairs. We have a suite prepared. Come.”
I’m grateful to be staying upstairs and touched by Irina’s thoughtfulness. I really don’t want to think about what went on “downstairs” once upon a time.
“You are jetlagged?” Irina asks me, leading us up the stairs to the second floor of the mansion.
“I slept a little on the plane.”
“Rest before dinner,” she instructs me.
“Thank you. I will.”
We reach the upper landing, and she leads us down a red-carpeted hallway to an ornate door with gold-leaf carvings. When she pushes it open, I find myself in the most beautiful bedroom I’ve ever seen.
As Vaughn steps inside to shuck off his shoes and use the bathroom, I turn back to Irina who is lingering in the hallway.
“Irina! This is so lovely! Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Yes. Yes.” Her eyes narrow. Her expression is severe, but her expression always seems to be severe, so I can’t get a bead on her mood. “I need to speak with you, Sasha Collins.”
Shit. “O-okay.”
“Dinner at seven thirty. Come to library at seven,” she tells me. “Dark wood room by foyer.”
“Okay.”
“See you then,” she says, nodding at me sternly before turning on her heel and leaving the room.
***
I am not a coward.
I am Yulya and Patrick Collins’ daughter, and I am not a coward.
As I step down the marble stairs three hours later, en route to the library, I repeat these words over and over in my head.
Okay, so I may not be a coward, but I’m definitely a little scared.
Is this going to be Irina’s version of warning me away from Vaughn? The second family member to try to wedge us apart?
Remember that she was a ballet dancer before she was an oligarch’s wife.
She was just a dancer. Just like me.
I am strong and brave. I have agency over my relationship with Vaughn, and I will protect it at all costs. I will not allow her purchase. She cannot wedge us apart.
The door to the library is cracked, so I step inside. Irina is sitting in a wingback chair, facing the door, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and a roaring fire to her right.
“Good evening, Sasha,” she says, standing up and gesturing to the couch across from her. “Join me.”
I round the couch and sit down, perching on the edge.
“Bourbon?” she asks. “You Americans drink whiskey, yes?”
“No, thank you.”
“There is vodka, too.”
“Yes, okay. I’ll have a little vodka,” I say. “With ice, please.”
“No need,” she says, stepping over to a small bar on the other side of the fireplace. She presses a button, and a small, hidden door opens, followed by a puff of smoke. She places a glove on her right hand, then picks up a bottle of clear liquid, pours a healthy amount into the bottom of a crystal glass, then replaces the bottle. She crosses back over to the couch and hands it to me.
“ За здоровье.”
“За здоровье ,” I answer.
She resumes her seat, picks up her glass and sips.
“You prefer we speak in English?”
“Yes, please,” I tell her, holding her eyes to show her that I’m not intimidated by her library and her crystal and her custom-made vodka fridge. We are just dancers, you and me. “My mother and grandmother are fluent, but I’m not. I understand Russian better than I speak it.”
“You will forgive me. My English is…not perfect.”
“It’s still very good,” I say, taking another sip of vodka and sitting back against the couch.
She waves a hand dismissively, then focuses her eyes back on mine.
“Ivan looks healthy.”
“He is healthy. And happy, I think. He’s very devoted to his non-profit.”
“Yes. Fostering of the Child .”
“ Fostering the Arts ,” I say. “You’d be amazed by everything he’s done. He bought the land and had a beautiful building designed. Construction is almost finished now, so he’s hiring staff to teach and run the programs. He—”
“You are proud of him.”
“Oh my god, yes. So proud!”
“You are helping him?”
“Of course. When I can. I was just hired to dance corps at the Annapolis Ballet, but I started helping him in September, and I intend to stay active with Fostering the Arts as much as my dancing schedule allows.”
She stares at me hard for a moment, her gaze intense, her lips thin and set. And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, her face crumbles. She sobs softly, reaching up to shield her face with her hands.
My mouth drops open. I don’t know what’s happening. Why is she crying? Have I done something wrong?
“Irina, I—”
“Thank God for you, Sasha Collins,” she says, pulling a handkerchief from the sleeve of her black cashmere cardigan. She dabs at her cheeks and eyes, then stuffs the wadded fabric back up her sleeve. When she looks up at me, her gray eyes are watery, but direct. “I am in your debt.”
Whatever I expected her to say, this isn’t it. “What? No! What do you—”
“He was lost.” She clenches her jaw before speaking again. “You see, yes? He was lost. Again! For second time! Mikhail was destroying him. It was agony,” she says, her voice deep with emotion, “for the mother to watch.”
“I’m sorry, Irina.”
“No. You are not sorry. You are savior. You are angel. Ivan decided to fix his life after he see you in London. You saved him.”
“I don’t know if I saved him. I only know I never stopped loving him,” I tell her. “But there was no hope for us if he continued living his life the way he was.”
“And so he change his life. For you.” She sips her drink. “You find him on spiral to hell and save him before he burn.”
It’s a dramatic image, but one look at her face tells me she means every word. She lifts her chin, her eyes growing icy cold.
“Mikhail visited Washington.”
“Y-Yes.” I blink at her, surprised Vaughn shared that with her.
“And he scare you.”
“He did. Very much.”
“I tried to warn Ivan,” she says, fisting her hands in her lap, “but he want to see the good in his half brother. The problem? There is no good in Mikhail.”
Did Mikhail scare me? Yes, he did. Do I ever want to be around him again? No, I don’t. But do I believe there is no good in Mikhail? I don’t know. I don’t want to believe that any human being is beyond redemption.
“I hope that Mikhail finds his way someday,” I tell her.
“You are sweet. Too sweet. Don’t waste your time on this wish.”
I don’t know what to say, so I take another sip of my vodka, and we sit in silence for several seconds. Finally, she leans forward, clearing her throat to reclaim my attention.
“Sasha Collins,” she says solemnly, “if you need anything, you tell me. You don’t ask. You tell. You saved my son. I am your friend. Understand?”
“Yes, Irina,” I say. “I understand.”
“Good,” she says, standing up from her chair and walking to the library door. “Now? Dinner. Come, Sasha. Follow me.”
***
Vaughn
When we return from Moscow, Sasha launches into her new job, commuting to and from Annapolis three days a week for rehearsals, in preparation for a weekend performance of La Esmeralda in April. As much as she’s looking forward to April, however, she’s far more excited for the fall program, which includes performances of Swan Lake and The Nutcracker , two of her favorites.
It’s good to see her back in her element, leaving the apartment at the crack of dawn in leotards, tights, and leggings, and coming home tired but happy in the early evening. We order takeout for dinner, and I rub her feet after we eat. She tells me all about the new dancers she’s meeting, and I update her on the progress we’re making with Fostering the Arts . I miss her daily input and advice where the foundation is concerned, but I know how important dancing is to her. Sometimes she reminds me that her hip will only let her dance for so long before she’ll have to give it up forever. I know how much that will hurt her, so I’m eager for her to enjoy every year she has left.
But I’m eager for other things, too.
Whenever we spend time with her family, and I see how good she is with her nephews and niece, I feel a pull inside of me to experience parenthood with her. I love that she’s my girlfriend and my lover, my roommate and my best friend…but more and more, I want Sasha Collins to be my wife, too. I want to declare my love for her to the entire world.
I am hers, and she is mine, and so it will be forever.
And so one day in March, because I have no idea what ring to choose, I ask Sayaka if she’d be willing to meet me at the Tiffany’s on New York Avenue in Washington. She enthusiastically agrees, and thank God, because my instinct is, “the bigger the better,” until Sayaka reminds me that Sasha is both small-boned and modest. Sayaka insists that her best friend will be far more comfortable with something smaller than the three- and four-carat rings that I am initially drawn to.
We settle on a $95,000 two-carat emerald-cut diamond ring with a pavé diamond/platinum band. Though I would have happily paid five or six times as much, Sayaka’s sigh and teary smile make it clear I’ve made the right choice.
“She will love it, Vaughn-san,” she tells me as I drive her back to Maryland, “almost as much as she loves you.”
“You’re a good friend, Sayaka.”
“ She is a good friend,” she says, then adds, “I believe you are finally worthy of her.” When I look over at her, she turns to me and grins. “Did I scare you back in September? At the BBQ?”
“I didn’t know you could be so terrifying.”
“I am protective of her. She was nice to me when no one else was.”
“That’s one of her superpowers,” I say.
“Yes, Vaughn-san,” says Sayaka. “Yes, it is.”
After I drop Sayaka off at her house, I drive to Mr. and Mrs. Collins’ house. I phoned them last week to ask if I could speak with them privately, relieved when they agreed. Whatever initial misgivings they may have had about their daughter reconnecting with me, they seem less worried now.
Though it’s March, it’s one of those warm and sunny afternoons that signals the start of spring, and Yulya leads me out to their screened-in porch where Patrick is waiting, still in his work clothes of khaki pants and a button-down shirt.
“Hey there, Vaughn!” He greets me like an old friend, patting me on the shoulder and offering me the rocking chair in the corner while he and his wife sit side by side on the couch.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what this is about,” I start.
Yulya winks at me. “No.”
“No?”
“No, we’re not wondering,” she says. “We’re pretty sure we know what’s about to happen here.”
“But you go ahead, son,” says Patrick, patting his wife’s knee. “Don’t steal the kid’s thunder, now.”
I have a small speech prepared, so I clear my throat and stand up because it feels like the respectful thing to do.
“Yulya and Patrick,” I begin, “I fell in love with Sasha the first time I ever saw her. She was—”
“Yes!” blurts out Yulya.
“Yulsie!” says Patrick, shaking his head at her. “Not yet!”
“Sorry,” she says, pantomiming zipping her lips shut and throwing away the key, a gesture that is totally wasted when she adds, “Go ahead.”
“Thanks. Um…she was walking into the Kennedy Center to audition for the company, and I was vacuuming the carpet in the Grand Foyer.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” says Patrick. “Honest work.”
“Thanks,” I say again.
I take a deep breath.
I’m about to start my speech again when I stop and look at them, really look at them sitting across from me—at these people who raised their daughter with such care that she turned into the person she is today.
They live in the same house they bought after they got married, both work full-time, take modest vacations once or twice a year, and drive decidedly unsexy cars. They have also been married for thirty-four years, raised three children and weathered the passing of three of their four parents, myriad illnesses and losses over those shared decades. Though their net worth is pennies compared to mine, they radiate kindness, acceptance, and love.
They are, without any shadow of doubt, the richest people I know.
“I would like your permission—your blessing—to ask Sasha to marry me.”
“Yes!” chirps Yulya, clapping her hands with glee.
“Woot! There it is!” cries Patrick, jumping up to wrap his arms around me in a big, old-fashioned, bear-hug.
“We had a hunch,” says Yulya, the next to embrace me.
“To be clear, son,” says Patrick, “we had our reservations when you showed up again. But this Fostering the Arts project is just terrific—”
“Plus, everything you did for Mom,” says Yulya, tears springing into her eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you for helping with her care.”
Damn it, Sasha!
“You weren’t supposed to know about that,” I say. “I wanted it to be a secret.”
“It’s just about the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard of,” Yulya says. “Don’t be mad at her for telling us. She only told us recently, and she was bursting with pride to share what you did. She loves you so, Vaughn.”
I smile at my future mother-in-law. “I was so worried when Sasha left London. I wanted to help.”
Yulya pats my hand. “Well, we’re very grateful.”
“We figure you two have had stormy seas for long enough,” says Patrick. “You deserve some smooth sailing from here on out. That’ll be our prayer for you, son.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“When are you planning to ask her?” Yulya says, a sparkle in her dark eyes.
“Soon,” I promise them. “Very soon.”
***
There’s one more person I need to speak with before I propose to Sasha—her Bubbie, whom I’ve arranged to take a walk with after meeting with Sasha’s parents. Mrs. Rabinovich takes a walk every afternoon, and when I asked if I could speak with her privately, she insisted on my joining her.
She takes my arm as we walk down the front steps and onto the sidewalk.
“Russian or English?” she asks as we start down the block.
“Is English okay with you?”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “I am comfortable in either. I taught English when I was a young teacher in Moscow.”
“Is that right? I didn’t know that.”
She nods her head. “Yes. Yes. I love the English language.”
“Do you speak other languages?” I ask her. “Besides English and Russian?”
“Yes. A little Polish. A little German. And some very bad Danish.”
“Danish? Really?”
“Yes. Khrushchev was a great fan of Denmark, you know. He visited in 1964 and was so impressed with the Danish agricultural program, he couldn’t find the right words to praise it.”
“Ha!” I chortle. “All worked up over agriculture, huh?”
“Hand to God,” she says.
“So you learned a little Danish?”
“I was only there for six months. When I left, I could speak about the same amount of Danish as a four- or five-year-old child. Not much.”
“About the same amount of Russian I lost at the same age.”
“Yes,” says Bubbie, patting my hand in sympathy. “ Беднь?й утенок .”
“Poor…duck?” I ask.
“Poor duck ling . You know the story? The Danish fairytale?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ah! The Ugly Duckling , by Hans Christian Anderson,” she tells me. “It reminds me of you. Or you of it. Or both.”
Ugly Duckling. Brutto Anatroccolo.
Maria-Elena’s cruelty from long ago rings in my ears, and I flinch.
“I mean no offense!” Bubbie cries. “You are very handsome, Ivan. You know that, don’t you?”
“I wasn’t always.”
“Of course you were,” she argues. “You just rolled into the wrong nest.”
“The wrong nest?”
“The story goes something like this. Once upon a time, there was a terrible thunderstorm over a pretty lake, and a very beloved swan’s egg rolled into a duck’s nest during the night. When the eggs hatched, there were six perfect, little, yellow ducklings, and one large, ungainly, gray one. All of the ducks made fun of him, calling him ugly and pecking at his gray feathers, so he left his duck family behind and ran away.
“He was sad and alone, with no one to love or love him in return. He almost froze to death that first terrible winter, hiding alone in a cave near the lake.
“When spring came again, he could no longer bear his loneliness. He stepped from his cave, hoping that some sympathetic creature would peck him to death and release him from misery. But when he walked to the water’s edge, he saw his reflection in the water and discovered that he had been a swan all along. The swans joyfully accepted him, and he lived happily ever after.”
She is still holding my arm as we stroll, and she squeezes it gently.
“You were a swan all along, Ivan,” she tells me gently. “You just rolled into the wrong nest.”
I blink my eyes rapidly against the tears that threaten to fall, but her story, which so elegantly mirrors my own, has hit a chord deep within me.
“Thanks for sharing that story, Bubbie,” I say, my voice deep and scratchy with emotion.
“Of course, Ivan Stepanov. And yes,” she adds, patting my arm like the loving grandmother she is, “you have my blessing to marry our Sasha.”