Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (24 page)

Sasha grinned. “Or you’re drunk. Everyone knows Americans can’t handle vodka, but it’s okay, Kerrichka. You’re family now. We won’t tell.”

She was about to remind him she hadn’t had any vodka, but who was she kidding? Fireworks? Lightning? UFOs? Any explanation was more plausible than God putting on a private light show for her benefit. “
Spasibo
, Sasha,” she said with a laugh, she hoped sounded convincing. “I’d hate for people to think I can’t hold my liquor.”

Sasha snubbed out his cigarette in a metal pail filled with snow, and Nika slid the balcony door open. Carrie was about to follow, but took one last look over her shoulder. No green lights. Nothing. She could be such an idiot.

Then Anton touched her arm. “The light,” he said quietly. “Was it important that it be there?”

Catching her breath, she couldn’t take her eyes from his solemn gaze. He understood. And he wasn’t laughing. The lump in her throat choked her words, so she simply nodded.

He stepped forward and brushed a kiss across her temple. “Then who are we to say it wasn’t?”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Anton unlocked the door to their apartment. The building was quiet this late at night. Carrie held the bottle of wine they’d received from one of Anton’s cousins and the wedding album, which felt like a weight.
He hit the switch for the hallway, living room and kitchen lights. “If you want to open gifts tonight, I’ll pour wine,” he said.

“Sure,” she replied, without much enthusiasm.

Three wrapped boxes sat beneath the tree. For Anton, she’d chosen a coach’s watch, with functions to clock programs, and set different time zones for when he traveled. But two days ago, she’d decided it wasn’t enough and had purchased the newest generation iPad. Even now, the gifts didn’t feel quite right.
Your love, your honesty, your trust. Those are the gifts I’m happiest to get.

What he wanted most, she was afraid to give.

She put the boxes on the table in front of the couch, sat down and opened the wedding album. The colors in her bouquet echoed her ivory dress, Anton’s black suit and red tie. He was a devastatingly handsome groom; she was a lovely bride. Anton brought two glasses of wine and sat down. She laid the album aside, next to the gifts. “I hope you like what I got you,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

“I’m sure I will.” He lifted his glass. “Merry Christmas,
solnze
.”

“
S Rozhdestvom
,” she returned. He sat back, and rested his arm along the low back of the couch, inches from her shoulders. She sat up straight, moving out of reach. “Why don’t you put on some music?”

He hesitated, as an odd look crossed his features, then disappeared. “You know, that’s a good idea. I found something you might like this afternoon.”

He went to the stereo, pushed a few buttons. White noise hummed from the speakers, and was shattered by three rapid drumbeats. Electric and steel guitars joined in, playing bright, bouncing chords as familiar as her mother’s face. Her heart pounded. Blood rushed to her cheeks. Then Momma’s voice filled the room.

“You told me, you’d hold me until we’re old and gray;

Should have known better from the start...

So boy, you better listen up to what I got to say

You ain’t gonna break this country girl’s heart...”

Suddenly, she was twelve years old again, riding shotgun in Momma’s white Mercedes, bound for Nashville with this song blaring; disposable pop-country fluff, that for a brief time, turned a girl from a south Georgia trailer park into a star. A redneck Cinderella whose glass slipper only held disappointment. She stared, reeling from shock and betrayal. “Is this your idea of a joke? Or did you just want to hurt me?”

“No!” Anton said, heatedly. “I only want to know you. Since you never tell me anything, I decided to look on my own. Even though we’re husband and wife, your life is a big secret.”

She rose, clenched fists at her sides. “So you went digging around for this?” She pressed her trembling hands to her ears. “Turn it off! Just turn the damn thing off.”

He did, then stood across the room, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall. When he turned, anger and frustration burned in his eyes. “Maybe I don’t have right, but I’m tired of being shut out. Do you not trust me? What are you so afraid of?” His voice dropped to a whisper and he came closer. His warm hand covered hers. She flinched, but didn’t move away. “What happened between you and your family? Tell me, Carrie.”

Cornered, there was nowhere to turn. She looked down at their joined hands and gold wedding rings. If he could still love her—even knowing the heartless thing she’d done, perhaps there was hope. Maybe that had been the true purpose for this unlikely journey—to finally lay the past to rest, and move forward to the life she longed for. The love of a good man. A family. Peace and forgiveness.

But Anton could just as easily turn away—others had. Could she bear to see the same contempt she saw on Dad’s face on his? To have what she wanted most, she would have to risk losing everything.

Through a blurry veil of tears, she gazed at her husband, then blinked them away to see clearly. She took a deep breath. “My mom didn’t die from a brain aneurysm. She killed herself...after we had a fight.”

Anton’s tender expression faltered.

Shaken, she pulled her hands from his and turned away. But it was too late to stop. The words were spoken, and she couldn’t take them back. Regardless of the consequences, she would finish what she’d started. Summoning every ounce of courage, she turned to Anton, took a deep breath and told him everything: her parents’ troubled marriage, the pageants and Momma’s ill-fated try at a Nashville comeback.

“After Steve dumped her, she couldn’t get anyone at the labels interested. By then, she was doing coke every day, staying out all night. One day she picked me up at school, wasted and crying. All the kids saw it. I was scared to get in the car, but too embarrassed to stay. She drove like a maniac, all the while saying crazy things about wanting to die and take me with her. I was screaming and begging her to let me out. Finally, she dropped me at the motel and drove off. I didn’t know what else to do, so I called my dad.”

“And he came?”

“Atlanta’s about four hours from Nashville. He made it in three. I told him about the drugs, and what had happened in the car. She came back a little later, and he told her he was taking me home. She could stay, but if she did, she’d never see me again. Or she could come home and go into rehab.”

“Is that what she chose?”

She nodded. “I got my perfect life back, but Momma was never the same. Rehab didn’t stick. The doctor prescribed pills that only seemed to make her worse. My dad found reasons to stay away. I wanted to, but she didn’t have anyone else. Then one night, my last year of high school, Dad had a political fundraiser...or something. He told me to stay home with her, but I didn’t.”

She swallowed, as the words seemed to stick in her throat. “It was homecoming, and I was on the court. I thought she’d be excited. But she just laid there, stoned on whatever her shrink prescribed and told me if I’d stayed in the pageants, and had my boobs done, I would have been homecoming queen.”

“I knew it was the drugs talking. But I got really angry. I said things, like how being a beauty queen hadn’t gotten her anything but a cheating husband. She started crying.” Her voice trembled, and she blew out a breath. “I should have apologized right then, but instead I left and went to the game. Afterward, I came right home, but when I got there...” She choked back a sob. “I found her in bed...gone. There was an envelope on the floor with my name on it.”

She took a deep breath, trying to stay in control. “My dad came home not long after. He saw me in my cheerleading outfit, and knew I’d left. I’d never seen him so scared, or so mad. I thought he was going to kill me. The coroner, who was Dad’s friend, came over and they concocted this story for the press that she’d died of a brain aneurism. They told me not to tell anyone what really happened.”

“And you never did,” Anton said quietly.

“How could I?” She broke down, shaking and sobbing. Anton wrapped his arms around her, crooning soft words she didn’t understand. What he was saying didn’t matter, the important thing was that he was still here, holding her. The tears flowed until she had nothing left. They sat in silence in the dark room, her head against his chest. The steady cadence of his heart sounded in her ear.

Anton gently stroked her back. “Did her note give any answers?”

“I’ve never opened it. It’s still where I put it that night, in my black duffel bag.”

“The one in the box with the pictures?”

She hesitated, knowing what would come next. But as afraid as she was, she was just as tired of running. “Yes.”

“You know you have to read it.” He lifted her chin, so that she looked him in the eye. “It’s time, Carrie.”

She shook her head. “I ruined her life. She gave up her dream for me and I turned away.”

“Stop saying that.” His voice was kind, but firm. “I know it’s scary to read, but you won’t be alone. I’m here too.”

“But what if...”

His kiss silenced her. “It’s not going to change anything between us. I’ll bring, and we’ll read together.”

He brought the bag and placed it on the couch between them. She tugged the zipper and it came open easily, as if eager to give up its secrets. Carefully, she removed each item; remnants of a teenage girl who ceased to exist after that night. A pair of white pom-poms. Teal-and-black hair ribbons. A small can of hair spray. A pink comb. Then a stiff square envelope with her name, written in Momma’s swoopy cursive. The tape holding it closed had come loose. As she’d always suspected, it contained a CD.

She balanced the unlabeled disc on her finger. “I don’t know what’s on it. A video? Her talking?” The thought made her skin crawl.

“She was a singer, yes? I’d guess music.”

He slid the disc in the CD player, then returned to her side, taking her in his arms once more. She buried her face against his shoulder, fearing the ghosts they were about to release.

It began with an eerie, synthesized keyboard, which had the mournful sound of bagpipes, and raised gooseflesh on her skin. Over the keyboards, an acoustic guitar began to strum a melody. One she knew.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“Do you recognize it?”

“She wrote it for me.”

From beyond the grave, Momma began to sing.
“The face beside me is my own, but her eyes disguise her secrets...”

She’d heard the song only twice; at Steve’s house when she came home one afternoon to find Momma and her producer snorting cocaine, then that horrible afternoon in the car when Momma had threatened to kill them. Now, safe in Anton’s arms, she listened again, this time for clues why Momma might have taken her life. But there were none, only a small slip of paper tucked in the envelope with song titles on one side, and a brief note on the other.

“Besides you, baby girl, these songs are what I’m most proud of. Take care of them and always remember how much I love you. Momma.”

Nestled together, she and Anton listened to the songs Nashville had rejected, so different from the shallow ear candy that made Momma famous. Her voice was beautiful and mature, like an old guitar seasoned by time and use. Some of the songs were up-tempo rockers, there were introspective ballads, soulful country-blues, and even gospel. Together, they provided a haunting portrait of the sadness so ingrained in Momma’s heart that nothing—not fame, money, family or even God, could ever soothe it.

Wherever Momma was now, Carrie hoped she’d found the happiness she never knew in life.

“She was talented,” Anton said. “Did she write all of them?”

Carrie nodded. “When I was little, she used to play her guitar around the house. Some of the melodies, I remember.”

“Why she didn’t just put them out herself? People do that all the time.”

“Now they do. But maybe she felt like too much of a failure. Or my dad didn’t want her to. I really don’t know. I wish I’d encouraged her. Been more supportive...less resentful...something.”

“Carrie, listen to me. You cannot blame yourself. You were a kid in a terrible situation. If anyone is to blame, it’s your father, for leaving you to care for her alone, then saying it was your fault she died.”

She stiffened, not wanting to hear any more. “No. There’s more to him than that. He loved me. When I needed him, he came to get me. He saved my life. Don’t judge him when you don’t know him.”

Anton paused, slightly taken aback. “Okay. I won’t judge. I don’t know him. But I know you. You are a good person. A good daughter. Kind and loving, but also human. You got mad once, and made mistake. Show me someone who hasn’t.”

Her gaze shifted in his direction. Catching her meaning, his eyes widened. “Me? You think I never made mistake? It’s nice you think I’m perfect, but what gave you that idea?”

“You gave up hockey to become a figure skater because it made your mom happy. I couldn’t even give up a stupid football game! You were so unselfish and I was just—”

“Shh.” Anton gently touched his finger to her lips. “Stop,
solnyshko
. You’ve talked. Now me.” She nodded, ready for him to continue. “I loved hockey and I was good. But that’s all. Just good. As figure skater, I was excellent. At thirteen, it wasn’t how I wanted to be excellent, so that was hard. But if I’d stayed with hockey, I would not have gone to Amsterdam or Beijing. I wouldn’t have met you. For that reason alone, I’m very glad I became a figure skater.”

“I am too.” Her voice trembled and she caught her breath. In his dark eyes was the love she’d ached for since leaving him that fateful night in Amsterdam. “I love you so much, Anton. I was afraid to lose that. To lose you. But I shouldn’t have been. You asked for my honesty and my trust.” She smiled and took her husband’s hand. “You have them.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Beams of moonlight fell across their naked bodies as they laid in bed, cradled in each other’s arms. Anton traced her cheek with his fingertip. “After Amsterdam, I wondered...why me for your first time?”

She smiled, remembering. “I was away from home, away from all the bad stuff with my family, just having fun skating in Europe. Every girl in the Silverettes noticed you. When we met at the party, at first it was nothing more than a chance to be with the gorgeous guy everyone was drooling over, and not have to worry about ruining my pristine reputation back home.

“But afterward, you were concerned about me, and I could tell it mattered. I felt something...it’s hard to explain, but I knew right then, you were the guy I wanted, even though you lived halfway around the world.

“Then the next day, I thought of all the reasons why we couldn’t be together. In the airport, I heard them call your flight. I wanted to come say goodbye, though I didn’t, and I always regretted it. There have been a few others, but none like you. I’m glad you were my first.”

“Me too.” He brushed a lock of hair from her face. “And you were my second.”

She lifted her head. “You’d only done it once before me?”

“I am very fast learner.” His wolfish grin gleamed in the dim light. “Not second time,
solnyshko
. Second girl. But there haven’t been so many for me either. Olga. You. A few others during times Olga and I weren’t together.”

She studied his face, and breathed in softly. “So you were faithful to Olga, all those years?”

“I was.” His expression was quietly serious, and he stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I don’t sleep around, Carrie. Does that surprise you?”

Emotion rushed to her face, making her eyes hot and moist. She’d assumed the nonexclusive relationship was his preference, not Olga’s, when in fact, Anton had been the one to remain true. Wrapped in a warm glow, she settled back in his arms, her head on his chest and pressed a kiss over his heart. “In a very good way.”

The next morning, they had breakfast in bed, made love and opened their Christmas gifts. Anton was delighted with his watch and iPad, and she loved the peacock-blue pearl earrings that matched her necklace. They found interesting uses for the gift-wrap, ribbons and bows. He put a sticky bow on top of her head. She tied a ribbon around him, and decided that without a doubt, he was the sexiest present she’d ever unwrapped.

At practice that afternoon, their mutual distraction drove their coaches crazy. Ivan yelled. Galina told them to come back Monday, with whatever it was out of their systems. They were happy to oblige.

That night, ready to be free from all her secrets, she brought out the pageant photos. Anton leafed through them, wearing a grave expression. Then he shook his head and closed the album on his lap. “That’s a little girl someone dressed up. Not you.”

“It is,” she replied, though admitting it was less painful than she’d expected.

“It isn’t Carrie I see now.” Anton lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the third finger of her left hand, over her wedding band. “You and I will do things differently.”

“Our child,” she said with quiet wonder, as a long-shelved dream now seemed possible. Their little girl or boy would grow up knowing love, not shame. Warmth spread though her, as she smiled. “Yes, we will.”

Anton leaned forward, and drew her close. His kiss triggered spirals of desire, and when he scooped her from the couch to carry her to the bedroom, the album tumbled to the floor, forgotten.

This time, when they made love, Anton didn’t reach into the nightstand drawer.

* * *

Early Saturday morning, Carrie awoke before Anton and grabbed the red CSKA hockey jersey she’d taken to wearing as a nightshirt off the bedroom floor. Quietly, she padded across the dim bedroom to the window.

Outside, in the pearl-gray dawn, puffs of steam and vehicle exhaust rose in the frigid air. It had to be twenty below. So different from the green grass and balmy temperatures she preferred. Two days of wedded bliss had made her forget the reality of a choice she was about to make by default. Could she really settle in Russia permanently?

She loved Anton. She loved the people who had become part of her life here. There were even things she loved about Moscow. The quaint, centuries-old streets tucked into the bustling modern city. The quirky architecture and unexpected artistic treasures that were a constant, delightful surprise. The parks. The churches. How the pond in Gorky Park looked under moonlight.

But Moscow was as brutal as it was beautiful. Atlanta and Los Angeles had crime and homelessness too, but neither were as big, or as foreign, as this frozen city twelve million people called home. And though the KGB no longer lurked around every corner, would she ever feel at home here? Or would she always be an outsider, just as Anton would be in her world?

Behind her, the bed creaked as Anton stirred, then got up. He crossed the room to stand behind her. She felt his warmth against her back as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and rested his chin on her head. “What are you looking at?”

She stroked his arm. “The city. How big and cold it is.”

“Mmm.” He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “It’s warm in bed. You should come back there.”

But she continued to gaze silently out the window. “I’m used to sunshine. Grass. Trees. Everything is cold and gray.” Yet somehow, the climate and foreign culture weren’t the crux of what was bothering her. Instead, it was the vague discomfort of closing a door she wasn’t ready to close.

Anton was quiet for a moment, then dropped a kiss on top of her head. “Today, we’re taking road trip.”

He wouldn’t say where, only answering her questions with a mysterious smile and vague explanations. “Someplace good, I promise.” As she made eggs and toast, he busied himself in the front closet, setting out fur-trimmed boots tall enough to reach his knees. He emerged wearing a floppy aviator-style hat with fur-lined earflaps that made him look like a large, grinning Snoopy.

“This I found for you,” he said, and placed a dark, furry
shapka
on her head. It slipped down over her eyes.

Laughing, she pushed it back. “I thought you said we were going someplace good. No place good calls for boots like that.”

“Wait and see,
solnyshko
. Wait and see.”

They drove northwest, out of the city, and apartment towers and business parks were soon replaced with small farms. Pines and bare birch trees lined both sides of the highway. They crossed a bridge that spanned a large frozen lake, and drove into a small town. Anton looked over and smiled. “This is Lake Shosha.”

The strip of businesses along the main thoroughfare bustled with Saturday shoppers. Branching off were cobblestone streets lined with quaint buildings. There was an art gallery on one corner, a bistro on another. They passed an ancient, domed church surrounded by a park. Then just beyond the town’s end, Anton turned off, into a long driveway flanked by towering pines. “We can’t visit rink for obvious reasons, but I think you’ll like the rest,” he said.

The driveway had been plowed free of snow only up to the point where it forked. The cleared branch led to a cluster of long, dark gray buildings, one of which she guessed was the rink where Olga and Valentin trained, and where next year, Anton would work. The other fork was still packed with snow. At the end was a chalet that looked like something from a storybook.

Anton parked and got out, trudging through the deep snow to her side of the car. He opened the door, and she stepped into a snowbank too deep for her city-girl UGGs. He crouched down. “Climb on my back. And don’t forget your hat.”

He carried her piggyback through the snow, his too-large
shapka
bouncing on her head. Twice, he slipped and nearly tumbled them into the powder, their laughter echoing in the crisp, sun-kissed air.

Built from large dark logs, the house had a steep, slate roof and snow had slid off to bury the front steps in a large, undisturbed mound. Drapes covered the front picture window, but Anton walked around to the back to a large deck. A small balcony off the second floor jutted out over it. “Up there is master bedroom,” Anton said “We could step outside, and watch sunrise.”

The snow wasn’t as deep back here, and the windows were uncovered. She peered in at a main room with stuffed chairs arranged around the stone fireplace. She could imagine them living here, laughing over dinner in the kitchen, making love in front of the fireplace.

“We’ll have to cover fireplace while little one learns to walk, but it’s a good house for a family.”

Beyond the deck was a log sauna, then an open field and frozen pond, all under a dome of blue sky. Anton wrapped his arms around her, and brushed a kiss against the curve of her ear. “Here, you would see aurora, I think.”

Gazing at the beautiful home Anton wanted to share, Carrie was speechless.

Over a late lunch at the bistro in town Anton talked of his plans for the rink, for the house and dates they could move. Carrie nodded as she ate a flavorful chicken soup and thick, crusty bread, but didn’t say much, thinking about Dad.

Though she’d lived across the country from her family, there were still the common connections of American life like football, the weather in Atlanta or L.A., someone’s favorite TV show. Ways to find common ground, even when things were most tense. Living in Russia, those connections were gone.

Anton sipped his tea and gave her a quizzical look. “What’s wrong,
solnze
? You’ve been quiet since morning.”

“I know.” She stared into the restaurant’s crackling fireplace, searching for the right words. Opening up wasn’t easy, but so much better than hiding her troubles.

He picked up his spoon and slowly stirred his soup. “Do you not like this place?”

“I like it very much,” she quickly reassured him. And it was true. Lake Shosha was lovely, with the quaint, picturesque prosperity of a summer tourist destination. The chalet was charming and surrounded with breathtaking views. Come summer, the grounds of the training center would be alive and blooming. They would live amid grass and trees, not concrete. “But it occurred to me this morning that staying would mean I’m more or less giving up any hope of reconciling with my family.” She smiled self-consciously. “I suppose it’s hard to understand why I want to.”

He gave a short laugh. “Somewhat.”

“As bad as things were when I left Atlanta, I hoped eventually we’d find a way to move on. That was easier to picture when I thought I’d be returning to the U.S..”

His jaw tensed. “I suppose.”

“At first, the distance was comforting but now it’s more permanent, more real. It’s a hard idea to get used to. And if...” She paused, then added, “when we do have a baby, I’d like for them to know their American grandparents. Can you understand that?”

An uneasy moment passed, then Anton nodded. “I can. Family’s important.” He reached across the table, and took her hand. “Right now, let’s just think about Games. There will be time after season and by then, answer might be obvious.”

On the way home, Anton asked, “Have you invited your family to come see us skate in Lake Placid?”

She gazed out the window at the dark roadside. “No. I’d planned to the day I invited them to our wedding...but that didn’t go so well. I didn’t have the nerve to get turned down twice.”

“You should try again. Lake Placid is closer than Moscow. And if he comes, you’ll have a chance to talk.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“You’ll know there are people here who love you, starting with me.”

They spent the final night of their stay-at-home honeymoon sipping wine by the light of candles and their Christmas tree as they watched a movie. Before long, the candles had burned low, their clothes were scattered and the movie forgotten.

The next morning Anton cooked the only thing he knew how to make,
syrniki
—raisin pancakes made from thick white cheese and served with sour cream. They were delicious and probably a thousand calories each. Carrie ate two.

Next week, it was back to long practices and salads for dinner, but she would enjoy this last indulgent morning. Later, a network news crew was coming to interview them for a Winter Games promo feature, and Galina and Ivan would arrive soon, but for the moment, she contentedly sipped coffee and watched Anton wash the breakfast dishes.

The door buzzed and he looked up from a soapy skillet. “Must be Galina. She’s early.”

She went to the door. It wasn’t Galina. It wasn’t Ivan. It was an immaculately coiffed female reporter, a small crew standing behind her in the hallway.

Carrie gasped. “Oh my gosh, you’re two hours early!”

The reporter gave her watch a cursory glance and smiled coolly. “I don’t believe so. Our interview is at noon.”

Carrie smoothed her hand over her mismatched ensemble; red CSKA hockey jersey, faded blue-and-gold UCLA lounge pants and thick heather-gray socks. She wasn’t wearing a bra, not that anyone was likely to notice, and had serious bed-head, which they definitely would notice. “No. Our coaches said two. We’re not close to being ready. The apartment’s a disaster. We’re just finishing—”

“Breakfast. It smells delicious,” the reporter said as she strutted through the door, her crew following. Her gaze honed in on last night’s candles, the empty wineglasses and scattered clothes. “Don’t mind us. This is exactly the informal slice of life we hoped to capture.”

Carrie rushed to gather up the mess. A cameraman aimed his lens at her magenta bra, discarded on the floor. She snatched it up. He looked out from behind the camera and grinned. Fuming, she took the glasses to Anton at the sink. “They told Galina two, not twelve,” she said in a hushed voice.

“I believe you. This was on purpose.”

“They want to know if we’re really a couple.”

A smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “Guess we answered that question.”

She traced her fingertip over his bare arm. “Guess we did. So you’re okay with this?”

“If world wants to see Anton Belikov scrub pans, why deny them?” He flicked suds at her. “Go get ready. I’ll keep them busy.”