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.”
