The space was small, all wooden counters and mismatched chairs. Just the way I remembered. My not-so-crazy little devil closed her eyes for a fleeting moment and drew in a deep breath, savoring the delicious aroma that filled the air.
“Hmmm. Smells so good,” she confessed, muttering under her breath.
We headed over to the counter, where Zoya Petrovna was busy grumbling to herself in Russian. The old woman had grown older, with wrinkles on her face and gray hair pulled back into a messy bun.
She was wiping a tray with slow, practiced ease when we arrived at the counter.
“Dobry vecher,” I greeted her in Russian.
She paused, eyes narrowing a bit as she raised her head. Her brows arched in surprise, and her face lit up with a bright smile. “Demyon Tarasov?” she whispered, her eyes shining with mirth.
Before I could react, she rushed around the counter with her arms stretched out.
“My little wolf!” She cackled, cupping my face in her palms. “You’re all grown up now,” she added in Russian, pulling me into her warm embrace.
“Zoya Petrovna. Still as dramatic as I remember,” I replied in the same language.
“Dramatic?” She playfully slammed her fist against my chest. “You disappear for years—no calls, no postcards. Nothing. AndI’mthe dramatic one?”
I laughed.
She glanced back toward the kitchen. “Viktor! Viktor! Get over here!” she called to her husband. “You won’t believe who just walked in here!”
I glanced at the girl beside me, and she looked so confused—shocked by the scene unfolding before her eyes. She’d probably never expected to see me laughing with people the way I did with Zoya Petrovna.
Seconds later, an older man with gray hair poked his head from behind a curtain. He wiped his flour-covered hands on his apron and squinted as if trying to figure out who he was looking at.
As he drew closer, the realization hit him so hard that his brows arched in an instant. “I’ll be damned,” he said in Russian. “Look who finally found his way home.”
“Dobry vecher, Viktor,” I greeted him, bowing my head in reverence.
“Get over here.” He laughed, pulling me into his arms.
“You look good, old man,” I said.
“With a woman like her, why wouldn’t I?” he answered, stealing a glance at his wife.
“Oh, stop it.” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
We laughed.
“How are you, son?” He tapped my shoulder. “I thought you were too important to visit old people.”
“Not you guys,” I answered.
That’s when she cleared her throat conspicuously, a reminder that she was still here and completely lost because our conversation was in Russian.
All heads turned to face her.
“Hi,” she greeted the couple, wearing a curt smile.
They looked at each other for a moment, then shifted their eyes toward me.
“American.” Zoya stepped forward, holding the girl’s gaze. “Welcome to St. Petersburg,” she added in accented English.
“Thank you.”
“Do you speak Russian?” Viktor asked.
