Babushka slid her gaze from him to the door, then back to him. “Sadie? Attorney? Good hips?”
Ding. Ding. Ding.That was the one. “Uh-huh.”
Sadie had jumped at the chance to take the office. He hadn’t known contracts could be drawn up so quickly, but Sadie had presented a tidy little lease that included an abundance of pro bono legal work for all the owners of the building.
Then she’d moved in.
Every time he’d seen her since, she’d kept a strictly platonic distance. Which sucked, because he hadn’t gotten her out of his head at all.
“Sadie is the woman who makes you frown,” Babushka said, looking up from her tripod fight, the feigned innocence utter bullshit.
“No, Sadie is the woman who makes me smile.” He used his index fingers to force his lips into a smile.
Babushka, finally happy with the tripod, placed it against the wall. “She is good voman?”
“She’s amazing,” Roman replied, totally serious. He picked at the label on his water bottle.
“Vell then.” Babsushka pressed her lips into an odd line, sort of making her look like a caricature an artist would draw down at the 16thStreet Mall.
“I thought you were helping me out,” Roman continued. “But all you’ve done is hold my lights and fold my tripod.”
“This is not helping out?” Babushka asked.
“Not the kind of help I need.” He handed her a bottle of water.
She shook her head. “They poison the plastic.”
“That’s not true.” He unscrewed the cap for himself and took a swig to prove his point. “See, still alive.”
Babushka waved her hand at him. “Poison yourself if you must.” She paused and then asked, in total seriousness, “Sadie is von who makes you happy? You’re sure?”
She didn’t sound like she believed it.
“Yeah.” He shoved his hands on his hips. “And a little help would be much appreciated. I’m floundering here. I mean, yeah, the tire thing was over the top, but it was a start. What gives? Frankly, I expected better from you.”
A long pause stretched between them as his grandmother searched his face. For what? He had no idea. Who knew what went on in her mind moment-by-moment.
Babushka’s thick eyebrows furrowed as she rummaged through her extra-large Louis Vuitton handbag, emerging with the eight-by-ten photo of his dedushka she carried around.
Roman’s throat went thick.
Man, he missed his grandfather.
His dedushka had been a great guy. He loved his Russian heritage. Spoke the language and made sure his children and grandchildren did, too. He visited his homeland yearly, enjoyed the finest vodka, and loved his wife. He was a blissfully happy man. In person, his eyes danced and his laugh lines crinkled. Still, whenever he had his photo taken, the man made the sourest face Roman had ever witnessed. The second the camera was ready to click, his dedushka had suddenly sucked on every lemon in the world.
Roman never understood that about him.
The man would be all hefty laughter and hearty cheer until someone got out a camera. Then a perma-frown would take up residence on the man’s face until the camera disappeared again.
After his dedushka had passed away, it was like Roman lost his idol. He’d joined the military to honor his grandfather. Dedushka had served as a young man when he came to America. He got his citizenship and immediately served the country in uniform. His service was one of his biggest points of pride.
He had died by the time Roman joined up, but he knew, somewhere, Dedushka was proud of him. He felt that in the early mornings in the barracks when things were quietest.
Now he stared into the sour expression of Dedushka in print.
“What are you making me swear to?” he asked.
Babushka only brought out the image of her dead husband to force her children and grandchildren into making promises no one wanted to make. A sane woman would’ve brought out a Bible or other religious text. A saner woman would not have required people to swear at all.
