Not his babushka. She forced them to swear on the image of their deceased dedushka.
“No, not that.” She stared at the image and waved him away as though this were the most natural thing in the world. Still, there was a let-the-air-out-of-his-tires twinkle in her eye. “Run down the hall and see if Sadie vishes to join the family tonight for piroshki.”
At least this was progress.
Even with progress, they needed to set some rules.
“That’s a negative.” Roman shook his head. “Sadie does not need a crash course in all things Dvornakov right at the get-go.” Even if she decided she wanted to be with him on any level past superficial, his family functions would be optional. “Let’s think about this. Figure out the best way for you to dig your heels in. Because Sadie with all of the family?”
He shivered.
“Sadie must come to supper.” Babushka swiped her hand over the image of Roman’s dedushka. “You vish my help? She must come.”
She held his grandfather’s image to him in the swearing position.
“You said no swearing in.” Roman looked cautiously at his grandfather. He hoped like hell he wouldn’t have to fudge it when it came to whatever she was going to ask him to promise. He always felt bad when he had to lie with his hand on his grandfather’s face.
“I meant it.” Babushka spit on the glass and wiped at it with the corner of her sleeve as lovingly as an elderly woman could when she’d just hocked and spit shined an image.
“Then what’s with the picture?” Roman shouldn’t have asked. He knew this. He knew that it was best to just keep his trap shut when it came to his grandfather’s photo.
Yet, he’d asked. The question was out there.
“It is time to move on from your dedushka.” The photo still gripped in her hands, she lifted it to her face and kissed the man on his lips with a passion that made Roman feel the need to look away.
Given that she had two boyfriends, Roman couldn’t quite understand what she meant by “moving on.” The woman was the epitome ofmoving on.
“Sadie is divorce attorney?” Babushka asked, gazing at the image of his grandfather.
Roman approached this conversation as he would when photographing the battlefield—or a bride. He moved slow. Calculated. Careful not to traipse into the line of fire, hit a trip wire, or distract his comrades.
“Yes, that’s the branch of law she specializes in,” he said carefully. “She said she can help with some other areas, too. She has a particular fondness for defense work, but don’t you dare get any ideas. I’m not bailing you out of jail.”
“I have a plan.” Babushka shoved the image unceremoniously into her bag. She stood and shuffle-sprinted out the door of Roman’s studio and down the hallway in the general direction of Sadie’s office.
There was an ominous feel to the way she moved.
A trickle of whatthefuckage trailed up Roman’s spine. He’d convinced himself that his babushka could help him reunite with Sadie. But now, Babushka was on a mission, and he suddenly had a feeling her mission was likely going to screw up his attempts at helping Sadie remember why they’d been so good together in the first place.
“What are you going to do?” Roman asked, hurrying behind Babushka.
Data was good. If he understood the plan going through her noggin, he could ensure the whole thing didn’t go sideways.
She waved a hand toward him as though he were a moth and she wished he’d fly into one of those electric traps.
“Think this through. She has clients who need her help. You shouldn’t interrupt her while she’s dissolving relationships.”
He meant that in the most supportive way possible.
“We can come back after hours. When there aren’t clients who need to be—”
Babushka threw open the door to Sadie’s office.
Sadie stood at the reception desk, scribbling something on a notepad.
“I thought you hired someone?” Roman asked.
Sadie glowered at him. “She decided this was not the best employment for her after a client’s soon-to-be ex-husband called with some very specific instructions on where I should spend my time in the afterlife.”
