Page 57
My eyes widen. “What happened to Boris?”
“He lived to be fourteen and slept in Alexei’s bed every night.” Tracey grins. “Mom pretended to hate him. She cried for a week when he died.”
I laugh, and it feels easy, and I realize the knot in my stomach is loosening. These women aren’t the enemy. They’re just two sisters who love their brother and want to make sure he’s not making a mistake.
I understand that. I’d do the same thing.
The front door bangs open, and a small voice screams, “WE GOT ICE CREAM,” followed by two tiny humans barreling into the kitchen like they’ve been launched from a cannon. Tracey’s kids—a boy around three, a girl maybe two—crash into her legs and immediately start climbing her like she’s playground equipment.
A tall guy follows, holding grocery bags and looking mildly shell-shocked. “They had samples,” he says to Tracey, by way of explanation. “Multiple samples.”
“Jase, this is Ryleigh.” Tracey peels a toddler off her hip. “Ryleigh, my husband, Jase.”
“Hey, nice to meet you.” He gives me a friendly nod, then glances toward the living room. “Your brother looks like he’s being interrogated by the KGB in there.”
“He is,” Valerie says. “It’s beautiful.”
I excuse myself and head toward the living room, partly to check on Alexei and partly to check on Ella. I find them on the couch—Irina holding Ella in her arms, swaying gently, humming something low and Russian. Alexei is beside her, watching his mother with an expression I haven’t seen before. Soft. Young. Like he’s someone’s kid again instead of a two-hundred-and-thirty-pound linebacker.
Ella is wide awake, staring up at Irina with those big eyes, completely mesmerized. One tiny hand has found a strand of Irina’s silver hair and is gripping it with determination.
“She likes you,” I say from the doorway.
Irina looks up, and her face does something complicated—guarded, then soft, then guarded again, like she can’t decide which one to land on. “She’s beautiful. Very good baby.”
“She really is.” I sit in the armchair across from them. “Except between eight and nine p.m., when she screams for no reason. We call it the witching hour.”
“Colic,” Irina says immediately. “My Alexei had it. Three months straight. I thought I would lose my mind.”
“You did lose your mind,” Alexei says. “Dad used to drive me around the block at midnight.”
“Your father was a saint.” She says it quietly, and the room goes still for a beat. Then she looks at me, really looks, and I hold her gaze.
“Alexei tells me about your situation,” she says carefully. “The baby’s mother is missing?”
“Yes. I filed a police report, but there’s nothing yet.”
“And you’re taking care of her? Even though she’s not yours?”
I lift one shoulder. “She doesn’t have anyone else.”
Irina studies me for a long moment. I don’t look away. Whatever she’s searching for, I want her to find it because I don’t have anything to hide. I’m exactly what I look like—a broke, scared, stubborn woman who is doing her best with a situation she didn’t choose and can’t walk away from.
“In my country,” Irina says finally, still swaying Ella, “we have a saying: The heart doesn’t ask permission before it loves.”
Alexei shifts beside her. “Ma—”
“I’m not talking to you.” She doesn’t take her eyes off me. “I’m talking to her.”
I swallow hard. My throat is tight.
Irina lifts Ella up and presses a kiss to her forehead, then extends her toward me. I take her, settling her against my chest, and Ella grabs a fistful of my shirt like she always does.
“You’ll stay for dinner,” Irina says. Not a question.
“We’d love to.”
She nods once, decisive, and pushes herself off the couch. As she passes Alexei, she squeezes his shoulder without looking at him, and something crosses his face—relief, maybe, or gratitude—before he covers it.
