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Taking a deep breath, I approach my parents’ car. “Hey, Mom, Dad.”
“Oh, hi, darling.” Mom opens the door and climbs out with only minimal stiffness. “Are you just coming home from work? Sorry we’re a bit early; your dad thought there might be traffic, so he made me leave with lots of time to spare.”
“There was supposed to be traffic, according to the GPS,” Dad corrects and comes around the car to give me a hug.
I hug him back and then kiss Mom on the cheek. “It’s all good. Dinner is almost ready.”
Mom grins. “It’s not takeout?”
“No, afraid not. The man I want you to meet—he’s cooking.” I look back to see Danny sitting inside the black car, silently guarding us, then turn back to face my parents. “There’s something I have to tell you,” I say carefully.
“What is it, darling?” Mom reaches out to touch my left hand, and her fingers brush against my ring. Instantly, her gaze hones in on the diamond, and her eyes widen to the size of quarters. “Sara, is that—”
“I was just about to get to that,” I say as my dad freezes, staring at my left ring finger in disbelief. “I have some really good news.”
“You’re engaged?” Mom tears her gaze away from the shiny rock to gape at me. “How? To whom? You weren’t even—”
“Mom, Dad.” I take each of their hands in one of mine. “Please listen to me and try to remain calm.” They stay frozen, staring at me deer-like as I say steadily, “Peter, the man I love, is back. He’s finally succeeded in resolving his misunderstanding with the authorities, and he’s no longer wanted for questioning. We can finally be together—and yes, we just got engaged.”
56
Peter
I look out the window again, where Sara is talking to her parents in the parking lot. They’ve been at it for a solid eight minutes, and I wish I had a listening device on Sara so I could hear what they’re saying.
Judging by the wild gesticulating by all three, emotions are running high.
Maybe I should plant a bug with listening capabilities on Sara. Maybe even a few—one in her phone, one in her bag, and another couple in her favorite footwear. I already track her phone, so I know where she is at all times, but this would give me an additional peace of mind.
The table is all set, but I hold off on putting out the food. Finally, the Sara-tracking app on my phone informs me that her phone is in the building and approaching the apartment, so I walk over to open the door for her and her parents.
“Mom, Dad, this is Peter,” she says as the elderly couple come in behind her and stop, eying me warily. “As I explained, he’s made a clean break with his old connections and now goes by the name of Peter Garin. Peter, these are my parents, Lorna and Chuck Weisman.”
“Pleasure to meet you both,” I say and extend my hand for Sara’s father to shake.
“Likewise.” Despite the polite response, Chuck’s voice is as hard as his grip, and his faded blue eyes are sharp as he glowers at me.
I shake Lorna’s hand next, being careful not to crush her fragile fingers.
“You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Garin,” she says softly, looking up at me, and I smile, seeing shades of Sara in the elegant lines of her aged face.
“Of course. I’m happy to explain everything.”
“Dinner is ready, so how about we sit down at the table?” Sara suggests, coming up to stand next to me, and warmth fills my chest as her slender arm slips around my elbow in a proprietary gesture.
My ptichka. Finally, she’s accepted us as a couple.
“Sure. Whatever’s cooking smells good,” Lorna says, and I smile at her again, realizing that Sara’s mother, at least, is willing to play ball.
When we get to the kitchen, Sara excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and I set the Caesar salad and the antipasti platter I prepared on the table.
“Sara said you like to cook,” Lorna says, watching me move around the kitchen, and I nod, taking a seat across from her.
“It’s a hobby of mine. I find it very soothing.”
“Hobby, huh?” Chuck’s glower deepens. “What’s your occupation then? We’ve never been able to get a straight answer from Sara.”
“I’ve done a couple of different things, but most recently, I worked as a security consultant and had a business along those lines,” I say and stand up. Picking up the salad tongs, I look at Lorna. “Salad?”
She nods regally. “Please.”
I lean over the table and place a sizable portion of salad on her plate, then look at Chuck.
“None for me, thanks.” He spears a marinated artichoke with his fork and transfers it from the antipasti platter onto his plate, eyeing me balefully the whole time.
