"Because someone turned the heat up to seven hundred degrees in here and I was dying in my sweater."
"The ovens are on. It's going to be warm."
"It's not warm. It's hell. Your penthouse is hell-temperature."
"Then take the hoodie off."
"I'm wearing a tank top underneath. That's not appropriate for meeting your grandmother."
"Babushka doesn't care about appropriate."
"I care about appropriate."
The doorbell rings again, more insistently.
"She's not going to stop," I say.
"Then answer it before she breaks down the door."
I head to the foyer, and Harper follows, smoothing down the hoodie like that's going to help.
I open the door, and Babushka is standing there holding a casserole dish and wearing a coat that's seen better decades.
"Vitenka!" She pushes past me without invitation, then stops when she sees Harper. "Ah! Harper! Come here, dorogaya, let me look at you."
Harper shoots me a panicked look, but Babushka is already pulling her into a hug that involves the casserole dish, Harper's face, and what sounds like Russian endearments.
"You are beautiful! Even in ugly hoodie! This is good—means you are comfortable here, yes?"
"I—yes, I'm very comfortable?—"
"Good! Comfort is important! My Vitenka, he has many houses but no home. You make home, yes?"
"I'm trying?—"
"She is trying!" Babushka hands me the casserole dish and takes Harper's face in both hands. "I see it in your eyes. You have secrets, but you love him. This is good. Love first, secrets later."
Harper's face goes pale.
"Babushka," I say slowly. "Maybe we should?—"
"Shush. I am talking to your wife." She pats Harper's cheek. "You are scared. This is okay. Love is scary. But my Vitenka, he is good man. Stubborn like mule, yes. Cold like Siberia winter sometimes, yes. But good. You remember this when secrets come out, yes?"
"I—yes. I'll remember."
Babushka releases Harper and turns to me. "You. Kitchen. I bring pelmeni. You must heat properly or I disown you."
She disappears toward the kitchen, leaving Harper and me standing in the foyer.
Harper's gaze falters. "Maybe our expectations are too high for tonight, Victor. Maybe?—"
"You worry too much. And I get it. But tonight?" I take her hand, pressing it to my lips. "Let me do all your worrying for you." I search her face. "Okay?"
She nods, and we return to the kitchen to find Babushka already critiquing Roman's gravy technique.
"No, no, no! You whisk like American—too fast, too rough. Gentle! Like you love the gravy!"
Roman, who normally runs a billion-dollar meal delivery empire like an NFL offensive line formation, looks genuinely chastened. "Yes, ma'am."
