“No, but I have my laptop and can type quickly,” I tell him. I set the phone down and put Boris on speaker while I pull up a blank document. “I’m ready.”
Boris and I spend the next forty-five minutes on the phone. When we’re done, I have complete recipes and cooking instructions for cabbage rolls, dumplings, stroganoff, and dark rye bread. We covered a lot in that short time frame, and now I have a shopping list for groceries.
I find a grocery store that will deliver to Ivan’s house, and place a rather large grocery order with everything I need. I hope Ivan likes to eat, because there’s going to be a lot. Some people read or exercise for stress relief. I cook when I need a release.
Since I have some time to wait until the groceries get here, I hop in the shower and take my time under the hot water. I don’t know how Ivan ever gets out of the shower when there’s this kind of water pressure flowing through the pipes. It’s heaven in a contained space.
I get dressed and make my way downstairs to the kitchen where I find Ivan pouring some coffee.
“Good morning,” I say as I sit down at the kitchen island. I’m going to try and be friendly today.
“Good morning,lyubimaya,” he says as he hands me a freshly poured cup of coffee. I inhale the warmth of the coffee before taking a sip.
“I have a meeting to attend and won’t be home until the afternoon,” Ivan tells me. “Can I trust you to stay here and behave?”
“Maybe,” I say. I’m still mad that I can’t leave the property.
“When I return this afternoon, we will talk about your security and safety.”
“Okay,” I tell him. He passes me a plate of toast with some butter and jam before smiling and leaving the kitchen.
I sit at the kitchen island and drink my coffee while I think about this whole situation I find myself in. Never in my life did I think something like this could happen, but here I am.
I get up and place my dishes in the kitchen sink, then turn to familiarize myself with the layout of the kitchen. I find high-quality cookware in the cabinets and other ingredients in the pantry. Ivan’s housekeeper must love being able to work with these kinds of materials when she cooks for him.
I hear the doorbell ring, and a few minutes later, Yuri walks in carrying grocery bags. I notice the bruises on his face and the split lip. His cheeks are still swollen. My heart breaks, and I feel awful that he looks like he does. It’s not his fault I was kidnapped.
“Are you okay, Yuri?” I ask.
“Ms. Murphy, your grocery order is here,” Yuri says, avoiding my question and keeping his eyes facing downward. He places the bags on the kitchen counter and quickly returns to the front door. Two minutes later, he’s back with some more bags.
“Thank you, Yuri,” I tell him as he places the remaining bags with the first ones he brought in. He nods silently before returning to wherever he came from in the house.
I organize and group the groceries by what I plan to make with them, and which order I need to make them in, so everything is done at the same time.
“Well, go big or go home,” I say to nobody in particular before getting started.
Hours pass, during which I have made traditional recipes from both Ireland and Russia. I may have needed recipes for the Russian dishes, but I know the Irish ones by heart. In a way, I was able to process some of my grief over losing Gran through cooking today.
I’m checking on the Irish stew simmering on the stove when I hear a noise behind me. I turn around, and my heart thumps when notice Ivan leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed and looking like he’s trying to figure me out. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, giving me a dreamy display of the ink on his forearms.
“Hi,” I say softly. “I ordered some groceries and made a few things.” I gesture to the dishes simmering on the stove.
“It smells great,” he said, straightening himself as he pushed off the doorframe. “I thought Mrs. Ivanova stayed late to make dinner. Is anything ready to eat?”
“It is. I was just going to make myself a plate,” I tell him as I pull the tray of cabbage rolls out of the oven.
Ivan walks out of the kitchen and returns a few minutes later. He has shed his work clothes in favor of something a bit more comfortable. I’ve set two places at the kitchen island and placed hot pads down for the dishes.
“What did you make?” Ivan asks as he sits down.
“Cabbage rolls and dumplings,” I say, pointing to those dishes in the middle. “I also made some soda bread and Irish stew. There’s Irish shortbread cookies for after.”
“What is soda bread? I haven’t heard of this,” Ivan comments, looking over the dishes on the kitchen island.
“It’s bread made with baking soda instead of yeast. When I get stressed or sad, I like to cook,” I tell him as I scoop some stew into a bowl for myself. “It’s comforting and relaxing. Since my Gran was originally from Ireland, she taught me all our family recipes when I spent time with her. This is the stew recipe she learned from her grandmother.”
“I’ll have that first,” Ivan tells me, holding out his bowl. I ladle a heaping scoop into his bowl and top it with a slice of soda bread. Ivan takes a bite and lets out this groan of pleasure like it’s the best thing he’s eaten in his life. That sound travels straight to my core where it warms me from the inside.
