“Well, at least you’re thinking about it,” Dmitri says.
“After meeting with Callaghan yesterday, my gut tells me that Emma is innocent in all of this. I trust you guys. You’re my brothers. I also trust my gut. It hasn’t been wrong before, and I won’t believe that it’s wrong now,” I tell them.
“Where do you and Emma go from here?” Maksim asks.
“I don’t know. In this house and by my side is the safest place for her to be,” I say honestly. “She made dinner last night,” I add.
“She cooks?” Grigory asks, perking up at the thought of more food. You’d think he was a teenage boy instead of a grown man who has been to law school.
“Yes,” I say with a smile. “Boris was teaching her traditional Russian recipes in between shifts at the restaurant. She spent the whole day in the kitchen making dumplings and cabbage rolls, as well as stew and bread from Ireland using her Gran’s recipes.” My mouth waters at the memory.
“You really do love this girl, don’t you?” Dmitri asks. Maybe he’s starting to accept it. I don’t need Dmitri’s approval to be with Emma, but it would certainly make things easier in the family.
The family I want to bring Emma into.
“I do. You think it’s early and moving too fast, and I get that,” I tell him, acknowledging his point of view. “Then I remembered the story of how Mama and Papa met.”
“I haven’t heard that story in a long time,” Maksim says.
“Papa would always say that he met Mama while he was walking down the street in St. Petersburg. He described her as the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and her smile was what made him fall in love with her,” I start the story with a smile.
“He asked her out on a date, and she turned him down. She said she was too busy with her studies and didn’t have time for distractions. Papa kept at it because it took him asking at least three more times before she relented and finally went out with him. On their first date, Papa told Mama that he would marry her one day. She just needed to let him know when she was ready. Less than a year later, they married.” I let out a small chuckle as I think of that story.
“Mama told it differently,” Dmitri says with a smile.
“How did she tell it?” I ask.
“Mama used to tell me that she met Papa at a school dance. He walked up to her and her friends and asked her to dance with him,” he says as he starts this version of the story. “She accepted and she says she fell in love with him as they moved around the dance floor. They went out for dinner the next night, and then every night for the next few weeks, he spent the evening with her and her parents. He asked her father for permission to marry her, and they were married soon after.”
“They were married until Mama passed away three years ago,” I remind them. A feeling of sadness seizes the moment, but it doesn’t linger. We all shake it off and come back to the present.
“What is that smell?” Grigory asks, sniffing the air.
“Lunch?” I look down at my watch and notice the time is closing in on one o’clock. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat,” Grigory admits.
I get up from the desk and walk towards the office door. I notice that it’s slightly ajar and figure that Mrs. Ivanova must not have fully closed it when she brought coffee earlier this morning. That explains why we could smell something cooking.
When the office door is fully open, my brothers and I are greeted with the smell of freshly baked bread and something else cooking on the stove.
“Seriously, brother, what is that smell?” Grigory asks again, inhaling deeply.
I ignore his question and follow my nose to the kitchen, my brothers trailing behind. Standing in the kitchen doorway, I see Emma leaning over the stove and Mrs. Ivanova standing beside her. It looks like she’s helping Emma with whatever she’s cooking on the stove.
“What’s for lunch?” I ask them. Both of the women jump in surprise, but recover quickly and smile.
“Ivan, did you know this girl can cook?” Mrs. Ivanova asks, pointing in Emma’s direction.
“Yes, I did,” I tell her.
“I see leftovers in the fridge this morning,” she says. “I make fresh bread to go with leftovers.” She points to the loaf of black bread sitting on the countertop.
“She’s helping me get the stroganoff just right,” Emma offers, turning towards me after stirring the sauce.
“Sit down, all of you,” Mrs. Ivanova instructs. “You eat.”
My brothers and I take a seat at the kitchen table. Lunch has always been more informal than not, unless it’s a business meeting. Emma sets the table and then takes a seat next to me while Mrs. Ivanova dishes out the food she’s placed in front of us. The bread is sliced and passed around with butter before we are left to eat in peace.
