This is nice. My brothers and my woman all sitting around the table and sharing a meal. I smile at the thought that there will be more of these meals in our future. Dmitri may be suspicious at how fast things have moved between Emma and I, but I feel he’ll come around. Maksim, Grigory, even Mikhail see how happy Emma is making me, and I know they’ll support this.
I look at Emma and start formulating a plan for officially making her mine in every way.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
EMMA
I WALKED DOWNSTAIRS this morning, anxious to get to the kitchen. I had so much fun yesterday cooking, and I want to do it again. I walk through the doorway of the kitchen and notice an older woman standing by the kitchen sink.
“Good morning,” I say, flashing a friendly smile while heading in the direction of the coffee maker.
“Good morning. You are guest of Ivan.” It wasn’t so much a question as it was an observation.
“Yes, ma’am,” I respond to her, getting a cup down from the cabinet.
“You cook in here yesterday?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am. I hope that’s okay,” I answer her. She seems very protective of this space.
“Is fine,” she replies. “What you make?”
“Golubtsyandpelmeni, Irish stew, and soda bread,” I say as I list off the things I made. “I also made Irish shortbread cookies.”
“What is shortbread cookie?” she asks with a look of curiosity.
The woman must have a sweet tooth, because as I describe the cookies to her, she asks to try one. I found the container with them and hand her one. She bit into it, and let out a small moan as she closed her eyes and chewed the cookie.
“I am Mrs. Ivanova,” she says, holding out her hand. “I have been housekeeper for Kiselyov family for twenty years.”
“I’m Emma,” I reply, holding out my own hand and giving hers a firm shake.
“You make good shortbread,” Mrs. Ivanova acknowledges.
“Thank you. Ivan liked them, too,” I tell her.
“I take coffee to Ivan and his brothers. Then I come back and teach you something.” She places four cups on a tray and fills them with coffee, then places some of the shortbread cookies on a plate before carrying all of it down the hall to Ivan’s office.
When Mrs. Ivanova returns, she rolls up her sleeves and smiles at me.
“You make black bread before?” she asks me as she moves around the kitchen to gather ingredients.
“No, ma’am,” I reply. “I have a recipe for it, but haven’t made it yet.”
“I am making some today. Come, I teach you.” She smiles at me like a grandmother would to her grandchild.
Mrs. Ivanova is fun to talk to with her thick Russian accent and her matter-of-fact way of speaking. I make sure to pay close attention to things she says, taking mental notes of the recipe for black bread so I can write it down later and compare it to Boris’s recipe that he gave me yesterday.
With the bread dough in its resting phase, Mrs. Ivanova leaves to take care of laundry and some cleaning, while I pull out the ingredients to start working on beef stroganoff. I had to go upstairs and grab my laptop so I could pull up Boris’ recipe for the dish, but I am soon working on browning the beef and making the sauce.
Mrs. Ivanova returns to the kitchen to put the bread in the oven and check on the progress I’ve made with the stroganoff.
“Where you learn this?” she asks as she surveys my work.
“My boss gave me the recipe. Before I came to Ivan’s house, I was a waitress at a Russian restaurant.”
“You worked for Boris Petrovksy?” she asks with surprise.
“You know Boris?” I question her right back.
