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Sloane rolled her eyes. Apparently Sloane sounded like the Russian word for elephant so Babulya had taken it as a nickname for her.
“—tell me what on earth you could want for besides what you have been given.”
“I want—” Sloane started confidently but then broke off because… well… She’d been about to say she wanted freedom.
But that sounded beyond childish to say to a woman like Babulya who’d spent the morning recounting her childhood in Russia under Soviet rule enduring hardships beyond imagining. She’d been married to a cruel man and her only pregnancy had ended in still birth. Her husband had worked for Vasiliev and when Alexei’s mother died soon after childbirth, she’d become his nurse and then nanny.
So eventually Sloane just nodded, but then she bit her lip. “Nicholas is a good man?”
Babulya smiled. “Yes. You know I watch.”
Sloane cracked a smile at this. “I have started to get that impression.”
“And Nicholas. He is a good boy. He is not always hanging onto a woman or having them up to his room, even though he as much access to the whores as any of the other men.”
Sloane winced at the reference to whores. If Babulya had a hint of her earlier career, would she be so friendly towards her? Babulya did not keep it a secret that she disdained the women who worked at the club. But then, all Babulya cared about was the fact that Sloane had let slip that she’d been a virgin until she’d met Nicholas. That had made her deem Sloane a good girl. Sloane was so glad to have someone to talk to, she didn’t disabuse the older woman of the notion.
The café was quiet in the afternoon and they closed from two to six to get more baking done. Sloane loved learning how to make the delicate little Russian desserts that filled the front display case of the shop. It felt beyond thrilling to be doing and learning after being shut up in the room with nothing but books and TV to keep her company for a month.
Granted, the first week she’d spent in bed. Seven days. Seven days she allowed herself to wallow in abject self-pity. She shut out Nicholas. She didn’t shower. She barely ate. She allowed her body to absorb the shock of her new circumstances.
After that, whenever Nicholas had left to do whatever it was he did for his psychopathic boss, she’d get out of bed and take a long bath, then watch TV all day. He usually got back in late. She never knew where he went or what he did. Granted, that was likely because she never asked. She didn’t speak to him at all when she could help it. She tried to be in bed by the time he got back in, usually around ten at night, occasionally later.
He tried to talk to her every few days but she pretended to be asleep. He tried to reach for her in the night, but after that first night of clinging to him, she always turned away from his touch.
He thought he could steal himself a wife to warm his bed and cradle his cock whenever he wanted? Ha, think again.
But this morning had been different. It was like she could feel his frustration as he stomped around the room, as if he was trying to wake her. Or trying to let her know that he knew she was already awake and was tired of the ruse.
After he’d banged out the front door, slamming it behind him so hard the walls had seemed to shake, she’d sat up in bed feeling miserable.
She didn’t want to live like this anymore, either. But she couldn’t imagine just giving in to Nicholas, not after what he’d done. So she’d showered, dressed in clothes that weren’t lounge-wear, and ventured downstairs to the bakery. Where it turned out that Babulya was more than happy for the company—and the help. Apparently their other waitress/part-time baker had quit just last week. Babulya claimed Sloane was a godsend, and that felt good, as did getting her hands back in flour and the practicalities of baking which she’d always loved.
When they opened the café at six, there was a small flood of customers. Michail came in as a cook and Sloane bustled around between the tables of the shop and out front. Between Babulya and herself, they managed, but it was clear that, as busy as they were, they likely needed another waitress since Babulya was getting on in years. Especially since she liked to move slow and chat with everyone who came in, reminiscing about children, grandchildren, and pets. No wonder the woman knew all the gossip about everyone in the neighborhood—they all came here and confessed it to her directly. Women, men, everyone felt comfortable with Babulya, it seemed.
