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“They’re done upstairs,” Kira said. “They should be close to finishing.”
She continued down the hall, past her father’s office, the media room, the living room, and a large room they affectionately called the ballroom that was used for big gatherings.
The kitchen was quiet except for Galina, the woman who had been her father’s cook and housekeeper since the death of Kira’s mother. She was chopping vegetables at the large kitchen island, humming something softly under her breath.
Kira kissed her cheek and stole a piece of carrot off the cutting board.
“Oof,” Galina said, slapping playfully at Kira’s hand. “You kiss me to distract me.”
Kira laughed. “I kiss you because I love you, Lina.” She bit into the carrot. “Have you seen my father?”
“Outside in the garden,” she said, waving the large knife in her hand in the general direction of the French doors that led to the terrace.
“Careful,” Kira said, nodding at the knife as she removed two glasses from the cupboard. “You’re going to take someone’s head off with that thing.”
The older woman sniffed. “I don’t need arebenoktelling me how to use a knife.”
“I’m twenty-six, hardly a child,” Kira said.
She poured lemonade from the fridge into the two glasses and left the kitchen, stepping outside onto the terrace. She paused for a moment to appreciate the view: the gardens an oasis that dissected the sweeping lawn, the trees that bordered the property in the distance.
She realized now that she’d taken it all for granted, the verdant lawn and flowers in her father’s English-style garden. It was almost too much after the spareness of the apartment that towered over Lake Michigan.
She saw movement in the garden and headed that way, careful not to spill the lemonade. She found her father bent over a row of rose bushes, his gloved hands snipping at the stems.
He looked up when he heard her footsteps on the gravel and she was struck by something she hadn’t noticed before: he was old. He’d been well into his forties when Kira was born, and wrinkles that had once been simple laugh lines around his eyes had deepened to creases, spreading to the rest of his face.
He looked tired, and every one of his seventy-three years.
“I brought you some lemonade, Papa.”
“Ah, wonderful.” He reached into his pocket and removed a handkerchief to wipe his brow. “I was just thinking about taking a break.”
She handed him one of the glasses. “Want to sit?” She indicated one of the stone benches placed throughout the garden. “I think the movers are almost done.”
He lowered himself onto the bench next to her and surveyed the garden. “I need to cut back these roses before the snow comes.”
“You should let Peter do more of that.” Peter was the groundsman. It was his job to manage the garden, a job he enjoyed, when Kira’s father allowed him to actually do it.
“Peter has his hands full,” her father said, taking a drink of the lemonade.
“Hire someone else then,” she said. “I worry you do too much.”
He patted her knee. “You worry too much,moya zolotaya. I enjoy working in the garden. Let an old man have his fun.”
“I could come help you,” Kira said. “A couple times a week maybe?”
He scowled. “Why would my daughter, newly married and now with a home of her own, want to come help me in the garden?” His eyes saw too much. “Has Lyon hurt you?”
“Of course not. I would kill him myself.”
Her father chuckled. “That’s my girl.” His expression grew serious again. “What is it then?”
“I think it’s just hitting me that it’s real. I’m his wife now. I live in his apartment, not here with you.”
“The apartment isn’t suitable?” he asked. She knew he’d done his homework before agreeing to the marriage, knew he’d probably seen pictures of the apartment before the agreement was finalized. He wouldn’t have agreed to send her somewhere she wouldn’t be comfortable.
“It’s… expensive,” she said. “It’s just not home.”
