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The water comes out of my nose, and eventually, I resume breathing.
“Sorry about that,” I say when I can speak. “Didn’t mean to mess up your toast.”
“It’s fine, dear.” Natasha sounds comically magnanimous. “I wasn’t finished anyway.”
“Go on, pookie,” Boris says, greedily eyeing his shot glasses.
She nods solemnly. “May my unborn grandchildren be wealthy and joyous. May their mother stay the color of spring and roses. A source of sweet dreams to the man in her life. His attraction and inspiration. May she stay simple yet regal. A princess. The muse to an opera of love. May her days last forever and beyond. To this, we shall drink until we see the bottom of our glasses.”
Amen? I feel like someone should give me an Oscar for keeping a straight face.
With a theatrical gesture, Natasha downs her shot in one gulp, then sniffs her pickle before violently biting into it.
Vlad and Alex follow their mother’s example, while Boris downs one shot, then another, then a third, then a fourth, and so on until they’re all empty.
Not being suicidal, I take the smallest sip from mine that I can.
Fire explodes in my mouth, then spreads through my chest and into my stomach.
Gasping, I try sniffing the pickle like everyone else did.
Nope. That makes it worse.
I bite into it.
Okay, so now I have a salty taste in my mouth on top of the burn.
“So, Fannychka, do you have any Russian in you?” Natasha asks.
If I say no, will she say “do you want some?” and point at Vlad?
After that toast, it wouldn’t surprise me.
“I have no clue.” I cautiously put down the pickle I was still clutching. “My parents call themselves pure-bred American mutts. I’ve been planning to take a DNA ancestry test, but haven’t yet. But you never know.”
My answer seems to please her. At least she looks approvingly at me, then at Vlad.
Boris refills everyone’s shot glasses, including the half dozen of his. When he sees that mine is almost full, he frowns but doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he dramatically rises to his feet and raises a glass. “The time between the first drink and the second ought to be short.”
“Shouldn’t we eat something more substantial than a pickle first?” Natasha hisses.
Before her husband can answer, a familiar scent reaches my nostrils.
Perfume.
The perfume.
I glance behind me.
Yep.
The modelesque woman I saw by our work building is striding toward our table on five-inch heels. Her makeup looks like war paint—perhaps due to the furious expression on her face.
What the fuck?
Did Vlad invite his side piece to a family event?
