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She followed him back to the kitchen, equally excited about whatever they were talking about.
I drifted along like an awkward third wheel, trying to piece together what the hell was happening.
Misha took a big bottle of champagne out of the bag, followed by a miniature one, which he gave to the old lady. Next came two bags of oranges—one for him, apparently, and one for her. She clutched them to her chest with one hand, touching his arm with the other. The last two things he pulled out were small glass jars filled with what looked like red jelly and two tiny tin cans. He helped her load the groceries onto her cart and finally turned to me with a smile.
“Marek, this is Lyudmila Aleksandrovna Kiselyova. She’s cooked us a New Year’s meal.” Then he turned to her and rambled something in Russian that included an introduction of me, also by my full name.
I extended my hand with a smile but immediately retracted it when I caught sight of Misha shaking his head quickly behind her. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
She smiled politely and inclined her head, so I guess I didn’t screw it up entirely.
Misha walked her to the door, chatting away, but she waved him off. Pushing the cart out the door and back to the elevator, she was gone in a flash, like some Russian fairy godmother. He closed the door and pivoted on his heel. “I’m sorry. I thought I would be home before she came up.”
“Came… up? She can afford to live in this building?”
He chuckled and carried the bags full of Christmas presents to the living room, setting them up near the couch since he didn’t have a tree. I couldn’t help but notice they were all wrapped. “No. But she lives here regardless. In exchange, she cooks for me, especially for holidays.”
“You make an old lady cook for you?”
“I don’tmakeher do anything. She likes to do it and since she doesn’t have family around, it works out well. I get a taste of home and she feels useful.”
“Is this to make up for Christmas or something?” I nodded toward the counter.
He shook his head on his way back to the kitchen. “No. We don’t celebrate Christmas the way you do. Our New Year’s is the bigger holiday. It’s the night Ded Moroz—Father Frost—comes and delivers presents to children.”
“Huh. Interesting.” I glanced at the presents in the living room with a new understanding. Although, I couldn’t help but wonder which one of his minions got tasked with the headache of wrapping the stuff I hadn’t gotten to, or if he did it himself.
“With everything that’s happened, I didn’t know if you wanted to celebrate or not,” Misha said softly. “At the very least, we have to eat.”
“Yeah, I’m not feeling very festive. I doubt they are, either.” I glanced down the hallway. “But I’m sure they’ll be happy about the presents anyway. And food is always good.”
He nodded. “We should eat while it’s hot.”
“There’s something over there that reeks, by the way. I donotrecommend opening the green bowl with the tin foil on top.”
“Herring?”
“I didn’t get that close. Ezra looked inside and the smell that came out was enough to gag a maggot.”
Laughing, Misha shook his head, pulling me in for a hug. “I’m so happy you’re here with me.”
“Because of my witty Americanisms?”
“That’s one reason,” he murmured, pressing his lips to mine, soft and slow, like it was the first time all over again. I didn’t know how he did it but each kiss was somehow better than the last.
As soon as we heard the pitter-patter of feet in the hallway, we pulled away from each other, exchanging small smiles before facing the kids.
“Are you hungry?” Misha asked Bri and Ezra as they came into the kitchen.
Bri nodded but Ezra didn’t look thrilled after the dead-fish smell.
Misha retrieved plates from the cabinet and passed them out to the kids then proceeded to explain what everything was beneath the plethora of tin foil and glass lids. Knowing them, they weren’t interested in half of the stuff but food was food, so they didn’t really protest except for when he reached for the dreaded green bowl.
“No!” Ezra shouted.
“I’m just moving it,” Misha said with a laugh, relocating the offensive dish to the other side of the kitchen.
“What’s this for?” I picked up the small jar of red jelly, only to realize it wasn’t jelly at all. After avoiding them for years at various events, I’d recognize those red little balls anywhere. “Oh. Never mind.”
