Chapter 16

Cecily didn’t appreciate the admiring look that the home healthcare nurse directed toward Pyotr, even though he didn’t seem to notice. The woman appeared competent as she checked his vital signs and discussed a schedule for visitation and program for care with Cecily.

“Shouldn’t you be asking him these questions?” Cecily finally interrupted.

The nurse tilted her head a little to the right and said, “He’s still confused and not really paying attention. I’d rather go over this once with someone who’s lucid than not.”

Cecily didn’t particularly appreciate the nurse’s attitude, even if she empathized with the sentiment. She walked over to Pyotr where he sat in his borrowed wheelchair looking out the front parlor’s window.

“I know you’ve heard everything,” she said. Just because he still had trouble speaking didn’t mean that he’d lost any of his intelligence—and she refused to treat him as though he were a stupid child. “Do you agree to it? Have any questions?”

He looked at her and blinked, mulling over the words. Slowly, slowly, he turned his head and met her gaze.

“I. Agree.”

“Please, Pyotr, if you have any reservations or questions, let me know.”

He rewarded her concern with a faint smile. She gazed into his eyes for another moment, then sighed and returned to the nurse who watched over them with the air of an indulgent zookeeper.

“He will get better,” Cecily practically growled.

“Oh, surely,” the nurse replied with breezy indifference. She looked at the big, muscular man and calculated how long it would take for all those lovely, big muscles to atrophy. Such a shame.

“You don’t believe he’ll recover,” Cecily accused, her whispered voice hissing.

“Most people don’t recover fully from head injuries followed by a coma,” the nurse said. “It’s best not to get your hopes up. Be practical.”

Cecily’s ire subsided. She shook her head. “I have to hope. I have to hope for the both of us.”

The nurse looked at her watch and said, “Henry should arrive any minute now. He’s Pyotr’s physical therapist.”

Cecily nodded. Sure enough, not two minutes passed before a van pulled into the drive and a strong young man in blue scrubs hopped out. Shortly thereafter he was working with Pyotr to evaluate his flexibility, strength, and control. Then he conferred with the nurse. Cecily listened as they adjusted the program for physical therapy and home care. By the time they finished, Pyotr had fallen asleep and Cecily needed to get to work.

“How’s your fiancé?” Jaime inquired when she walked into the kitchen.

“He’s got a long road ahead of him,” she replied, shoulders drooping.

“Do the doctors know how long he’ll be like that?”

“Helpless, you mean?” She heard the bitter sharpness in her voice and caught herself, shaking her head and offering Jaime a soft smile of apology. “Sorry. I don’t mean to snap at you. I’m just worried is all.”

“That’s perfectly understandable.” With mercurial agility, he switched topics. “Now, let’s go over today’s menu.”

Cecily nodded and dragged her brain kicking and screaming back into the mindset of work. Damn it, she needed this job. She was the breadwinner now and she couldn’t fail Pyotr. He needed to rely upon her more than she had ever needed to rely upon him.

Once she understood the new menu, she took her place in the kitchen. It hummed with activity as orders poured in. The busyness of the kitchen kept her worries at bay until 10:00 p.m. rolled around and the kitchen closed for the night. She joined the other kitchen staff in cleaning up stovetops, counters, pots, pans, and cutlery. In Jaime Tobiano’s kitchen, only the owner was exempt from the hard work of nightly cleanup. With everyone working hard, Cecily still did not manage to leave until 11:00 p.m.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Jaime offered as he did every night. As head chef, Cecily typically stayed later than did the other kitchen and wait staff. Especially at night, the city offered danger to an unaccompanied woman.

“Thanks, Jaime,” she replied with honest gratitude and slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Not every boss would have a care for her safety. She drew her forearm across her brow to wipe off the sweat. The sting of a small burn on her arm drew attention to a grease splatter incurred earlier that evening due to her inattention.

They walked in companionable silence until they reached her car. Turning to face him, Cecily said, “I really do appreciate what you’ve done for me, Jaime. I don’t want you to think that I’m ungrateful.”

“I know,” he replied with a gentle smile. “You’re a talented and skilled cook. I would have hated to lose you.”

Cecily wanted to ask if her cooking ability was all that he would have missed, but that would have been inappropriate. Jaime was her boss and she was engaged. Instead, she touched his arm and said, “You’re a good man, Jaime.”

“I’m glad you think so. Now go home before you collapse.”

Dismissed, she got into her car and drove home.

The next day progressed much the same. The nurse arrived in the morning, followed by the physical therapist. Cecily wasn’t quite sure when they left because she departed before they did. When she arrived home, Pyotr lay in his bed asleep.

The following weeks progressed in much the same fashion. Mrs. Macdougal kindly offered to babysit Pyotr when the health care workers were not available. Pyotr bristled at the term, but even he privately acknowledged that he was about as competent at taking care of himself as the average nine-month old baby. At least his elderly landlady did not insist on changing his diapers.

He found himself caught in a love-hate relationship with Henry. The man pushed, goaded, and otherwise forced Pyotr to push his limits. He winced at the pain regaining both gross and fine motor skills caused. He could not help the surge of pride when he mastered something as basic as using a spoon or tying his shoes. The day he managed to walk—with a walker—to the bathroom and take care of his own bodily needs thrilled him, even as he acknowledged the irony that any three-year-old child could do the same. He forbore announcing the news to Cecily that he could wipe his own ass now, because that was just too embarrassing.

Cecily worked hard, damned hard. He could see the weariness and worry in the set of her shoulders, the way her back bowed, and her slow, heavy stride when she climbed the staircase to their apartment. His inability to take some of the load off her shoulders rankled. However, she always spent time with him, reassured him that she did not regret a single second of his having come to live with her in San Antonio. Reassurances that he would get better always followed.

Henry brought in a speech therapist one day, saying, “You’re making good, steady progress with the motor skills, but I can’t fix your tongue. Louisa’s great. She’ll have you spouting poetry in no time.”

Pyotr wondered who would pay for the speech therapist, but had no way to adequately express his concern. He could not help but be proud of himself when he finally wrote a note to Cecily asking that practical question. He wasn’t proud of the wobbly, unsteady handwriting that looked like a five-year-old child’s.

Looking at the handwriting that staggered drunkenly across the paper, Cecily raised teary eyes and enveloped him in a hug.

“Oh, I’m so proud of you!” she enthused. “You can write again!”

The. Money,” he prompted in halting syllables.

Cecily averted her gaze, then decided he deserved honesty. “Vitaly, Iosif, and Gennady are all helping with the costs. I’m saving as much money as I can so we can pay them back.”

“They. Must. Stop.”

Cecily shook her head and said, “No, Pyotr. It’s no sin to accept help when it’s needed—and we do need it. We’ll repay them as we’re able. They understand.”

“I. Have. Money.”

“I know you do. We’ll tap into that when you’re better.”

Temporarily defeated, Pyotr’s head fell back. The next day, he astonished Henry and Louisa with his grim determination to recover as quickly as humanly possible.

“Now I know why they feared you in the cage,” Louisa commented upon catching his hard, focused expression.

“You. Know?”

She aimed a sly grin at him. “I’m a secret aficionado of cage fighting. You fighters are so sexy. When Henry mentioned your name, I had to make sure I was assigned as your speech therapist. My friends are all agog that I’m working with the formidable Ice Bear.”

Pyotr hadn’t realized that he’d be known so far from Cleveland, Ohio. Underground cage fighting usually remained local.

Louisa glared at him with maternal censure. “You’re not going back to the cage, you hear me? Another blow to the head like the one that took you down could very well kill you.”

Pyotr agreed. His cage fighting days were over.

The day he walked across the parlor with no more aid than a cane was cause for celebration. Mrs. Macdougal brought up a dusty bottle of wine from the cellar and Cecily drank a congratulatory glass before kissing him full on the mouth. That was when Pyotr discovered that other parts of his body were waking up, too. His fear that he’d never again be able to make love to her melted away, although having to wait until his erection got the message that there would be no nookie that night made his bladder scream for relief. He almost didn’t reach the bathroom in time.

Four months after moving to San Antonio, Pyotr could dress himself, write legibly, and, if he did not rush, speak clearly. In English and Russian. He considered himself lucky to have retained both languages. In slow, careful words, he thanked Mrs. Macdougal for the use of her front parlor and announced that he would move back upstairs with his fiancée.

“You need to marry that girl,” she said.

“I want to, but...”

“Don’t give me any buts,” the old woman chided. “That girl loves you. She wouldn’t have put up with your grumpy self all this time if she didn’t. You need to marry her.”

“I have no employment. I cannot support her.”

“Stupid, prideful man,” Mrs. Macdougal muttered. “I’ll figure something out.”

Several days later after Cecily left for work and Henry and Louisa had finished with him for the day, Mrs. Macdougal approached Pyotr. “Get up, boy. You’re coming with me.”

Pyotr glared at her, but obeyed. At her order, he climbed into her car and held on for dear life as she drove several blocks as though no other vehicles shared the streets. His eyes widened when she pulled in front of a martial arts studio.

“Well, get out, boy.” She met his gaze and sighed. “I’ve still got some influence in this town. My youngest sister’s brother-in-law’s second cousin owns this joint. He’s retired military. He’s agreed to work with you to bring you back up to speed.”

Pyotr had no words. But that was okay, because Mrs. Macdougal had plenty.

“Cecily told me what you used to do. I was never partial to boxing or anything like that, but I can see how a big, strong bull like you would find it attractive. Anyway, I told Aaron—that’s the boy’s name, Aaron—that you used to be a professional and were recovering from an injury. He recognized your name, would you believe that? I heard your speech therapist, that hussy, also knows you from the fighting circuit.” She paused to take a breath and grabbed a paperback book from the door pocket. “Now get out. Aaron’s expecting you. I’ll just take a seat on one of those benches there and enjoy the sunshine while I read.”

Still speechless, Pyotr levered himself to an upright position and entered the studio. A short man, built like a fireplug, approached and nodded cordially. “You must be Adeline Macdougal’s project.”

“I believe so,” Pyotr replied, still a little stunned.

“I’m Aaron.” He held out his hand. Pyotr took it and they shook, but without the macho squeezing that immature men attempted to use to assert dominance.

Pyotr had no doubt that Aaron could wipe the floor with him if he so chose. Hell, Mrs. Macdougal could pummel him if she had a mind to.

“Pyotr Idaklyka,” he replied.

Aaron shook his head and released the other man’s hand. “Never thought I’d have the Ice Bear in my studio.”

Pyotr held his silence, although he was again surprised that the instructor recognized him. He wondered without amusement what Maksim’s reaction would have been had he known that Pyotr’s name and reputation had spread beyond the Cleveland metropolitan area. He rather thought that his former boss would have assigned enforcement to someone else and reserved him for the cage fighting circuit where he would likely have generated greater profits for the Bratva.

“Well, come on. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Pyotr followed him onto the thick mats padding the floor.

“Take my hand and squeeze,” Aaron ordered, using the tone of command developed in his years as a drill sergeant.

Pyotr obeyed. He took the other man’s hand and squeezed.

“Not much grip left,” Aaron observed without judgment. “Don’t worry, Ice Bear. We’ll have you back in fighting form in no time.”

Pyotr found himself adding strength training to speech and physical therapy. As Aaron predicted, he pushed, bullied, and commanded Pyotr into exerting himself beyond what he thought possible. He came to crave the discipline and found himself feeling more like a normal man as his feet pounded the pavement when fifty yards extended to a mile and then five miles. Within weeks he began sparring. Sure, he sparred with skinny little girls who barely came up to his chest, but the movements slowly and surely returned to muscle memory.

I’m back, he thought with deep satisfaction as he extended a hand to Aaron to help him stand.

The sweating instructor accepted the assistance from where he’d been thrown to the mat, nodded, smiled, and said, “The Ice Bear’s back.”