Chapter Fifteen

SHE HAD TOO MUCH FOOD.

Rachel scanned the contents of her countertop, taking stock of how long it would take her to eat this herself. A plateful of different amuse-bouche. Two versions of the scallop salad, each with minute but important changes that affected the perception of the overall dish. Two vats of flavored ices, swelled to gargantuan proportions by the constant tweaking and addition of ingredients. And now she was contemplating a tray of raw lamb chops and some quail, wondering how she could possibly justify cooking these when there weren’t enough hours in the day to eat it all. It felt like a waste, of both time and money.

She’d already called Melody and Ana. An equipment emergency in the bakery had doubled Melody’s shift while she tried to batch bread in and out of the single working oven. Ana was equally occupied with a publicity nightmare involving a married celebrity and some compromising photos, an all-hands-on-deck sort of call from the head of the firm even though it wasn’t her client. So that left . . .

Alex.

She glanced at the clock in her kitchen, saw that the hands were edging past four on a Friday afternoon. No doubt he would be getting ready to go out for the evening, as someone like him did. Though technically she didn’t know him well enough to know what kind of someone he was. It was that uncertainty, and the conviction that she had misinterpreted the moments between them at the farmers’ market last weekend, that had prevented her from calling and setting up the meeting they’d discussed.

But now, faced with the proposition of wasting all this food, her natural frugality won out. She dialed.

Alex picked up on the third ring. “Rachel, hello!”

He didn’t sound like she was interrupting anything. And the fact she was trying to gauge that by his voice showed exactly how far back she’d moved toward high school crushes. Not that she had a particularly large body of experience in that quarter.

“I’m sitting here with a kitchen full of experiments and everyone’s busy. I don’t suppose you might be free, would you?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, a note of teasing in his voice. “Considering I seem to be the last resort.”

Rachel flushed. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought . . . I figured you’d have plans.”

He chuckled, and she relaxed. He was going to let her off the hook. “As luck would have it, my plans for tonight got pushed back. I would be happy to come over and help rid you of the excess experiments, as sketchy as that sounds.”

“I promise, they are all edible. Actually, they’re all good. I could use some help deciding which ones should go on the menu.”

“I’ll be right over, then. If you’re ready. Text me your address?”

That’s right. She’d been to his place, but he didn’t have any idea where she lived. “I’ll do that right now.” She texted Alex her address, then got to work on the lamb and quail, both of which would take time in the oven. By the time they worked their way through the other courses, the meat should be rested and ready to serve.

Then she looked down at herself.

Beneath her apron, her cutoffs and skimpy tank top, chosen because of the heat in her un–air-conditioned kitchen, probably sent the wrong message. She pulled the apron over her head and tossed it on the table, then hightailed it back to her bedroom to put on something more conservative. Unfortunately, conservative didn’t necessarily mean nice: her wardrobe was decidedly circa-2005 with a strong concert tee vibe, ironic since she’d been too busy working to actually attend any of those concerts. She pulled on a pair of comfortably faded and worn jeans and a rumpled chambray button-down, the sleeves of which she automatically rolled back. Good enough. He was coming for the food and not for her anyway.

Even so, she ducked into the bathroom, brushed her hair, and put it up into a reasonably neat knot at the top of her head. It was far more relaxed than her usual restaurant chignon, which she sprayed and combed into submission. While she was at it, it couldn’t hurt to put on a little face powder and mascara and lip gloss. Just enough to make it look like she hadn’t been sweating over the stove all day, but not enough to make it look like she was dressing up for him.

Which, let’s face it, she totally was.

She did a quick sweep of her house, making sure she hadn’t left anything embarrassing out: straightened magazines on the end table, collected a half-filled mug of tea, picked up the pair of socks she’d pulled off when she’d slipped on her kitchen clogs. She might as well start brewing a pitcher of tea in case Alex wanted something stronger than water. She didn’t drink soda, and besides her usual pot of coffee in the morning, she lived on the citrus-infused water that she stored in a jug in the refrigerator.

Rachel was beginning to think Alex wasn’t coming when the doorbell rang. She strode to the door and yanked it open, her lips lifting into a smile. He stood there, far better dressed than the occasion called for, with a glass bottle in each hand and a third in the crook of his elbow. A set of keys dangled precariously from his fingers.

“There you are,” she said. “You found it okay?”

“I vacillated between the wine choices too long,” he said. “And then I decided to bring them both.”

Rachel chuckled and took the one from his elbow. “A pinot gris. Perfect with the scallops. What’s the other?”

“Sangiovese,” he said, holding it up.

“You must have been peeking through my window. That will go well with the main courses.”

“Courses, plural?”

“I told you I’m still deciding.” She stepped aside and waved him in, then shut the door behind him. “What’s the third?”

“Small-batch ginger beer. Nonalcoholic.” At her surprised look, he shrugged. “You weren’t drinking at Rhino Crash or Equity. I thought maybe you didn’t.”

“You thought right.” She looked at him, marveling that he’d been so observant, then indicated he should follow her to the kitchen.

He lifted his face and sniffed appreciatively. “Everything smells good. Can’t we serve it all?”

“If you like everything, we can save some for next time. We are planning more than one of these, aren’t we?”

“That would be completely up to you.” He looked around. “What can I do?”

She nudged him toward the shelf next to the sink. “Grab some wineglasses and open the white and the ginger beer. I’ll start putting things on the table.”

He did as she asked, seemingly unconcerned with the directive to poke around her kitchen. Which was one of the reasons she liked the open shelving. Not only did it mimic the flow of her commercial kitchen, but it let guests help themselves without feeling like they were snooping around her private spaces.

“Flatware?”

“Drawer on the other side of the sink.”

“Done.” He brushed by her on her way back from the refrigerator, his fingers trailing against her lower back as he squeezed by. The touch, even unintentional and absentminded, lit her up like a gas flame.

It might be a long night after all.

*   *   *

Rachel’s place wasn’t what Alex expected, but he should have. From the outside, it was another slightly dilapidated Victorian of the type that dominated the Cheesman and City Park neighborhoods, the ones that remained having been either restored or converted into multi-unit properties. It needed a new coat of paint, and the original porch was sagging too much to claim structural integrity, but from the minute she opened the door, it was like getting a glimpse into her psyche.

The interior was almost painfully orderly, decorated in an eclectic bohemian-industrial-vintage sort of vibe that he suspected was more out of utility than any desire to align with the current fads. From the front entry, he glimpsed a living room furnished with a dark-green velvet sofa set on a faded Persian rug. A stack of magazines had slumped against a glass lamp on a metal table that could have come from either West Elm or a local garage sale. Hard to tell.

The kitchen, he saw as he followed her into her domain, was immaculate. Not nearly as “professional” as he might have anticipated, but clearly as scrubbed and sterile as a hospital. A green vintage refrigerator occupied a space by the back door in contrast to a gleaming stainless-steel cooktop and hood. Battered wood shelving carried around the entire space, holding an eclectic collection of white restaurant-style dishes, pans in steel and copper, and a mismatched set of glasses and stemware. For someone who didn’t drink, she had a remarkable variety of wineglasses.

All in all, it was exactly what he should have expected of her —functional, vaguely stylish, and entirely unfussy.

He collected glasses and silverware and opened the bottle of white wine for himself, then sat at one side of a long, scarred table while Rachel took out plates and bowls and pots from the refrigerator. She then began plating the various salads with as much care as she might in her own restaurant.

He’d never thought that watching a chef at work would be sexy.

Of course most chefs weren’t as effortlessly beautiful as this one, bent over the countertop as she dressed and garnished greens, tendrils of hair that had escaped from her bun falling against her neck. It made him want to trail a finger across that skin before tucking the hair into her knot.

And from what he knew of Rachel, she might break his finger if he tried it.

“All right, these are the options for the amuse-bouche. On the night of the actual event, I would bring one of these out first, one per person.” She produced a platter upon which three different composed bites were placed, evenly spaced down to the millimeter. “There’s crab with avocado and lemon crème fraîche on a sesame cracker. Chicken liver mousse with caramelized onions and apples. And Ana and Melody’s favorite, asparagus and leek on a Parmesan crisp.”

Alex tasted them one by one, clearing his palate with a glass of ice water between bites. They were stunning. That was the only way to put it. Little bursts of unexpected flavor on his tongue, just enough to make him wonder what else she had in store. That was the point, he knew —a sneak peek into the chef’s world, something to build anticipation for what was to come.

“So . . . ?” Rachel hovered by the table, her arms crossed in front of her and one fist pressed to her lips.

He leaned back in his chair and considered the empty plate. “I don’t know. They were all amazing.”

“You don’t have to be nice. I really want to know. This is your dinner party, remember?”

“No, I’m being serious. They’re all different. If I had to narrow it down, I would say either the crab or the asparagus mousse. The Parmesan crisp is fantastic.”

“Okay, that’s three votes for the asparagus, then. Give me a couple of minutes on the salads.” She swept away the platter and placed it in the sink, then put a pan on the cooktop and cranked up the flame while she took out a covered plate of scallops from the fridge.

He pushed back his chair and crept up behind her, not sure why he felt so curious. She carefully placed each of the scallops in the hot oil in the pan, sending up a hiss and a sizzle. He had to resist the urge to touch her again while she didn’t know he was there, instead linking his hands behind his back.

“They cook quickly, so you have to watch them,” Rachel murmured, and he realized she had been aware of him the entire time. “You see how they go from translucent to opaque almost immediately?” She stared at the scallops as if she could determine the exact moment they cooked through —she probably could —then took them off the heat with a pair of tongs and placed them on the bed of dressed greens sitting on the plate beside the cooktop.

She picked up the plate and nodded toward the table, an indication he should sit down. But once more, she remained standing.

“Aren’t you going to join me?”

She hesitated.

“It makes me uncomfortable to have you serving me if you won’t join me.” He nudged the chair across from him away from the table. “Please.”

Slowly, she slid into the seat. He pushed the salad plate to the center of the table. “You need to share this with me. I’m never going to make it all the way through the courses if you make me eat it all myself.”

“No one’s forcing you,” she said with a smile.

“I’m not willing to let food this good go to waste. So, come on. Get to it.” Alex picked up his fork and knife and cut a piece of scallop, then forked it into his mouth with a stack of greens. The seafood was indeed perfectly cooked, tender and sweet and juicy, and the slight tang of the dressing complemented the mild flavors of the scallop.

“What’s in the dressing?” he asked.

A crafty smile formed on her lips, a sparkle in her eye. “The dreaded fennel.”

“That’s fennel? I like it. It’s not all that licorice-y.”

“Not in these concentrations.” Rachel took a bite, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as she considered. “I like this one. Simple. Tastes like summer to me. But it’s too . . .”

“Common?”

“That’s exactly it.”

“I don’t know. I like the scallops. They’re perfect. Maybe with some sort of starch. Not as light.”

Rachel took another bite. “Puree. Artichoke maybe, with wild mushrooms.” She gave him a reluctant smile. “I knew I made the right decision in calling you.”

“You agonized over that one, did you?”

“Not really. I didn’t want to be too presumptuous.”

Impulsively, he reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. “You do realize that we’re in it together, don’t you? Partners.”

“Are we?” The edge to her voice could have either been amusement or challenge. “Because no matter what you say, you don’t seem to have much at stake here.”

“You’re still questioning my motives.”

She pulled her hand from beneath his. “I’m not so much questioning your motives as . . . Okay, so I’m still questioning your motives.”

“Because we don’t know each other.” He folded his arms on the table in front of him. “Ask me anything.”

“Why did you write that article? And don’t tell me it was out of concern for me.”

That was the last thing he’d expected her to ask. Once more, he’d underestimated her. “Truthfully? I was angry.”

She simply looked at him and waited for him to elaborate.

Alex sat back in his chair. “When I started writing, I was determined. Obnoxiously so. I had given up a profession I’d already spent almost seven years studying, and I had to prove I was capable of doing this. I wrote nonstop, article after article on spec —that means before I got paid for it or even knew there was interest —until eventually I landed something at Slate. One thing led to another and I was writing for Wired and Rolling Stone. When I wrote a very popular essay for the New Yorker —which in itself is a Holy Grail sort of experience —a literary agent called me to see if I wanted to do a book. She said I was the next big thing, thought she could sell a book on the buzz alone.

“Of course I was flattered. Maybe a little cocky. I figured there was nowhere to go but up. And for a while, it looked like I was right. There was a bidding war for the book, and it sold for a lot of money.”

Rachel lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m not getting the part where you should be angry.”

It did sound pretty impressive from the outside. He’d been just as seduced by the big numbers. “Here’s the thing about selling a book for six figures. It’s a risk —for the publisher and for the author. You have to hit it big, and the pressure is immense. Even before the book was out, pundits were using the deal as an example of what was wrong with legacy publishing.”

“And people begin to form opinions before they even read it.”

“Exactly. When the book released, lines were already drawn. Half the reviewers loved it. Half of them hated it. Sales were what really mattered, though, and they weren’t great. They weren’t terrible, but it wasn’t the instant New York Times bestseller everyone was banking on.”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel said. “I know that must have been frustrating.”

“It was. But I’m a grown-up. I understand how these things work. Publishing is an educated guessing game. I just didn’t expect the flat-out venom I got. People who didn’t even know me, taking pleasure in being cruel. Assuming things that weren’t true. It stung. It made me angry. So when I saw Carlton Espy making all sorts of unfounded allegations in his review, it was the tipping point. I’d had enough.”

“And ironically, the social media frenzy jump-started your career while it killed mine.”

She said it matter-of-factly, but he still flinched. “Yes. So you see, I owe you.”

Rachel’s eyes locked with his for a moment, as if she was trying to read the truth. And then she pushed back her chair. “Time to choose a palate cleanser. I hope you like sorbet?”

So they were done with the personal. “If you make it, I’m sure I’ll like it.”

He did, though he preferred the cucumber-mint to the tomato and watermelon that she put in front of him. Both the lamb shank and the quail were great, but they agreed that lamb said spring more than summer and chose the quail. When Rachel cleared the last of the plates, Alex rose and nudged her away from the sink. “Let me do the dishes. It’s the least I can do.”

“Okay,” she said with a nod. “That’s why I have open shelves. So you know exactly where to put them.”

Ever since he had told her about his professional problems, Rachel had seemed to relax. Was it because it proved he didn’t consider himself above her? That she wasn’t a charity case to him? When the dishes were cleaned and dried and put away, and Rachel had wiped down every last surface in the kitchen, she looked at him and asked, “Do you want a tour now? It will be a short one.”

“Sure.” This felt like an olive branch, an offering in honor of their newfound understanding. He followed her from the kitchen into the nearby living room.

“This is it. One room, besides my bedroom and the bathroom, of course.”

“It’s nice,” he said, and he meant it. “Did you bring this all from New York?”

“No. I bought a car in New Jersey as I left —because no one really needs to own a car in Manhattan —and came out here with my cooking supplies and one suitcase of clothes.”

“Taking advantage of the flea market?”

Rachel grimaced. “I didn’t actually decorate any of this myself. I used my moving boxes and crates as end tables and slept on a mattress on the floor for at least a year. Melody’s the one who finally decorated the place.” She shrugged. “I’ve worked long hours six days a week since I moved here, and on my day off, I don’t want to do much but sleep and binge-watch Netflix.”

He stared at her incredulously. “But you’ve, you know, done things. Right?”

“Like what?”

“Hiked? Gone to Garden of the Gods? The Museum of Nature and Science? Seen a concert at Red Rocks?”

She stared back at him blankly.

“You’re seriously telling me that in six years, you’ve done nothing but work, eat out, and sleep.”

“I don’t think you understand what my job is like. I haven’t had a weekend or a holiday off in twelve years. Until now, of course.”

“So you’ve never seen a fireworks display for the Fourth of July.”

“Not since I was a kid.”

“Then you should come over for Independence Day festivities at my house next week. Starts at eight. Bring your friends if you like.”

He didn’t wait for a response, but instead continued to wander around the perimeter of the room, trailing a finger over the impeccably dusted surfaces and stopping to look at the few decorations that marked the walls and the mantel. Then he paused in front of the bookshelves that flanked the fireplace. They were crowded with books, few empty spots left on the floor-to-ceiling shelves.

“Great Expectations, The Iliad . . . most of these I haven’t even thought about since college.” There were culinary-school books, too, with boring-sounding titles like The Professional Chef and Principles of French Cooking. Clearly she had kept every text from every class she had ever taken. “I admire the fact you kept all your course materials. I couldn’t wait to dump my psychology texts into the nearest recycling bin.”

Rachel said nothing, and that alone was unusual enough to make him cast a look over his shoulder. She was studying the shelves with a strange expression.

“What?”

She cleared her throat. “I didn’t go to college. Or culinary school. Or finish high school.” Her voice had drifted low by the end, though he was pretty sure it wasn’t shame he was hearing. Maybe regret. “I got my first restaurant job at fifteen, so I got my GED instead.”

“Your parents were okay with that?” He’d thought his mother was going to have an aneurysm when he announced he was giving up his PhD candidacy.

“They didn’t really have a choice,” Rachel said. “You’re looking at my informal education on those shelves. And of course all my kitchen jobs. Like I told you the other day, that’s kind of how the industry works. Or it used to, before all the college kids decided not to use their expensive educations and go to culinary school instead.”

There was definitely some resentment in those words, but he was pretty sure he was bordering on the limits of what she was willing to tell him. He tipped out a copy of Ulysses. “Then you have my utmost respect. Anyone who would tackle James Joyce without being forced is a braver soul than I.”

“I don’t display my collection of CliffsNotes.”

Alex let a vague smile flit across his lips as he replaced the book and went back to his perusal. She was so confident and well-spoken, he’d assumed she had a formal education, but she was obviously equally comfortable in the rough-edged kitchen environment. So far, Rachel was defying his efforts to categorize her.

He was about to turn away from the shelves when a small stack of books caught his eye. He lifted them, surprised to find that one was a tattered, leather-covered Bible. On top of it was a thick green journal with a pen clipped to the cover.

“I forgot those were there.” Rachel swooped them out of his hands before he could ask about them, strode across the room to her closed bedroom door, and quickly deposited them inside.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” he said.

“I’m not.” But her tone clearly forbade him to speak any further on the subject.

That was something more than unwillingness to let him see she had a Bible, and he’d be willing to bet it was about whatever was written inside that other book. But pushing merely to satisfy his curiosity would damage the tenuous understanding they’d established.

He flashed her a mischievous smile. “I don’t get a peek at your bedroom?”

The guarded look vanished, and a twinkle lit her eyes. “Nope. And you never will.”

“Ouch. And here I thought I’d proved that my intentions are honorable.”

She sent him a look that practically dared him to say otherwise. He glanced at his watch. “As much as I’d like to stay here and convince you, I have to go. My mom is a stickler for punctuality.”

“Your mom? You’re seriously ditching me for your mom?”

“You’re welcome to come with me. They’re always telling me to bring a date.”

“While I would love to take you up on that —” her tone held a hint of amusement — “I think that would send the entirely wrong message.”

“To them or to me?”

“Both.”

“Next time, then.” He moved toward the door and paused with his hand on the knob. “The menu really is perfect.”

“Thank you. And thank you for helping me eat it all.”

“See you on the Fourth?”

“I’ll think about it. Depends on whether Ana and Melody are available.”

“Fair enough.” He gave her a wink and a little wave as he left, but his good mood lasted only as long as it took to reach his car. He really did wish she’d decided to come. If he showed up with a woman, it would be one less part of his life laid bare to scrutiny.

On the other hand, he liked Rachel too much to subject her to that.

Crosstown traffic was light as he made his way through the city to Hale, a little neighborhood nestled in the quadrant of Colorado and Colfax near Rose Medical Center. He’d never quite understood why his parents had chosen to settle here, so far away from the Russian community on the southeastern edge of the city. Maybe it had felt like the quintessential American neighborhood to them —tree-lined streets, quaint 1920s bungalows, small-town feel. Even now, seeing how well-maintained his childhood block remained, he couldn’t resist a wash of bittersweet nostalgia.

Nostalgia because he really had had a relatively good childhood here. Bittersweet because every time he came back, the visit ended in an argument. Somehow he didn’t have much hope that today would be different.

He sat in his car, staring at the covered porch, and took deep breaths in and out. Now or never.

Alex strode up the long walkway to the front steps and pushed through the unlocked door without knocking. “Mom?”

“In here, Sasha!” came a lilting female voice from the kitchen.

He followed the familiar smell of cooking toward the back of the house, his heart lightening a degree. “What’s going on? You never make zharkoe in the summer.”

Veronika Kanin looked up from the stove, as slender and beautiful as ever, an apron covering her slacks and neatly pressed blouse. Too late, Alex realized she wasn’t looking at him. He followed her gaze to the antique oak dinette behind him, and his stomach sank.

“Hello, Alex.” Dr. Gregory Hirsch rose from where he sat with Alex’s father, his hand extended.

Alex put on a smile to cover his dread and shook the man’s hand with more enthusiasm than he felt. Dr. Hirsch was the chair of CU’s psychology department and Alex’s former dissertation adviser. Or he would have been, had Alex not abandoned his PhD studies after the first semester.

Clearly he’d been naive to think this invitation was his parents’ way of making amends. It was simply another ploy to try to bring him around to their way of thinking.

Hirsch’s smile faded, and Alex realized he was scowling. He released the professor’s hand. “To what do we owe our good fortune tonight?”

“I had mentioned to Dr. Kanin that I hadn’t had zharkoe since I was in Moscow years ago. She was kind enough to invite me to dinner tonight.”

“How fortunate.” Alex realized he was doing a poor job of hiding his feelings with his stilted formality, but he was waiting for the other shoe to drop —and clock him on the head in the process. No chance that Dr. Hirsch’s presence was merely a coincidence.

Alex’s father, Alexei —the other Dr. Kanin in the room —looked at him with sympathy from where he still sat at the table. Wordlessly, he poured Alex a glass of red wine and nudged it in his direction. So this was Mom’s idea. He should have known.

He took the glass and moved uncomfortably to Veronika’s side. “Can I help with anything?”

“There’s a cheese platter in the refrigerator. Could you put it out while I finish here?”

Alex did as requested and found a wooden board with cheese, sliced meat, olives, and pickles, then set it on the table with a stack of small plates. Even though he was still stuffed from Rachel’s food, he piled a plate high. With his mouth full, no one would expect him to make small talk.

Hirsch didn’t seem to take the hint. “Your father was telling me about all the press you’ve been getting.”

“Oh?”

“I read your piece and found your conclusions compelling. I’m beginning a study on social media behavior. I could use a research assistant. I thought it might be something you’d be interested in.”

And there it was. His mother’s attempts to get him to reconsider his PhD had failed, and now they were dangling a research position as a carrot to pull him back in.

The look his father shot him over Dr. Hirsch’s shoulder made it clear Alex would not be rejecting out of hand what was obviously a favor. Alex answered cautiously, “It does sound interesting. Can you send me some information about the position and the study?”

His mother’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. She’d expected him to turn it down flat. Maybe it would have been better if he had. At least then he wouldn’t be giving her false hope about his openness to going back to his postgraduate studies.

Unbidden, Alex’s mind drifted to Rachel. Her comment about college graduates abandoning their education showed some buried resentment and longing. What had happened to cause her to drop out of school and start working at fifteen? She said her parents didn’t have any say in the matter. As much as Alex hated his parents’ tendency to push and manipulate, they were still part of his life. He had the niggling feeling she couldn’t say the same.

When the zharkoe was ready, they moved to the table, where they served themselves family style. Dr. Hirsch, of course, raved about Veronika’s cooking and ate two helpings, while Alex tried not to give away that he was so full he could burst. When the professor finally made his excuses —after dessert and one last drink —Alex heaved a sigh of relief.

“You’ve gotten a lot less subtle,” Alex said as soon as they were alone. “What did you have to do to get him to offer the position?”

“Sasha!” Veronika’s insulted look made him realize he’d crossed a line. He accepted the rebuke with a bowed head as she continued, “I only suggested he come to dinner to make you an offer in person.”

“Forgive my skepticism, but I don’t believe he’s the one who has been sitting around thinking up ways to make me reconsider my career path.” The fact he was a friend of the Kanins and a staunch Russophile probably played into his interest far more than Alex’s academic promise.

“Sasha,” his father said, more gently than Veronika, “you would have made an excellent clinician. You are intelligent and insightful, two qualities that make for an accomplished psychologist. Don’t let all those years of study go to waste.”

“They’re not going to waste. Do you have any idea how rare it is for a writer to become so successful so fast? That’s due at least as much to my psychology background as to any innate talent.”

“But, Sasha, writing —”

“ —is at least as worthy in its value to society as psychology. Besides, I was a terrible clinician.”

“That’s not true,” Veronika protested.

“Then how come I’ve never been able to get through to you or Dina? She’s been gone three years. Have you even talked to her once?”

His father’s expression closed. “That’s none of your business.”

“She’s my sister. You’re my parents. Of course it’s my business. What I want to know is, when I finally convince you that this writing career isn’t a phase, are you going to cut me out the way you did to Dina?”

They stared at him, shocked. Good. They needed to be shocked. Sure, Dina was just as stubborn, but she was a twenty-year-old girl. They were the parents. They needed to bend before they lost their daughter forever.

“That’s enough, Sasha,” Alexei said, his expression pained. “You don’t understand. Dina made her choice.”

“Yes. Her choice. She was rejecting all your plans for her. She wasn’t rejecting you. But you can’t see that. I just don’t understand what made her rebellion so much worse than mine.” Alex rose. “I’ll look over Dr. Hirsch’s information as I said I would, but I intend to turn down the offer. Hopefully I’m still welcome here when I do.”

His mother jumped to her feet and grabbed his arm before he could leave. She took his face in her hands, her dark eyes imploring. “Sasha, you are always welcome here. And so is Dina. All she has to do is ask.”

He stared at his mother. Veronika wasn’t a bad person, even if he didn’t agree with her priorities. His words came out softly. “Mamushka, sometimes it’s okay not to win. You are allowed to change your mind.”

Alex kissed her on the cheek, hugged his dad, and made his exit without further comment. He always hoped things might change with them, but they never did. His parents were set in their thinking, their expectations, their disappointment that their children hadn’t turned out to be the people they wanted them to be.

It no longer made him angry. It simply made him sad.