CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It would take more than a few days for Theresa to fully settle in so she could feel like she lived here and wasn’t merely a houseguest, but it helped that Alicia had been spending a number of nights out with Niko, so Theresa often had the house to herself. Theresa had insisted on talking over everything with her new landlord/roommate—who’d be responsible for what chores, what Theresa was expected to contribute to the household, whether or not it was cool to drink the other’s milk without asking. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was find herself homeless again because she’d crossed some line she hadn’t known about.
Tonight, Alicia had gone out with Niko to the movies and dinner. She’d told Theresa not to expect her home until around midnight. Theresa had spent the day pursuing leads and checking in with a few new contacts she hoped she could connect with an architect who was interested in turning an old power plant on the outskirts of town into upscale apartments. There was money in that deal—a lot of it—if only she could get all the pieces in the right places. She’d also turned in some paperwork on a small deal that would bring her a few hundred bucks by next week. She’d made it home early, by four, parking in the empty spot in the garage and passing Alicia on her way out.
For the first time in months, Theresa was going to take a night off. No scouring the Internet for properties that looked poised for a cheap sale, no paperwork, no cold-calling, no cajoling or wheedling or flattering her contacts into meetings. She was going to bake some of Babulya’s challah bread to use for French toast in the morning and maybe heat up a frozen pizza, take a hot shower, and get in her fuzzy pajamas, then indulge in a book from Alicia’s vast paperback library. Many of the titles lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves in the den were from the horror heyday of the eighties—Alicia’s father had been a big horror fan. Alicia had added a lot of lit fic and romances to the collection, along with some outstanding science fiction that Theresa was dying to get into. She’d sold off almost all her books at the used bookstore to gain some quick cash, and although she’d often utilized the public library, she hadn’t felt much like reading over the past few months.
For the first time in nearly a year, Theresa felt like everything might eventually be all right.
She stripped down in the bedroom that had once been shared by Alicia and her sister. The walls still bore the faint outlines of the posters she’d so envied back then. Boy bands, cartoon cats, a unicorn. The twin beds had been replaced with a comfortable queen-size mattress and headboard, though the scarred dresser looked old enough to be the same. If she stayed here long enough, she’d get her own things out of storage, but for now it was nice to simply have a bed at all. She slipped into a faded terry-cloth robe to walk down the hall to the bathroom.
Unlike the Sterns, Alicia’s parents had kept their home in better repair. The bathroom was small and outdated, but everything worked, including the shower. Under the beat of the water, Theresa thought she heard a rapping, but when she stuck her head out of the spray, she heard nothing. Old house, she told herself. At the subtle rumble of far-off thunder, Theresa quickly finished shaving her legs—another practice she’d been skipping too often and was delighted to indulge in now.
Wearing a robe, her hair in a towel, she went on bare feet down the stairs and into the kitchen, intending to check on the challah dough she’d left rising while she combed out her hair and put on pajamas.
At the sight of a blue jeans–clad rear sticking out from the fridge, she jumped, startled. “Hey!”
The guy raiding the fridge jumped, too, hitting his head on the bottom edge of the freezer door. Rubbing it, he glared at her over the fridge door, which he closed at the sight of her. His mouth opened. Then closed.
“Ilya,” Theresa said. “What are you doing in here?”
He held up a beer. “I came to . . . this . . . what are you doing here?”
“I’m . . .” She sighed and pulled her robe closer around her throat. “It’s a long story. But I’m allowed to be in here.”
“I’m allowed to be in here, too,” he said with a grin. “I’m just not supposed to be.”
“Alicia isn’t here.” She eyed him, then the beer. It looked like he wasn’t planning on leaving right away. She could make him, probably, if she insisted, but the effort seemed like too much work for an evening that had been meant for relaxation. “Grab that pizza out of the freezer, please. While you’re standing there.”
He did, waving it at her before setting it on the counter. “I was looking for my brother. Figured he was as likely to be over here as not. Guess I was wrong. I sure wasn’t expecting to find you.”
“They went out.” She gestured to distract him from asking more questions. “Grab a baking sheet. They’re in that drawer under the oven.”
He bent, found one. Pulled it out. Without being asked, he slid open the cardboard box and pulled out the pizza, which was encased in plastic that he tore open so he could put the frozen circle of dough and sauce on the baking sheet. He even turned on the oven and put the pizza inside while she watched.
“Ham and pineapple,” he said. “My favorite.”
“Don’t let your mother hear you say that.” Theresa couldn’t hold back a smile.
Ilya snorted. “Yeah, because suddenly after her entire life, she’s decided to embrace a faith she never paid any attention to before to honor a woman who had abandoned it before my mother was even born.”
“People cling to strange things when their lives change,” Theresa said.
Ilya leaned against the counter and cracked the top of his beer and waggled his eyebrows at her. “Do you? Cling to strange things, I mean.”
“Do you always walk into Alicia’s house like you own it?” Theresa asked with narrowed eyes, not rising to the bait. She checked the dough, now soft and fluffy, peeking over the rim of the mixing bowl in which she’d left it. She took it out to place on a second baking sheet she’d already set out.
Ilya didn’t answer right away. He took a long, long drink of beer and looked at her. She was very aware of her hair in the towel, the robe clinging to her damp skin. Her freshly shaved legs.
“Old habits are hard to break,” he said finally. “You didn’t answer my question about what you’re doing here. In a robe, no less.”
And naked underneath.
“I took a shower.” She stood her ground, refusing to let a blush creep up her cheeks. She rolled the dough between her hands, pulling it into three equal pieces.
“You seem to be making a habit of using other people’s showers, Theresa.”
She cleared her throat, thinking of a response but found none. Uncertain why she simply didn’t tell him the truth the way she’d told Alicia. It wasn’t anything she had to be ashamed of, she told herself. After all, Ilya Stern had certainly had his share of screwups in his life. Even if he judged her, so what?
It was because of her father. His mother. The thing between them that Theresa knew in her gut had at least partially led to the trouble she was in now. It was a tie between Barry and Galina, and it shouldn’t make a difference to anything between Theresa and Ilya . . . yet somehow, whatever it was, she knew it would matter. Family might suck. They might let you down, steal your name, put you in debt. But family was family, and each of them, when it came right down to it, would feel their loyalty to their own.
Why it mattered that she and Ilya get along with each other was a whole other story.
He eyed what she was doing with the dough. “What’s that?”
“Challah,” she answered. “It makes fantastic French toast, and I haven’t been able to bake any in forever.”
“Babulya’s challah?”
“Yes,” she said with a lift of her chin. “Her recipe.”
He didn’t answer at first, then said, “She gave it to you.”
“She didn’t, actually. She just taught me how to make it, and I remembered.” Her voice shook the tiniest bit at the memories of those long-ago days in the kitchen with Ilya’s grandmother. The days when Theresa had felt as though she, if only for the shortest time, belonged somewhere, with someone who cared enough about her to make sure she would be all right.
“I haven’t had my grandmother’s challah since a long time before she died.” His voice was quiet, his expression neutral except for the glint of sadness in his eyes.
Theresa remembered how broken up Ilya had been when Babulya died. “Well. It’ll be done in about an hour, and you can have some. Okay?”
“Why haven’t you been able to bake it in forever?” he asked, circling back around in that way he had of focusing on the one thing she didn’t want to talk about.
“I haven’t had a place to stay with a reliable oven,” she told him, hating that he kept asking questions she didn’t want to answer.
“But . . . you’re baking it . . . here?” Ilya seemed genuinely confused, and how could she blame him? She was doing her best to keep him in the dark, after all.
“Alicia’s got a great oven.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re using it,” Ilya said.
Theresa sighed with a frown, then simply said, “I’m staying here for a while.”
“Why, so you can poke me about signing that deal?” Surprisingly, his voice was low, not confrontational. His look curious, but not aggressive. He took another drink and put the bottle on the counter to cross his arms. Waiting for her to answer.
“That’s . . . that’s not even . . .” She shook her head as she rolled the three pieces of dough into long logs, then pinched them together at the top so she could braid them. “That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?”
“Why, then?”
She frowned. “Does everything in the world have to revolve around you, Ilya? Did it ever occur to you that not everything I do in my life is about you or that stupid deal? You’ve made it very clear you’re not going to take it, so that’s that. Okay? It’s over. Done. Now, excuse me. I’m going to put this bread in the oven and then put on my pajamas. You should be gone by the time I get back.”
He wasn’t. In fact, he’d set the table with plates, glasses, and a bottle of wine from the rack on the counter. The pizza was set on top of the oven, the cheese bubbling.
“The challah wasn’t done yet.”
“It’ll be another twenty minutes or so. And that’s not my wine,” she told him. “Or yours.”
“We’ll buy her another bottle. She won’t care. I know for a fact Alicia doesn’t like white wine,” Ilya said. “I’m not even sure what it’s doing there.”
Theresa moved closer to the table. “That’s really not the point, is it? She and I agreed that we wouldn’t take what’s not ours without asking first.”
“Sounds like you really hammered out the details.”
He poured himself a glass of wine and filled hers with sparkling water. It meant something, for him to remember. She and Wayne had been together for three years, and he’d asked her if she wanted a glass of wine right up until the night they’d broken it off, no matter how many times she politely or impolitely reminded him she didn’t drink. Ilya hadn’t impressed Theresa as the kind of guy to pay attention, but he had.
It made her more honest than she’d anticipated being. For a moment she wished she’d had the wine to blame it on. Instead, all she had was a weariness about keeping secrets and the desire to take a chance she might regret.
“I was living with someone. It ended, and he asked me to leave. Kicked me out, actually. I’d already put a lot of my stuff into storage when we were together, but he gave me a day to get my things and leave, which was more than your mother did when she booted us.”
Ilya flinched. “Wow.”
“He was really mad,” Theresa said mildly.
“I didn’t know you were . . . it was a serious thing?”
She fixed him with a look. “Yes, Ilya, it was a serious thing. He asked me to marry him, and I said no. It all went downhill after that.”
“Shit.” Ilya rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, then laughed ruefully. “Why’d you say no?”
“I didn’t want to marry him.” Even now, the memory of the conversation with Wayne had the power to make Theresa’s stomach squeeze and knot.
“You didn’t love him.”
Surprised, she shook her head. “Oh, no. I did love him. Just not enough, I guess.”
“You dodged a bullet. Marriage is bullshit.”
“Careful,” Theresa said with a small smile. “You’ll make me think you believe that.”
“I didn’t know you were even with someone,” Ilya said.
She squeezed the back of the chair. “How could you have known? And you didn’t ask. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. It’s over.”
“But I wouldn’t have . . .” Ilya lifted his glass of wine, not finishing his sentence, although she could’ve guessed what he meant.
That kiss.
Theresa went to the vase that held various kitchen implements on the counter next to the oven and grabbed the pizza cutter from it. She cut, then cut again. One more time. She grabbed two gooey slices and brought them quickly to the table, sliding them onto the plates he’d put there before the cheese could drip off.
“So Alicia let you move in here?” Ilya lifted the pizza to his mouth, biting, the cheese running in a long strand from his mouth to the slice.
It was nowhere close to an accurate timeline, but she nodded anyway. “Yes.”
“That’s generous of her,” Ilya said.
She handed him a napkin. “Yes. It is. Very much, and I appreciate it.”
She plucked a piece of pineapple from the top of the pizza and put it in her mouth, relishing the sweetness that had mixed with the saltiness of the ham. It was only a frozen pizza, but being able to buy it and put it in the freezer, then cook it for dinner . . . that was a luxury she’d no longer take for granted.
“That story about the landlord,” he said after a few seconds. “That wasn’t true.”
“No.”
“Why’d you lie to me?”
She’d been carefully avoiding his gaze, although she could feel it burning into her. She forced herself to look at him, lifting her chin, unwilling to let herself be embarrassed by this anymore. “I didn’t want to admit that I’d been sleeping in my car.”
Ilya took a long sip of wine and tilted his head to look at her. His eyes narrowed and his mouth pursed for a second as it looked like he tried to parse what, exactly, she was saying. “You’ve been what?”
“I’ve been sleeping in my car,” she said finally, flatly. She waited for this to feel better, or to feel worse, or to feel anything other than as if she’d just leaped off a cliff without a hint about what lay at the bottom of the drop.
“For how long?” Ilya frowned hard enough to dig a crease between his eyes.
“The past few months, on and off. When I could no longer ask my friends to put me up on their couches, not without feeling like an idiot, or telling everyone the truth that I was completely destitute, I had only my car. Okay, are you happy now?” She drew in a breath, then another. Waiting to feel the impact of her fall.
“No, I’m not happy. Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?” He looked stunned, setting his glass on the table hard enough to slosh white wine all over the sides of his fingers.
“It wasn’t any of your business!” She forced herself up from the table, pushing away hard enough to rattle the plates. “I didn’t want you to know, okay? I was embarrassed. I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to think I was a failure or something.”
Ilya was quiet.
“Why did it matter what I thought?” he asked finally.
“I don’t know. It shouldn’t,” she said. “Alicia was nice enough to offer me a place to stay until I could get on my feet. I took her up on it because I had no choice. Just like I accepted your mother’s offer to stay there when I had no other choice. Just like I slept on your couch because the alternative was to sleep in my car, and I just . . . couldn’t face it for another night, Ilya. This is not supposed to be my life.”
She drew in a shaking breath.
“No,” he said. “I guess it’s not.”
Theresa’s fingertips skidded along the table’s surface, but she didn’t sit. Her appetite had fled. This pissed her off more than anything else—that all she’d been looking forward to was a quiet night alone, and here she was, stomach churning, heart pounding.
She went to the oven and pulled out the challah, golden brown and smelling like home. She held up the baking sheet so Ilya could see it before she put it on the stove top. It would need time to cool before she could cut it.
“Here,” she said. “We can share it.”
Ilya looked away from her for a second, then sat up straight in his chair and fixed her with a steady, unwavering stare. “Fine. I’ll sign.”