Everything’s Coming Up Josey (20 page)

Yeah, right. Not with her tossing back the bubbly.

Another song, another opportunity to be a coaster. This time I wander out into the recesses of the hall, toward one of the balconies.

It's quieter here, and I hear voices, the low tones of clandestine meeting that happens on the fringes of these events. I feel like I'm intruding, so I turn, but not before I see the couple. She's standing against the wall, trapped slightly by his arm braced over her shoulder. She glances my direction and goes white.

That's okay, because I've already gone deathly pale, I can feel it. And, of course, I'm frozen, watching while she whispers something to the man hovering over her. He turns, looks at me, and I feel the sudden rush of heat.

Matthew. And Larissa.

I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! Mr. Innocent he is
not.
I lift one of my glasses—the soda one, because you know, someone needs to act like a missionary here—and stalk out.

Excuse me, but wasn't I invited to a New Year's Eve party
at their flat?
I'm so angry that I barely see Tracey return.

“That was fun!” she says, and I hear more than fun in her voice. Disappointment, and perhaps a little too much hooch. Just what I want—to spend the night watching her sink into inebriation while I ponder just what to say to Rebecca.

“You ready to go?” I ask, and regret the snip in my voice.

“What? It's not even midnight yet!” Tracey giggles and finishes off her champagne. This just might be the longest two hours of my life. “Besides, my surprise isn't here yet.” She looks away with a worried look on her face.

Surprise? Here? I think I've had my quota of surprises tonight.

I glance toward the entrance to the balcony and see Matthew slink back in, alone. I wonder if Rebecca is somewhere in the crowd, or did he leave her and the darlings at home? I surreptitiously scan the room for her.
Nichevo.

I want to karate chop him. He glances my way, and I send him my best death-ray glare, hoping to turn him to ash.

“Finally! He's here!” Tracey grabs me by the elbow and (what choice do I have, she's bigger than me!) we're shuffling across the floor toward…whoa, my heart be still. Tall and leathered, with long, burnished blond hair, and the slightest hint of whiskers, he's wearing a silk poet's shirt to go along with those shiny pants and, on top of that, the aura of suave. In fact, this guy has smooth down to a science as he perfectly times his smile at our approach.

Now, where did I leave my breath?

Suddenly, I can think of much better things to do tonight than dwell on Matthew Winneman and his weasely ways.

“Hi!” Tracey says, “Guess who this is?”

Wait! Is she talking to me?

“Who?” Fabio answers, and his eyes are on me. They're dark, and liquid, in a sort of bubbly-caldron-dangerous type of way.
Who
is a very good question at the moment.

“This is my new roomie. The one your grandma was telling you about?”

I'm getting a feeling, the kind that I got when Jasmine sat me down and told me that she and Milton were about to be married. A sort of tickle in my stomach, followed by the slightest hint of impending change, like the smell in the air before a storm.

“Zhozey?” He smiles, and there is something familiar about his angular face, the twinkling eyes, the conspiracy in his expression…

“Jose, this is Vovka.”

Yes! Yes! Yes! There is a God and He likes me!

“Hi,” I say. But my words stop there. Because, like I mentioned before, my body likes to betray me at inappropriate times, and right now my brain is ducking out.

“Would you like to dance?”

He speaks such beautiful English, with a twang that produces a curl of delight in my chest. Now I'm so, so very glad Auntie Milla gave me toothpaste and deodorant, contributing to my personal hygiene. I owe her big.

Except, don't forget, I have the rhythm of a hippo. I see our future crest, then fizzle…. “I'm sorry, I can't dance.”

“Nyet problem.” And then in a move that sweeps the breath out of my chest, he takes my hand and escorts me away from the dance floor…and toward the balcony overlooking the moonlit gardens. “It's too hot in there anyway.”

I could swoon. Wait, I
am
swooning. The music drifts out after me, a faint accompaniment to the moment of magic. “So, Zhozey, my
babushka
tells me you're here to save Russia.”

Oh yeah, sure. But the way he says it, with slight mocking, slight hopeful smile, well, I can feel myself warm down to my toes. Yeah, maybe. “I'm just teaching English.”

“Think you could teach me a few words?” he asks in his low, accented English. Oh sure, he needs
so
much help. He leans against the wall, holding his…wait, is that soda?

“Why aren't you drinking champagne?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Religious reasons.”

Oh, hold me back. I raise my glass. “Me, too.”

“How about a tour?” He holds out his arm. I can't believe how easily mine fits into the loop. Wow, he smells incredible, in a leather-meets-cologne-meets-toned-muscles sort of way.

He tells me a Russian joke, and we watch dancers from above the balcony, laughing at a few who get out of sync. He has his hand on the small of my back, and I don't shrug it away. And, although I don't have the rhythm of Ginger Rogers, my heart is doing a wild rhumba.

Vovka. Who would have thunk it?

Happy New Year!

Hey! I thought they put you in gulag or something! Where have you been?

 

DATING.

 

What? Who?

 

You'll never guess. (Okay, I should interject here, that yes, I have been slightly secretive about my sudden new…activities, because well, H is hooked into the Gull Lake Grapevine, and I'm not so sure I want Chase to know. Yes, I can admit there are some purely selfish motives behind that decision. Still, I'm not required by law to tell him or anything? Right?)

 

Evgeny?

 

Nope. (Although that thought suddenly finds a tender place. But, well, I need more from a relationship than “this is a spoon.” Other than window decoration, I don't see Evgeny in my future.) Vovka.

 

NO! You surrendered.

 

Yeah, well, I consider it a victory. He's…amazing. We met at the ambassador's New Year's Eve party, and evidently Vovka works for the consulate as an interpreter and tour guide. More than that, he has manners, drives a Mercedes and has brought me flowers every single time we've gone out.

 

How many times has that been?

 

I do some quick calculations. It's been nearly a month, and the time I'm not with him seems less than when I am. I'll round down, just to keep her calm.

 

Maybe ten?

 

TEN? And you haven't said a word? That's a significant number. In Gull Lake you'd be buying Bridemagazine and looking at diamonds. Is he a good kisser?

 

(feeling a slight blush) I haven't kissed him yet.

 

Long, long pause. Yes, I'm seeing the cursor blink and, with each flash, the question. Why? Why? Why? Why? The Answer? Because, well, we're not there yet. That's so…personal. I've never even kissed Chase and he knows me a gazillion times better than Vovka.

Although, honesty compels me to add that I've
thought
about kissing Vovka. In fact the concept follows me like a shadow. But kissing isn't the only way to communicate romance, is it? It counts that Vovka reached over during the ballet last Friday and found my hand, rubbing his thumb over it the entire second act. Or that while we were crossing the street, he tucked his hand under my elbow. He also calls me after our dates, and when he says,
Maya Sladkaya (my sweet one!),
in that low, rumbly voice, it makes all my senses sing. Most importantly, he opens doors, buys dinner and laughs at my jokes, with a warmth in those sweet molasses eyes.

 

Is there something wrong with him?

 

Huh? I feel a rise of defense for Vovka. He oozes masculinity, despite the leather and the black turtlenecks. He's got a confidence and demeanor that says he doesn't have to impress. He just appears and the world swoons.
I
swoon.

But, despite my knee-jerk defensiveness the question tugs at me. Is there something wrong with me? Am I so repulsive that he has to work up the guts to press his lips to mine? This seems like an issue, suddenly, and well, something too close to my heart to ponder with H.

 

No. He's a red-blooded male, I'm sure. But he's also a Christian (he has even attended MBC, three weeks in a row now, and I have to say, I've never enjoyed the sermons more.) which means that he's not just going to throw his lips around.

 

Calm down, Jose. It was just a question. But maybe I touched a nerve?

 

Did I tell you that my roomie moved back in? (When in a corner, change the subject.)

 

Tracey? No! Did Rick move in, too?

 

No, thankfully, but I feel sorry for her. She's the one sitting home Friday nights while Vovka and I go out. She seems to be handling it okay, however. She's been spending a lot of time on the Internet, and I think she's looking for a new job.

 

Speaking of new jobs, I'm moving to Gull Lake.

 

What? Since when?

 

Since the Howling Wolf needs a new manager/bartender. I'm moving this weekend. So, I'll be able to give you the Chase report, live.

 

Chase. Wow, it's amazing the rush of emotions one word can dredge up. He's written to me three times since New Year's, and I've kept up the correspondence, dodging the Vovka tidbits, but so enjoying telling Chase about my class. Which is going well, by the way. Matthew the Weasel has decided to let me take over the class in February (after he approved all my lesson plans). I've tried to keep a twenty-meter pole distance from him, but he has guilt in his eyes. Obviously my laser gaze has some effect.

I'm feeling sick every time I see Rebecca. I do an end-run around her in church and haven't accepted her cooking class offer.

 

Speaking of, I heard that Chase went to the Community Church all-night prayer meeting on New Year's Eve instead of hanging out at Lew Sulzbach's party. What's with that?

 

(staying calm, because I really didn't know that) Really? Wow. (Okay, I'm having more than a little guilt right now over the fact that Chase is alone, and I'm…not. But would I rather he be hitting the hot spots with Panty Stealer? I think not. Double standards work for me, okay?)

 

I'm just going to ask it aloud…what's holding you two apart? Seems to me that Chase is gravitating toward your way of thinking.

 

Did I tell you that Vovka took me to the Bolshoi twice? And once to Lenin's museum.

 

Whatever. Just don't get a tattoo without me.

 

I should have known it was coming. Who else does she have to cry on? As I open my apartment door to the sounds of sobs, I quickly deduce two things:

1. Rebecca has discovered Matthew's shenanigans.

2. I am going to be caught in the middle.

“Rebecca!” I say, and pull her into an embrace. “What's the matter?” (What am I supposed to say—“Oh, I'm sorry your husband is such a jerk?” What if she doesn't know the full extent? Oh, phooey, I suppose I should just be honest!)

“Matthew.”

I hate it when I'm right. Because, deep inside, I would have been glad to be wrong about this. I draw her into the apartment. She looks…unraveled. Her hair is down (unbraided, gasp!) and in tangles, her eyes red and puffy (or maybe that's from the cold).

She pulls a wadded Kleenex from her pocket and blows her nose. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. It's just that I don't know anyone else, and well, I thought maybe you'd seen them at school, and could tell me the truth.”

Gulp. I pull her over to the sofa, hating Matthew with all the fibers of my being. Even my mitochondria hate him.

She sits down. Wrings her hands. I think back to Tracey's break-up and I'm suddenly profoundly thankful Rebecca doesn't drink. She'll probably bake a cake or something. “I never thought he'd actually, I mean, Lera is so innocent-looking. Who would have thought she could do this?”

Wait, whoa, back up. What? Lera, as in one of the Sugar Twins?

“I'm sorry, I don't follow.”

“She, well, she told me that Matthew had tried to kiss her. Why would she try and hurt us like this? We've done so much for her.” Rebecca's eyes suddenly turn hard, and she scares me with their intensity. “She and Vera were in our kids club three years ago, and we are practically paying for their English classes with the amount we spend on babysitting and housecleaning.”

Housecleaning? Rebecca uses hired help? I take a deep breath. To the praise of His glory. And right now, I need God to be the One seen in me, because the Josey that wants to surface isn't going to do anyone any good.

“Matthew tried to kiss Lera?”

“No!”

Whoa, okay, I think I lost skin. I back away, pat her hand. “I'm sorry. Matthew is accused of kissing Lera?”

“
Trying
to kiss Lera. She told me tonight, after I got home from the market. Evidently he came home after school tonight and well, I don't blame him for firing her. She was waiting for me in the stairwell with her baseless slander.”

So why is Rebecca here, upset? I shake my head, and it looks like I'm aghast at what Lera has done, but it's simply disbelief that Matthew has so completely pulled the wool over Rebecca's big brown, happy homemaker eyes.

“Why are you upset, then?”

“Because Matthew is! He's leaving in the morning and you are the only one who knows the truth. You have to go to school tomorrow and tell them that this didn't happen, that Lera is lying. I know it'll be hard to face her, but you must!” She takes my hands, and suddenly I know why her children obey her without a peep.

Why me, please, Lord, why?

I swallow, then in the softest, gentlest voice I can muster, I say, “Lera might be telling the truth.”

I could have slapped her with less effect.

She yanks her hand from mine and accusation rings her eyes. “Lera already got to you,” she snarls.

Suddenly, Tracey appears at her bedroom door, and dressed in her silky bathrobe, she looks like a ninja ready to karate chop Rebecca. My hero. I shake my head at her and she folds her arms over her chest, leans against the door.

“No, actually, I didn't know anything about Lera,” I say. I shoot a glance at Tracey, and well, since she already knows what I saw at the party, as well as my penchant for speaking the brutal truth…“I actually suspected that there was something going on with Matthew and…Larissa.”

Rebecca's mouth opens, just enough to let out a gasp. Then she closes it and swallows. “Why?”

I've never wanted to hurt someone so much as I want to hurt Matthew. I am quite sure that these aren't the feelings a missionary is supposed to have, but at the moment, I've forgotten I'm a missionary and I'm just Jilted Josey in a poppy dress at Jasmine's wedding, watching Chase glance over at Buffy, feeling my world crumbling to dust.

I should probably remember that moment more often, especially when I'm trying to untangle my mixed feelings about Vovka and Chase.

But it's Rebecca's world that is oatmeal at the moment, and I take her hand, gently, as I decimate her life. “Because I saw them together at the ambassador's New Year's Eve party. And they weren't, um, translating…”

Rebecca's face twitches. Then, suddenly, she turns and looks at Tracey, as if she might be the Purveyor Of All Truth. Tracey nods, and she has her feelings for Matthew and All Men Like Him (read: Rick) on her face.

“Oh!” Rebecca says, then her expression crumbles and she hides her face in her hands. I feel like a louse. But I pull her into my arms as she cries. At least she's not throwing up. Yet.

 

Opera always makes me sad. Which sorta fits my mood over the last few days, especially after Rebecca spent the night on my sofa, crying. The music is cathartic, and it doesn't matter that I have no idea what they're saying or anything about the story. All I know is that I am here, dressed in a glittery black dress, a white rose across my lap, in swank close-toed French spikes I found at GYM, and next to me lounges a man who could easily have glided right off
Esquire
magazine.

I should be feeling giddy. But in truth, I am feeling lucky.

No one pinch me.
Or they're going to get hurt. Vovka leans back and puts his arm across the back of my chair. He smells magnificent tonight, and I am still in disbelief that I have scored so well this Valentine's Day while Tracey sits at home redoing her pedicure. See what happens when you wait for the right man?

Don't answer that. Because no, I'm not sure Vovka is the right man. But I like the way he makes me feel. Elegant. Beautiful. Especially when he leans against my doorjamb with a suave smile and white teeth, and says, “
Maya Sladkaya,
how about the opera this evening?” Oh, catch me! And all these feelings that seem to pile up when he's with me compel me to keep an open mind.

Which, late at night, goes something like this;

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador, I did come to Russia to teach English, but I guess God wanted me to meet Vovka. Yes, we're very happy, and living in an IKEA-furnished flat on Lenin Square. Oh, come to your Margarita Ball? And you'll send a limousine? Yes, I'd love to. And you want me to oversee a project to help teach English using the Bible to homeless children? I'd be delighted to, right after I take Vovinka to preschool.”