Everything’s Coming Up Josey (24 page)

“Oh, please.” Okay, my empathy has vanished. “You're not trying to tell me that Larissa came on to you?” My voice rises slightly and his eyes widen. But I don't care. “Don't go there with me, Matthew.”

He swallows, and I see him redden. Then tears well in his eyes. Sheesh! I don't do well with men crying. It always makes me feel all trembly and squishy inside.

“I didn't kiss anyone. But—” He closes his eyes, wipes his finger and thumb across them. “Okay, I did consider it.” He swallows, and his voice lowers. “I know what that says and I feel ashamed. But honestly, I don't love anyone but Rebecca and I know I've wronged her.”

I'm getting a sick feeling. He looks up at me and I can see pleading in his eyes. No, Matthew. No. No.
No!

“Josey, she won't even see me. Can't you talk to her? Please? Tell her how sorry I am, and that I want us to go home, to see a counselor? To put our marriage back together?”

“You call her.” Please! I so don't want to be in the middle of this.

He shakes his head. “I did. I went to the flat. She won't answer the door.”

And if I know Rebecca, she's probably baking a royal velvet cake or something. Maybe reglazing her living room walls…

“I don't think anything I say to her will help, even if I do talk to her.”

Whoops! Wrong thing to say. He practically lights up the entire café with his smile. No person should put that much hope into anything I say.

“Really?”

I push away my cup. Sigh. “Okay. I'll tell her what you told me.”

He swallows, and gives me a smile that I know I don't deserve. Then he reaches across the table and hugs me. Right there. “Thanks, Josey. I knew you'd be a blessing.”

And, as I scramble for response, I see Vovka swing through the doors. Wow, he has uncanny timing, and an amzing ability to track me down in a city of ten million people. Matthew pulls away and doesn't see Fabio stride toward him.

What is that look on Vovka's face? I stand, a strange fear pushing me to my feet. But I'm a millisecond too late.

Vovka pulls a psycho, grabs Matthew by the arm, turns him around and lands a fist right in the chops.

Ouch. But on the other hand, Yeah!

Except now Vovka is staring at me, breathing hard. “I've been looking all over for you.”

I'm thinking that might not be a good thing. Despite the fact that I've dreamed of a man coming up to me in a bistro and saying those very words to me, Vovka is not the man in that dream, and it doesn't feel at all like I had hoped.

A shiver runs down my spine.

“Don't you know that I love you?”

“Love me? This is how you act when you love me?” I'm not going to help Matthew off the floor or anything, but still, the fact that Vovka defines his love for me by decking someone has sirens sounding. “Hitting is not okay.” I sound like a kindergarten teacher.

Vovka looks stunned. As if this might be news to him. He glances down at Matthew, back to me. “I'm your boyfriend.”

If he says that word again, there might be more hitting. I shake my head. “Vovka, I don't—”

“I'm sorry, I really am. I just thought he was—”

“Hugging me in public?” Although, considering the fact that Matthew has a reputation at MBC now, well, maybe Vovka isn't over-reacting. In fact, he reaches out his hand and apologizes to Matthew, with sincerity on his beautiful face.

Matthew eyes him warily, rubbing his chin.

Well, at least one of us got to hit him.

 

Tracey is standing at the door looking like she's been in a fight. At Baby Joe's House of Mud. She's also sobbing and her runny mascara only adds to the jungle-girl aura.

“What happened to you?” I come out of the bedroom where I'm successfully fitting into my skinny Gap jeans. I help her peel off her muddy zebra skin/jacket. “You look horrible.”

“I…I stopped by the Gray Pony on the way home and…Rick was there. With Stacey.” She leaves the muddy coat in a heap on the floor and heads straight for the bathroom. I stand outside the closed the door while she shouts out the details. Stacey? Who's Stacey? “I'd heard he was dating her, but until tonight I wasn't sure.”

“So you what—mud-wrestled her?” I knew Tracey had it in her, but I didn't expect her to do it with her furs on.

“No,” she snaps. “I was mugged. About a block from the subway.”

“Near that bank of metal garages?” I always knew that was prime ambush territory.

“Yeah,” she says, and I hear water running.

Just call me Lara Croft. This is why I cross the street when I pass that place.

“Did they get your purse?”

“I carry that inside my coat. They got my laptop.” She comes out, wiping her face. I can see she put up a fight, the cat woman she is, and she's shaking, probably the rush of adrenaline.

“Are you okay?” I reach out, and to my surprise, she lets me hug her.

Okay, this was an encounter I never expected. I pull away and we don't look at each other for a moment. Yeah, weird.

“I'll live. I just thought—well, Rick's been calling me, right? And then tonight I see him draped around that twit of a secretary.” She heads for the kitchen, pulls out a pot and pours in oil and popcorn. My popcorn. Oh well. “I'm pitiful. I can't believe I actually fell for him, or that I ever considered taking him back.”

There's a big “Me, either” forming on my lips, but I'm not giving in. She needs me to be above that right now.

“Do you suppose I could borrow yours?” she asks as she shakes the pan. Kernels bang against the lid, the smell fills the flat.

“My…?” What? Popcorn. Supply of bagels? My Solomon wisdom?

“Your computer.”

Oh. “Sure. I'll set up an identity for you.”

She gives me a half smile, and for the first time, really, I see past the jungle veneer to a girl, just like me, who is just trying to cope, one day at a time. To find her place here, in the Moscow jungle. So she's a size four and has amazing hair, she knows what it feels like to be afraid. To hurt. To be jilted for another woman.

I smile at her, and she smiles back. It's a nice moment.

“Hey, have you heard from your friend Chase yet?” She pours the popcorn into a bowl, adds salt.

My appetite has vanished. “No. He's probably busy with school.” Liar, liar, leather pants on fire. Oh, but I'd like to believe that.

“Oh,” she says and hands me a bowl. I decline, because I've just managed to squeeze into my skinniest Gap jeans, and I'm feeling thin and powerful.

She takes the popcorn into the next room, sits down. “You're so lucky, Josey. This kind of stuff never happens to you.”

What kind of stuff? Having life slip out of your hands like a walleye? Maybe now isn't the time to tell her that I started this adventure stuffed in a poppy-colored bridesmaid dress. I sit down next to her. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah.” She dips into the popcorn. “Thanks for letting me have some of your stash.”

That was really nice of me, wasn't it? I mean, I didn't go for her jugular, and I count that as one of those “for the praise of His glory things.” Besides, she's had a rough day. “You're welcome.”

A tear squeezes out of her eye, runs down her cheek and—

Josey, I'm so glad I met you.

What? Oh, no, she didn't say that, but she wants to. Because I'm here for her, her roomie who shares popcorn. Who lets her use my laptop, who tells her the truth about Rick.

Good works, which God hath before ordained…
That thought zings me, right in the heart and suddenly I see past my own petty sacrifices to the truth.

Tracey has seen her pseudo-beloved in the arms of another. And, well, I know exactly the cut-me-off-at-the-throat feeling that generates. And the life beyond that. In a hallelujah moment that should be accompanied by angels trumpets, I'm seeing a little glimpse of heavenly perspective, and while I never, ever imagined that God could be at the helm of the Dark Moments, like Milton and Jas, and even Chase doing an one-eighty in my life, God is all about surprises. And turning the bad into good.

“Tracey, I'm not lucky at all in this life…God has just given me a perspective that gets me past the dark moments. A perspective that says I'm not only special to God, but part of some grand plan that makes all this is okay. I'm trusting Him for that, one day at a time.”

She looks at me like I've spoken Taiwanese and tilts her head as if to clean out her ears. My heart has climbed up to my throat and it is presently enlarging, choking me. Any second now I'm going to faint, so I clutch the back of the sofa and paste on my smile. Still, I shoved the words out there, and I'm hoping she sees a hint of God's love for her in them.

“Then I think you're doubly lucky,” she says quietly.

I blink at her. Yeah, okay, I see her point.
Please God, if You're trying to say something through me, help me not to blow it!
“But you can have that perspective, too,” I say, on the barest remnant of breath. “He loves you and wants to show you that, if you can trust Him.”

She holds my gaze. “Are you going out?”

What? Crud! Evangelistic moment lost. “Maybe. Vovka called.”

“He's such a nice guy.”

Yeah. Overly protective, maybe. Slobbery. The unrealistic cover of a romance novel. But nice.

“Yeah.” I stand up, disappointment burning in my chest. I didn't really expect her to drop to her knees in ecstatic conversion, but I was running over 1 John 1:9 and the Romans 6:23 evangelism diagram in my head and for the first time since coming to Moscow felt as if maybe I might earn my keep.

She pulls on her headphones as I close my bedroom door.

Maybe I should stay home tonight. I stand there, staring at my clothing choices, longing to tug on my sweatpants and dive into the new romance novel Jas sent. What if Tracey has a relapse and needs me?

I see myself reach for the new leather pants I bought at the market, a Vovka-approved selection. Mr. Sassoon has turned rather…committed…on me lately, calling in the morning, meeting me after class to walk me home. I've even seen him lurking outside my flat, as if making sure I'm safe. Only, it doesn't feel protective.

It feels leechy.

Which makes me wonder why I never got that feeling when I turned around and found Chase on my tail. It's not like he hasn't decked a few overly friendly gropers for me. I feel acid pool in the back of my throat. But Chase doesn't love me.

And Vovka…okay, the kind of love he's offering feels a little like a line drive to the throat, but on a good night he also makes me feel stunning and exotic. When I'm with him, heads turn. Only they're probably thinking, what is she doing with him?

Is that how I want to go through life…a question mark?

More than that, in general, the leather is starting to chafe and I think I might be a sweatpants girl. Maybe.

I rehang the pants, and tug on a Gull Lake sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. We're only going to the Gray Pony for jazz, so there's no need to wear my new leather skirt, or the Italian boots. In fact, I grab my Morrell hikers, feeling suddenly nostalgic for a place with peanuts on the floor and greasy burgers.

The doorbell rings and Vovka is standing in the hall, looking his stunning self in a ribbed green sweater and black jeans. “Hello,” he says in his rumble-under-my-skin voice. His gaze scans my attire and his smile dims. “How about wearing those leather pants I bought you?”

How about not?

“I'm tired, Vovka. I think I'll stay home.” And maybe pray for Tracey. Because, at the moment, that thought is nearly eclipsing every other. Why, I don't know, except that I think she needs it.

And I oh, so greatly, feel her pain.

Vovka leans against the doorjamb, a small smile on his lips. He does the little smile thing well (not as well as Chase, but still). It chips a dent in my stay-home demeanor. “You promised.”

I did? Don't remember that, but well, it's either that or stay home and…what?

Sit and wait for an e-mail from Chase?

Pray that he doesn't go to Mozambique?

Maybe, in fact, that's a pretty good idea.

“Please,” Vovka says, sweetly, his smile so perfect. Too perfect for a down-home gal like me.

“I'm sorry, Vovka,” I say as I close the door.

It could have been the shadows, but I was almost positive his eyes turned glittery cold.

M
atthew owes me big because I've sacrificed a Saturday shopping on Arbat Street to make chocolate-chip cookies with Rebecca. Venetsia has even moved their tables back out onto the sidewalks, and lilac buds grace the few trees I've spotted in unlittered Moscow corners. The smell of spring tinges the air and Moscow has shed the we-will-survive demeanor that makes people closed and testy. Instead, there's frolic in the air, and I've even spotted a gold-toothed smile from Igora the KGB Metro Guard.

And, although spring beckons from the open window, I'm wearing a dishtowel/apron, and trying to focus on Rebecca's words. “I usually use one cup of sugar, one of brown sugar,” she's saying as she pours the mix into the bowl. Her children, dressed in pressed khakis and aprons, peer over the Tupperware bowl, eyes on the dough. Yeah, me, too. I have a take-no-prisoners attitude when it comes to cookie dough. And, since I'm bigger, I'm going to win.

She pours in the sugar. “I'm out of brown sugar, however, so we'll just have to skip it.”

I should interject here that while Jasmine inherited the full complement of baking genes, I did manage to slide in on her laurels and learn to make a pretty decent cookie. Well, the dough addiction helped. But a gal doesn't sit at the table watching her mother and sister bake around her without picking up a few hints.

“Why don't you use molasses?” I say. “Or honey?”

“What?” Rebecca frowns slightly. “Why?”

“Because brown sugar is just white sugar with molasses. Dark honey is even better. My sister uses it all the time.” I stand up and search through her cupboards. Of course, they're alphabetized. I don't find molasses, but surface with a bottle of honey. I unscrew the top and before Rebecca can sputter, I pour in about three tablespoons.

She makes a grab for the honey, but I'm so Lara Croft I dodge her and cap it myself. I put it back and then, notice a spice container. Nutmeg. Yum. Jas uses it religiously in her cookies and cakes.

I turn, uncap it and sift in a couple dashes.

“What. Are. You. Doing?”

I glance at her. “Rebecca, trust me, it'll taste good.”

“You've ruined them!”

Whoa, take a chill pill, honey, a big one. “No, I didn't. We use nutmeg all the time in Gull Lake.”

“You're not in Gull Lake.”

Oh, really? Because I could easily get confused by the sound of snarled traffic and the smells of rotting garbage. “I know. But these will taste just as yummy.”

But June Cleaver is near tears and the kids and I are staring at her as she unravels. “You ruined the cookies! Don't you know that the secret to good recipes is following instructions?”

Can anyone say overreacting? “I'm…ah, sorry Rebecca. I didn't mean to wreck your dough.”

“No, you wouldn't mean to, would you? You just barge in and do what you what want.”

What? “I'm sorry, Rebecca. I just wanted to help.”

“Well, you haven't! Haven't you learned anything this year?” She takes her apron and pulls it up over her head while her children stare at her, white faced. Her shoulders are shaking and I hear gulping sobs.

Ooops. Time to practice my auntie skills. “C'mon, kids, let's watch Winnie the Pooh.”

They slide off their stools and I situate them in front of the television, crank it up a little as Tigger bounces on his tail. I'd like to bounce on my tail, all the way home.

To Gull Lake.

Because, deep in my heart, I wonder if going back to the beginning and starting over might help me figure out where this year derailed. Chase hasn't written, although it's been over a month, and Vovka has moved in with his grandmother in order to watch me and appear instantly the moment I leave my flat.

What kind of person tracks another's every move?

Don't answer that.

Actually, I feel just the slightest guilt about Vovka. I've deflected his requests to go out, hoping he'll catch onto the “I'm sliding out of your life” routine. Sorta like how I'm catching onto Chase's own version of it in my life.

That thought doesn't make me feel any better.

I go back to the kitchen. Rebecca is stirring the dough, having added the flour, the baking powder, the eggs and vanilla. Tears cruise down her face.

I take the wooden spoon and bowl from her and stir. (No need to put the dough in jeopardy.) “Sit down.”

Miraculously, she obeys me, blows her nose on a napkin. “I'm sorry. It's just that everything comes easy for you. Everyone likes you, you have a purpose here that is important and even Matthew respects you.”

I look around to pinpoint the person to whom she is referring.

“I know I shouldn't be angry with you about seeing Matthew with Larissa, but sometimes I wish I hadn't found out.”

I frown at that. Hadn't found out her husband crept toward adultery? But in a sad, June Cleaver type of way, I can understand. Life is easier when it fits into the box. And Rebecca is all about keeping all her corners tucked in, about living life according to the recipe.

I pour in the chocolate chips, stir them in and set the bowl between us. “Dig in.”

“What?” She asks and her eyes widen in horror when I lick the wooden spoon. “You could get worms, you know.”

I guess now I really can relate to the need to not know about a few things. “It's really good, I promise.” I reach over and take out another wooden spoon from the crock pot on the counter, the one with “The Winneman's” painted on the front. “Dig in.”

She scoops out a tablespoon, and tastes it. “Not bad.”

“Don't tell me this is the first time you've ever tasted cookie dough?”

She shrugs, goes in for seconds.

“Not even as a child?” How can this be? I honed my Lara Croft “sneak and grab” while watching my mother make chocolate-chip cookies. “Maybe you need to learn to live outside the box. It's okay to break the rules once in a while.”

She licks her finger. “Not if you're a missionary.”

Oh, yeah? What about Caleb? I smile as he cascades into my mind. He's got the essentials down, and still manages to live life outside the lines. “Even if you're a missionary.” I set down my spoon. “I have to confess something. I come on a peace mission. Matthew wants to throw himself at your feet and repent. He didn't kiss another woman, but he knows he betrayed you in his heart and is sick about it.”

I can't believe I actually went through with my plot, and I feel like I somehow betrayed all of womankind. I mean, isn't this just what Milton did to me? Don't I have, by way of victimization, a mandate to protect womankind from near-adulterers like Matthew? Unfortunately, before I can qualify my words by saying something like “it would be understandable if you just kicked him in the teeth…” Rebecca actually lights up, and I see the barest hint of a smile.

“Really?”

“Yeah. He says he wants to go to counseling, if you're game.” Oddly, my stomach doesn't writhe as I say this, a sign that maybe this is really a good deed, one that is God-sanctioned.

She takes another bite of cookie dough. “This is really good, isn't it?”

“It's my sister's recipe. Nutmeg and honey. A little bit of spice to the basics.”

“Perfect.”

 

Did you know that World War Two was this morning, right here in Moscow? I know because I saw the tanks, the Katusha rocket launchers, the parades, the soldiers and felt the testosterone in the air.

By the way, Russia won, and saved the world from Nazi fascists. As I stood on my tiptoes, trying to peak over the wool
shopka
of a stout babushka (hello, can anyone say May? As in lilacs scenting the air, short sleeve shirts, the occasional bared—and hairy! Yikes!—leg?), I wanted to raise my hand and say, “Um, correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't America, and oh, a few other countries (read: Allied Forces) involved in that whole
World War
thing? I decided against my own personal march, however, when I saw a group of teenage patriots hanging in effigy an ugly rendition of our current president. Guess they didn't like the toys in their Happy Meals.

Still, all the singing, marching, saluting and gunpowder swelled my own arsenal of patriotic emotions. I strolled by the embassy, twice, just for a glimpse of the Marine guarding the door.

Love those guys. (And, of course the uniform!)

I'm sitting in the Venetsia, trying to still the thundering in my ears, watching foot traffic and trying to decide if it's too soon to pull out my summer sandals (and thus, schedule the mandatory pedicure). My feet are propped on another chair, and I'm sipping my café
smolokom,
when I see him pull up, on a motorcycle, no less. He's looking sun-buffed and a little bit chagrined. I'm going to cut him slack because although he hasn't written for nearly six weeks, and left without a word, he's looking oh, so very desperate, with his hair askew and his blue eyes searching for me.

Chase.

I don't signal for him. It's good to let him look for me. Chase-Me. I can't deny the nickname feels like warm honey in my chest. He's wearing his Gull Lake sweatshirt, cut off at the sleeves, and as he strides up the sidewalk my heart does a tumble.

He arrows right for me. I smile up at him. “Hi.”

“Zdrastvootya.”

Huh? I blink and my daydream clears and there's Vovka. He's looking Russian in a black mesh shirt, a pair of black driving gloves and black leather pants. Man-in-black.

“I thought I'd find you here.” He sits down, and his cologne washes over me, something spicy, exotic.

And with that whiff, my heart cracks open and I see
The Truth. I don't want exotic.

What? Since when? But that thought feels right, even peaceful, like some sort of long-quested Holy Grail.
I don't want exotic.

Yes, I like cafés and bistros, but in the deepest corners of my heart I long for a breakfast blend at Java Cup, for the sound of the lake lapping the shore under a golden moon. For the feel of a cool breeze in my hair as I prop my chin on Chase's shoulder, the smell of cotton and the feel of his whiskers against my cheek.

Chase is chocolate-chip cookies with nutmeg and honey. A little bit of spice to the basics. Vovka is just spice. He belongs with Zhozey, but I'm not her, not really. In the crevasses of my heart, I'm G.I. Chase's girl. And while I know I can't have Chase, I can't be with Vovka, either.

I probably should tell him that rather than just trying to dodge him for the rest of my time in Russia.

And, as long as I'm being forthright, I should admit it has nothing to do with him having Trout Lips. With training, he might be able to suck in all that slobber. It has to do with the fact that all my life, I've been looking for adventure, not realizing that it was
right there,
living next door.

Oh, no, I
am
a saboteur! I am remembering back to the beach when I told Chase that I'd come home for him if I didn't find anyone else…not realizing that I wasn't even going to go looking. Chase knows me better than anyone. He rescued and enjoyed the scandalous Josey, is proud of the new, reformed Josey. His words at the wedding drift back to me and right now they sound like prophecy from heaven, “You didn't want him anyway.” Oh boy, the thought of being with Milton makes me turn slightly green. No, I didn't want Milton. And I'm suddenly thanking God for all that heartbreak and angst. Just think, right now I could be cleaning Berglund cabins.

Oh, thank You, thank You, God!

Chase even liked my new hair.

And I let him go.

I want to bang my head on the table, but it would probably topple over.

Sadly, I've probably known I loved Chase since I was five years old and hiked over to his place to build my castles in his sandbox. Definitely since I took that head-over-heels crash on Bloomquist Mountain and opened my eyes to see him shadowing the sun. And it has
nothing
to do with his being unavailable…expect to jolt me to my senses, perhaps.

What
am I doing in Russia?

Please let this be part of God working out His Great Plan, because He loves me. Because how would I have known I didn't want exotic, if I hadn't had a taste?

“Vovka, I'm sorry, but it's not working for me.”

He frowns, and I'm thinking we might have some sort of cultural gap here. How do I break up with someone in Russian?

Nichevo?

Sadly, I see that he is getting it. His face darkens, then twitches. Oh, no, I've really hurt him. “I'm sorry,” I repeat.

“Why?”

I shake my head and tell him the truth. “You're just too incredible for me.”