Exposed (30 page)

And her mind turned to fire. June became the flame, ceaseless burning, ceaseless pain. She lost track of where she was, who she was. There was only the pain. Pain and Butch—Butch taking her mind and making it his.

She felt herself moving, but she couldn’t see, couldn’t speak. Her mind wasn’t her own. And it was terrifying. 

Was this it? Was this her existence forever? In that awful moment, June reached for death. She just wanted it to end. She didn’t want to feel this anymore.

Her last thoughts were of Ivan, and then there was only darkness.

June came to on her bed. Her nightgown was soaked with sweat and her palms bloody from her fingernails. Her head, it pounded with every beat of her heart. Each movement lanced through her, each blink of her eyes. June grasped her head between her hands and struggled to sit up.

Butch was gone. Just to be sure, June pressed her fevered forehead against the window. His truck was missing, her parent’s car too—but June recalled something about dinner at the supper club.

June collapsed back against her headboard and hugged her knees to her chest.

And that’s when she saw. The silvery moonlight streamed through her window and alighted on the disaster of her room. 

Her closet was in ruins, heaps of clothes on the floor, dangling haphazardly off hangers. More than a few hems of her dresses were ripped apart. All the drawers of her vanity were pulled out and overturned, and lipstick smeared across her carpet.

And the bookshelf. June jolted forward and ignored the stab of pain in her head. No.
No.

June stumbled off her bed and knelt among the piles of torn books. The shelves were empty, and her books—her beloved books—were in tatters all around. 

June dug through the books, her fingers pulling back ripped pages of Charles Dickens and Jonathan Swift, covers torn from “Anne of Green Gables” and “Treasure Island.”

Where was it? June pushed through the books, her own fingers now ripping at the pages. Where was it? The old green rucksack was her only way out of this horrible mess. Without the stolen goods from Mary Stewart’s deposit box, she’d have nothing … nothing—no way to make this right.

June searched through the books, tears blurring her vision. And when she’d gotten to the last book, she searched again.

That’s when she saw it. Another torn piece of paper, but this one not from a book. This was a lined sheet from one of her notebooks, and the handwriting was not her own.

June snatched the paper up and crawled over her books to the window. She held it up and squinted through the tears and pain to read Butch’s words to her:

Don’t ever think you can beat me. I have the money and gold and diamonds. They are mine … and you are too.

June had to stop to swipe angrily at her tears. He’d won. Oh God, he’d won. June sniffed back a fresh sob and looked back at Butch’s note.

And know this, I can always control you. I can make you do whatever I want. If you try to fight me again, if you try to tell a single person, I’ll go after that Commie prick. 

June’s hand clenched, and the note crinkled in her fist. She had to smooth it back out to finish reading it, a smear of her blood making it hard to decipher.

One little mind plant to Edith, and it’ll be Ivan paying for your crime. What do you think they’ll do to him? What do you think they’ll do to his family? 

You’re mine, June. Don’t ever forget it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Ivan

Thick air swirled around Ivan and clung to his skin. It was damp and sweet, with that hint of something heavy underneath, something alive and growing. Ivan closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The greenhouse filled his lungs, his blood, his mind. It was practically the only thing to crowd June from his thoughts.

Lovely June. His June. 

He’d missed her yesterday at the bank. Edith Applebaum had shooed him away, but not before letting him know—once again—that she suspected his family of being “not one of them.” Never mind that he’d been born in America. He was only his last name to those people. Ivan grumbled to himself, then stopped. No. 

Because of June, he’d realized the people of Independence Falls weren’t all fearful bigots. If he only tried, there was goodness to be found. It was that goodness Ivan needed to remember and embrace, especially if he wanted to get his family accepted once and for all. 

And there was goodness. After all, it was June’s own father who’d agreed to consider selling the Sokolov family’s flowers and produce. The triumph still warmed Ivan to the core. 

Maybe, when the time was right and all this suspicion about the sickness had blown over, people would learn whose produce they were buying. Maybe his family would finally be accepted in the town. And it was all thanks to June. 

He couldn’t wait to tell her the news, to pull her close, and kiss her deeply. He couldn’t wait to tell her just how he felt. How much he loved her. 

Which was exactly why he’d come to the greenhouse. The family had three greenhouses, one dedicated to growing produce and flowers year-round, the second to hothouse tomatoes and citrus trees. But this one—the one where he and June had first kissed—this one wasn’t about selling. This greenhouse was only about beauty, and it was in here that he searched for one perfect flower.

Ivan leaned back against the concrete lip of the pond at the very back of the greenhouse. He crossed his arms and stared back through the long building. It was a riot of greens—deep, bright, pastel—with bursts of colorful blooms in a kaleidoscope of reds, purples, yellows, and pinks. So many flowers in this greenhouse, so many options. But none seemed right for June.

He owed her so much. Before June, he’d been angry. So angry. Anger had consumed him, eaten him up from the inside and made him see only blackness. He could still feel it there, under the surface, waiting for a chance to drag him under once more. But for the first time in years, Ivan was nearly sure it wouldn’t.

It was the spark in June’s eyes that spurred him on, brought bursts of Technicolor into his dreary world. He needed a way to show her what she meant to him. His words just didn’t seem enough. But a flower—that, he could
show
her. If only he could pick the right one, the flower that defined June. The flower that expressed the deep upwelling of love at the thought of her, at the feel of her body against his … of her most private spot, hot and wet and tight around him, accepting him completely.

Ivan’s eyes flew open and he smiled at the memory. It grew inside of him at the most odd moments, when he was least expecting it. He’d lost nearly a half hour to it this morning when he was meant to be brushing Anastasia’s coat. The mare had finally nipped at his shoulder when she grew impatient, and Ivan—feeling guilty—had spent extra time grooming the horse. He had even given her an extra apple as a treat. 

None of these flowers seemed right. She wasn’t an exotic passion flower. She wasn’t the too-delicate bleeding heart. Nothing was right.

Ivan wandered from the greenhouse and across the fields toward his cabin, lost in thought. He was nearly to his door when he heard his name.

“Ivan?”

Ivan shook away the reverie and turned to see his mother coming from the orchard with a basket of sweet peaches. 

He frowned. “We already have a whole basket Kostya couldn’t sell.”

“These are to can. In case ….” Galina’s face grew dark for a moment.

Ivan understood the implication. “In case we need to get out quickly.”

Galina followed her son into his cabin. “I won’t let my family become the Rosenbergs,” she said fiercely. She eased the full basket onto the dining table and pressed her hands to the small of her back. “I thought we could survive this boycott, but all the nastiness with that girl’s death.”

“We’ve got a chance at the general store. Once people learn—”

“Ivanushka, I don’t think we can wait for things to settle much longer. Your father’s family … they thought they had time. They dragged their feet until the
chekists
dragged them away.”

Ivan thought of June. He wouldn’t leave without her. He
couldn’t
. “Mama, most of them are good. I never saw it before, but … we’ve never given them much of a chance.”

Galina sighed heavily but then smiled up at her son and patted his cheek. “It’s that June girl, isn’t it?” 

Ivan looked away. “It’s a lot of things. I’ve opened my eyes to so much, Mama.”

“So the brand new bookshelves you are building are because …?” Galina’s round face dimpled in a smile and she squeezed Ivan’s hand. “Your face said everything, Ivanushka. Your father looked just this way when he met me. He came into your great-grandfather’s flower shop when I was this lovely fifteen-year-old and his face”—she laughed at some private memory—“he bought three bundles of lilacs in a daze and walked nearly into the door before he turned right back around and thrust them into my arms. We went out for coffee that very same day and have never been apart since.” Her face darkened for a moment. “Or, we’ve not been apart if we could help it. The war ….”

She trailed off. Ivan’s father, then a young professor, had been conscripted from university to a commission with the Russian army during the Great War. This was all before the revolution that had put his family at odds with his government. 

Galina waved the dark memories away and again patted Ivan’s hand. “I know that look in your eyes, my son. You love that girl.”

“I want to give her some flowers,” Ivan admitted.

“The roses are blooming,” his mother started.

Ivan shook his head quickly. “She’s not a rose. She’s … she’s ….”

“More subtle,” Galina finished for him with a nod. “Good. Roses are not the right match for you anyway.”

It hit Ivan immediately. June wasn’t any flower he’d find in a greenhouse. There was spice under the sweetness, wildness under the decorum. She was a field of wildflowers, not a manicured garden.

Ivan smiled at his mother and kissed her on the cheek. Then he bolted out the door.

In just a few hours, the Mountain Pearl Dance would transform the town square into a fantasy of blooms and song. And June would be by his side, their love for each other finally out for all to see. Ivan buzzed with anticipation.

Beyond his cabin, beyond the tilled fields, a small meadow of wildflowers rustled in the afternoon breeze. Ivan climbed over the split rail fence and wandered through the flowers, his hands spread. They caressed his fingers, tugged at his pant legs. Orange paintbrush and delicate blue flax, clumps of yellow buttercups and rangy purple vervain. But none seemed quite right. 

Ivan walked to the very edge of the field, where the fence separated the peach orchard to the left, and the end of their property to the right. Aspens grew tall and close together here, grasses shooting up in the shadows of their quaking leaves.

Ivan ducked under a gap in the weathered wood fence and strode into the aspens. He wound his hand around the papery bark of one tree and sank to the ground. Life pulsed and thrived all around. He could feel it under the palms of his hands, in the warm trunk at his back, in the web of branches, leaves, and animals overhead. He was connected to it all through this wonderful power he’d discovered. The power that had—in its own way—led him to June.

June’s flower wasn’t anything he’d find in a greenhouse, or a florist’s shop, or even in a meadow. June was singular, and she could only be contained in the bloom of his power. 

Eyes closed, Ivan pressed his fingers into the soil and felt the earth stir. He drew life from the ground, plucked it into his hand. Ivan breathed, eyes still closed, and pictured June. He pictured the point of her delicate chin, the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breasts. He pictured the soft curve of her waist and the triangle of wispy hair that hid her most secret spots. The salt of her skin on his tongue.

And he pictured more. The playful way she could smile at him. The far-away look in her eyes when she shared her dreams of exploring the world. The square of her shoulders when she wanted to prove a point. 

He pictured June, all of her, and opened his eyes to her flower.

The flower rose from his palm, rich earth clinging between the feathery roots. The single stalk had two teardrop leaves near the base of the flower. The head was actually a multitude of blooms, each their own cluster of smaller flowers. It made the head of the plant an explosion of tiny blooms. Ivan leaned close; they were deep purple petals, tear-drop shaped like the leaves. At the center, a pearl of navy hid a short stamen and pistil. 

And the scent. It was pure June. It was sweet at first, like the sweet peas he’d planted in her garden crossed with the fresh scent of spring lilacs. But under that, earthy and green. There was herbal lavender, coriander, cardamom. It was peppery, tangy, the scent of the soil after a summer rainstorm. Ivan breathed deeply, his face cracked wide in a smile.

He couldn’t wait to give June this flower—her flower. Working confidently now, he created a whole bouquet of the Purple June and filled them out with wildflowers plucked on a whim on his walk back to the house. He tied the arrangement and propped it in a ceramic water jug to wait while he showered and changed.

Ivan had to wipe fog from the bathroom mirror before he took on the task of shaving and trying to tame his hair. In the steam from the shower, it was a mass of waves that fell over his forehead and curled at the edges of his ears. He worked his fingers through it, trying out versions of popular men’s styles—the pompadour, the slicked-back look—before giving up and padding back to his bedroom. 

Ivan owned exactly one suit, a hand-me-down from his father’s days at university. It was the same one he’d worn to Betty’s funeral. He shook that memory away. Tonight was about celebrating the future, not lamenting the past.