Kovalev clasped my shoulders, leaning in to press a kiss on each of my cheeks. “You are the spitting image of my mother.” He waved toward a portrait of a smiling woman proudly hung on a paneled wall.
I did look like her. My grandmother.
“How was your trip?”
Bewildering, eye-opening, occasionally wicked. “Unexpected?”
He gave me a sheepish look. “I do apologize, my dear.” His English was as excellent—and accented—as Sevastyan’s. “I assume Aleksei filled you in on our current circumstances.” Directing a proud gaze at Sevastyan, Kovalev added, “Aleksei speaks for me.”
I remembered that phrase. It was a simple way of saying that Kovalev trusted him so much that he knew Sevastyan would say exactly what he would in any situation.
“Does he, then?” Was Sevastyan’s face a touch flushed? Thinking about his “indiscretion”?
“Absolutely. He is a son to me, the only one I would trust to bring me my . . . daughter. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say that enough.” When his eyes got a little misty, I feared I might be a goner for this mafiya Santa.
“Sevastyan kept me safe,” I assured Kovalev. “And the flight was pleasantly uneventful.” Burn, Siberian.
“Good, good. Are you hungry? Shall we have tea?”
“Tea sounds great.”
“I’ll leave you two,” Sevastyan said, all stiff and formal. “We need to speak afterward, Paxán.”
Kovalev’s gray brows drew together and a look passed between them. But I couldn’t read it.
“Of course, Son.”
Sevastyan turned and strode back the way we had come.
“He thinks the world of you,” I told Kovalev. “He said he’s been with you since he was young.”
“Yes, I found him when he was just thirteen.”
“Found?” How had Sevastyan been lost?
Kovalev made a sound of assent, but didn’t elaborate. “Such a bright boy, and loyal above all things.”
“What’d he call you as he left?”
“Paxán? It’s slang for us, part Godfather, part old man. Believe it or not, it’s an affectionate term. Perhaps you could call me that as well, until we get to know one another. Just for now?”
Until I called him Bátja? Dad? The hopefulness in his tone tugged at my heart. I smiled. “Okay, Paxán, just for now.”
He motioned me toward a pair of elegant settees, taking the one across from me. On cue, more uniformed servants delivered a tea service and a multitiered silver platter. Salmon and cucumber tea sandwiches were arrayed on the top level. Caviar and blini filled the second; cheese, pears, and grapes the third. Scones and pastries were artfully arranged on the bottom level.
As he poured, I filled my plate. The tea was a smoky, potent blend. Instead of sugar, he sweetened his cup with orange jam, so I followed suit. The combination was delectable.
We chatted about the weather in Nebraska and in Russia, and his past visits to the States (work trips to destinations like Brighton Beach and Las Vegas). He was surprisingly easy to talk to.
Then the conversation turned serious. “You must be wondering about your mother.”
I nodded. “Sevastyan didn’t say much, preferring for you to tell me.”
“Her name was Elena Andropov.” Kovalev’s demeanor changed. He looked years older, as if weighed down with regret. “From what I’ve been able to learn, she died shortly after you were born.”
“Complications from the birth?” She’d died because of me?
Kovalev quickly said, “You cannot blame yourself. Health care wasn’t what it should have been. The entire country was in turmoil in those years.”