ivory satin peignoir over her bare flesh and followed Simon downstairs with a happy giggle.
“This feels absolutely sinful, doesn't it?” she whispered over blueberry muffins. She handed one to Simon and poured his coffee. It was as though she had never belonged to any other man. It had been so long since she had been Clayton's wife, and she was someone else now. But Simon only smiled at her and shook his head.
“I don't feel sinful at all. I feel married.”
“So do I,” she said softly, and looked at him, her eyes filled with everything she felt, and without another word, he took her back upstairs, the muffins untouched, the coffee forgotten.
CHAPTER
39
In the next two weeks, everything between them seemed to change. They belonged to each other and they knew it. The only obstacle left to overcome was the fact that Zoya hadn't met his parents. She was nervous about meeting them, but he reassured her as best he could after surprising her one Friday night by telling her he had told his mother he was bringing her to dinner.
“What did she say?” Zoya looked at him worriedly, wearing a new black dress. He hadn't warned her, so as not to frighten her. He had just said they were going out. And now, suddenly, despite all that had happened between them at Mrs. Whitman's two weeks before, she felt like a young girl again, terrified at the prospect of meeting his mother.
“Do you really want to know?” He laughed. “She asked me if you were Jewish.”
“Oh no … and wait until she hears my accent. When she finds out I'm Russian, it's going to be awful.”
“Don't be silly.” But she was right. Simon had scarcely introduced them when his mother narrowed her eyes at Zoya.
“Zoya Andrews? What kind of a name is that? Is your family Russian?” She assumed she had been named for a grandmother, or some distant relative. She stood almost as tall as Simon, and looked down at Zoya.
“No, Mrs. Hirsch,” Zoya looked at her with her big green eyes, praying that the storm wouldn't come.” am.”
“You are Russian?” She asked the question in her mother tongue, and Zoya almost smiled at the accent. It was the accent of the peasants she had known in her youth, and for an instant she was reminded of Feodor and his cozy wife, Ludmilla.
“I am Russian,” she admitted again, but this time in her own language, which she spoke with the smooth diction and poise of the upper classes. She knew that the older woman would recognize it instantly, and more than likely hate her for it.
“From where?” The inquisition went on as Simon looked helplessly at his father, who was also intently watching Zoya. He liked what he saw, she was an attractive woman with obvious breeding and good manners. Simon had done well for himself, but he also knew that there was no stopping Sofia, Simon's mother.
“From St. Petersburg,” Zoya answered with a quiet smile.
“St. Petersburg?” She was impressed, but she would rather have died than say it. “What was your family name?”
For the first time in her life, she was grateful that it wasn't Romanov, but her own name wasn't much better. She almost laughed as she faced the giant in the printed housedress. She had arms almost like a man's, which made Zoya feel all the more childlike. “Ossupov. Zoya Konstantinovna Ossupov.”
“Why don't we sit down while we talk?” Simon suggested uncomfortably as his mother showed no sign of relenting, and made no move toward the room's straight-backed chairs in their small apartment on Houston Street.
“When did you come here?” She asked Zoya bluntly, as Simon groaned inwardly. He suspected what was coming.
“After the war, madame. I went to Paris in 1917, after the revolution.” There was no point concealing what she was. She only felt sorry for Simon, who looked miserable as he listened to the exchange between his mother and the woman he wanted to marry. But after the bond of their lovemaking and the closeness that had been born of it, they both knew that nothing could keep them apart now.
“So, they threw you out after the revolution.”
Zoya smiled at her. “I suppose you could call it that. I left with my grandmother,” and then her eyes grew serious, “after my family was killed.”
“So was mine,” Sofia Hirsch said bluntly. Their name had previously been Hirschov, but the immigration officer at Ellis Island had been too lazy to write their full name, and