Page 20 of Weeping Roses
She reaches up and strokes my face and nods. “I can tell. It really sucks, doesn’t it?”
She sounds angry, and it raises a brief smile on my face. “You could say that.”
“Tell me about him. Your father, not Veronica’s Andrei.”
I wince at her choice of words and then sigh.
“He was a strong man. Ferocious even with a strong sense of family loyalty, which these letters make a mockery of.”
I grip her hand in mine and say gruffly, “We were a tight family unit. At least I thought we were. We were brought up to believe that family meant everything and came first in every way. I never had any reason to doubt that until my father’s death set us on a trail that led me here.”
She smiles sweetly. “You know, I read a book like this once.”
I say nothing and she smiles. “The man of the house was a devoted husband and father, but led a secret life. One day, his secret life collided with his real one and he couldn’t cope with it. He compartmentalized his life into two separate boxes in his mind. Both were given equal attention, and he loved each one the same and he didn’t think he was doing anything wrong because everyone was happy. Perhaps that is true of your father. He split himself in two and reasoned that if nobody ever found out, they would be none the wiser. Everyone was happy, and I’m guessing this was the case until now.”
“Until now.”
I nod and sigh heavily.
“My mother is still ignorant of this and that is how we want to keep it. We are tracking down the information in the hope of discovering who wanted to murder my father. It led us to an organization called Burning Roses where my father met with your aunt. It was run by a friend of hers, Marsha Steele, which is how they probably met. That is all we know until now. It’s what we are searching for in your aunt’s possessions. Anything that could indicate who else was involved.”
Polly pulls back and appears to be thinking of something, and then she shakes herself and smiles brightly.
“Come. We need to eat and I’m guessing your men are pretty hangry right now.”
“Hangry?”
I raise my eyes and she giggles. “Hungry makes angry. We call it hangry.”
She winks and for some reason, it stirs something in the depth of my heart that sparks against my cold walls.
“Come. I’ve made chicken stew and baked potatoes. I’m positive your chef would do a way better job, but it will do for now.”
As I follow her out of the room, I stare at the pile of letters on the desk and my heart falls. It appears that my loss is a continuing one because now even the image and memory I had of my father is dying a bitter death before my jaded eyes.
CHAPTER 11
POLLY
If you’d told me last week, I would be feeding a group of Russian men who could murder me with one glance in my direction, I wouldn’t believe you.
After what is turning out to be the most surreal day of my life, I find myself waiting on a Russian army in my aunt’s kitchen that is every dream I ever had.
I am so moving here when the dust settles. I only hope I have enough money to keep it going because I’m not a fool and know that houses like this come with hefty running costs.
I haven’t looked around it yet and as for the house in London, I wonder what that is like? Knowing the house prices in the capital, I’m guessing it’s a studio apartment somewhere tucked away, which is why I intend on selling it to pay for this.
As we eat, the men speak in hushed tones and occasionally in Russian, which drives a harsh response from the man who is currently starring in every fantasy I ever had.
As we eat, I note the weariness around his eyes and the occasional glances of despair that he directs at no one in particular. I can tell he’s hurting and despite his arrogant nature, I sympathize. It’s one thing losing your father but another thing entirely losing the memory of him too. I’m guessing that’s why he’s so cold. His heart has been broken, and all compassion has deserted him.
“Is it okay?” I ask anxiously, referring to the food and the murmurs of thanks around the table make me sigh with relief. I’ve never cooked for fifteen before and I’m amazed we managed to seat ten around this table in the dining room with five more in the kitchen. It’s a good thing my aunt’s house is this large because if she had lived in a semi in suburbia, it would have been a very different outcome.
I note the vodka bottle has already been replenished for another one and say with amusement, “You all drink vodka like water. Am I missing something here?”
Valentin’s comrade, at least I think that’s what they call them in Russia, winks. “Water has no effect and vodka does the job perfectly.”
“Effect?” I’m confused and Valentin says gruffly, “When you live life as a powerful Russian, you need strong weapons at your disposal. Vodka sharpens our edges and yet blurs the lines between decency and immorality.”