When we shed our coats, handing them to a uniformed servant, I felt like I’d lost a layer of comfort. Past the foyer, Sevastyan steered me into a long gallery. At the end were two solid wood doors. We paused just outside them. “Here’s his office.”
I faced the doors, filled with apprehension. Up until this moment, the idea of meeting my biological parents had been a distant dream, a farfetched hope. I smoothed my hair, then adjusted my sweater.
“Come. You will genuinely like him, Natalie.” Sevastyan’s strength seemed to permeate into me.
In a small voice, I asked, “Will he like me?”
He reached for the doors. Staring straight ahead, he muttered, “On tebya polyubit.”
He will love you.
Chapter 12
All my Godfather-ish expectations of gloomy, dark wood paneling and clouds of cigar smoke vanished; Kovalev’s study was light and airy. Numerous picture windows welcomed the fall sun.
Along most of the walls, a multitude of antique clocks ticked along happily. Others in various stages of repair covered a workbench.
Kovalev was literally a clockmaker? I felt silly for my comments on the plane, hoped Sevastyan wouldn’t recall them.
I gazed to the right, finding the man himself on the phone. Pavel Kovalev was so not what I was expecting. He had black hair with gray at the sides, ruddy cheeks, and a slim build. No tracksuit—he wore a crisp navy sport coat with a blue button-down that highlighted his twinkling eyes. Zero gold chains.
Kovalev, the Russian mafioso, looked less like a Godfather and more like . . . a thin, dapper Santa Claus. He couldn’t be further from my imaginings.
“Natalie!” He hung up the phone at once. With his blue eyes lighting up, he rose to hurry over to me. He was about five foot eight, maybe sixty years old. His arms were spread wide—like his infectious grin.
But for all that we shared DNA, he was a stranger to me. What should I call him? Mr. Kovalev? Father? Pops? I shuffled uncertainly, darting a glance at Sevastyan, who gave a brisk nod. His way of encouragement? In the end, I just said, “Hi.” Lame.
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.”