Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
"I've never had a man cook for me before," she says with a hint of wonder in her voice.
"Seriously? Most of us cook. Who the hell feeds you?"
She tilts her head, a wistful look crossing her face. “Staff.” She shrugs. “I cooked for myself mostly.”
I rifle through the contents of the fridge and cabinets. “Do you miss Colombia?"
"Yes and no. I miss what used to be in Colombia, not what it is now."
"What do you mean?" I take out vacuum-sealed chicken, then rifle through the cabinets. I chop onions and garlic at the kitchen counter while she tells me.
"When I was a little girl, my father was very occupied with business. But it didn't matter to me. None of it. I didn't care back then. I had friends and a beautiful backyard to play in. I liked to read, ride my bike, and go swimming in the lake by my house. Yes, a little part of me knew that my father did things he probably shouldn't. I would overhear things. And when he and my mother fought…" She looks away and doesn't respond at first. I give her space, sliding the chopped onions and garlic into the sizzling hot pan. "He hit her. It wasn’t unusual for a man like him, but I hated it when she cried. I hated it when he got angry. And I promised myself that would never be me.”
This doesn’t surprise me, but I don’t like it.
"As a little girl, I knew it was socially acceptable, at least in my father's circles, to treat women as second-class citizens. In Colombia, you don’t have to look far for that, even here in America in some places.” I nod, understanding her point.
"Things changed when I began to develop. I wasn't a little girl to be pushed out of the way anymore, but someone who would attract attention. That was a problem for my father." She looks away. "My mother wasn't a fool, but she was every bit under my father's thumb and fully expected me to be the same. She didn't like conflict, except when she lost her temper. She wanted me to avoid the brunt of his anger, so she tried to teach me to be quiet and obedient." Her lips twitch, and her beautiful eyes meet mine. "You can imagine how well that went."
I grin, onions and garlic sizzling in the pan. "Probably about as well as telling my own sister to do that."
"She did teach me some things. And I'm grateful I have those skills. I can cook, and I like my space clean, like you, so in that way, we'll get along just fine. But I have a mind of my own, Lev."
"I know."
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen is the sizzling of the vegetables and the low boil of the pasta water. "I tried to cook for my whole family as a surprise. My father was having a bad day," she says with a rueful smile. "That's what my mother used to say. Your father is having a bad day. As if somehow that gave him free rein to act like a child. Anyway, I did what I thought I had seen done before, but the pan I used was too small, and oil splashed onto the flame. I caused a small kitchen fire. My mother found out before my father did, and she took the blame for it."
Her voice trails off. She doesn’t like her mother, or maybe she hasn't forgiven her for past sins. I don’t know, but she doesn’t like telling these stories. I don’t like hearing them, but I need to. I need to know every thread that weaves the fabric of who she is today because this is no passing relationship. This woman is my wife.
"When he saw the fire, he screamed and raged at her. He didn't hit her, but he broke things." She looks away. When she looks back at me, her eyes are shining. "I hated that she was taking the blame for me, so I told him the truth. That’s when he hit her… for lying."
I season the chicken and lay it in the frying pan and scowl at it. "My father also wasn’t a nice man. I understand."
I don’t offer details on my own because this is her story, not mine, but apparently, she wants to know.
"Tell me. What was Stanislav Romanov really like?"
Of course, she knows his full name. She’s researched my family. "It was his way or the highway… typical.” I don’t look at her while I stir the pot of pasta because I don’t like to talk about this.
"Lev," she prompts, pouring herself a glass of wine. "This is a two-way street, mi querido jefe.”
Now that I know what that actually means, it holds a different kind of weight.