The Russian's Acquisition

Aleksy stood pouring vodka into a short glass. He knocked it back before saying, “Finished making snow angels?” through his teeth.

“Are you drunk?” Her equilibrium was yanked by that unexpected twist.

“Russians don’t get drunk.” He poured another one, then stoppered the bottle and stowed it in the freezer. “They get tough.” He moved, loose but steady, to where a tin of cocoa sat on the bench. He spooned some into a cup and poured steaming water from the kettle. Before he handed it to her, he tipped half the contents of his vodka into it. “Warm up. You’re not used to this kind of cold.”

Clair cautiously put away her boots and hung her coat. The hot mug of cocoa filled her cupped hands with warmth. She let the steam rise to scald her frozen nose.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I can make soup.”

“Maybe later,” she said, faintly bemused at this domesticated side he was revealing. Not exactly the “tough” he was referring to.

He leaned on the refrigerator, staring so hard at her she should have smoldered and caught fire. “I watched you out there, waiting to see if you would run. You looked about twelve with the snow past your knees.”

Clair felt twelve again, sinking into a miasma of confusion, hormones flashing like dysfunctional neon lights, the weight of adult emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

“I just wanted to stretch my legs,” she lied.

He snorted, swirling the clear liquid in his glass. “There was a time when I took for granted the girls who walked in front of my house. More than one did before I had whiskers and a scar.”

“You want me to believe females haven’t been falling on your doorstep all your life, scar or no scar?” She forgot about the vodka in her drink until she sipped and it bit back. Heat slid through her all the way to her toenails.

“The young girls were different,” he mused into his glass. “They were like you, the kind who knew they wanted to marry and have a family.”

“I don’t know that,” she said, flat but strong, eyes immediately seeking a place to hide. “I might have believed it when I was twelve, but it’s not something I still fantasize about.” That felt like lying again. She sipped her cocoa, savoring the glowing warmth that spread outward from her midsection. “Too many lessons in remaining realistic,” she added, recalling all those childish hopes and adolescent crushes that had amounted to nothing.

Aleksy winced. “You told me not to be ashamed of being sentimental. Don’t be ashamed of wanting those things, Clair. I did. Then. I imagined I’d choose one of those girls after I’d made my fortune.”

“Were you in love with one of them?” Her heart stilled.

“No,” he scoffed, and her knees unaccountably sagged. “But I was arrogant enough to enjoy the idea of them falling in love with me. I was convinced I’d have my pick when the time came.”

Clair frowned, hating that word. Pick your teams. Picked last. Never picked.

Skipping over it, she asked, “What made you stop wanting that? Your mother’s grief?”

Empathy stole over her like a fuzzy veil, partly due to the vodka slipping into her bloodstream. It made her feel tender, hurting for him when she considered how painful it must have been to witness his mother’s heartbreak over the loss of her husband. At least he was there to see it and not locked up in jail….

Clair frowned into her cup, thinking the booze was a bad idea. She was having trouble clicking together important pieces of the puzzle.

Aleksy wasn’t speaking, only staring into his glass, face lined with anguish.

She watched him, his powerful shoulders crushed by a weight. He looked…lonely. Inconsolable. She ached to circle his waist with her arms and press her face into the warmth of his chest.

“Aleksy,” she began.

“Yes, seeing my mother’s pain killed whatever illusions I had of leading that kind of life. Especially since I caused her grief and destroyed the happy life she’d finally been given.” The words were dragged out of him and left on the floor like internal organs.

“Finally?” she repeated tentatively. Apprehensively. “Wasn’t she always happy with your father?”

“Of course,” he conceded with a shrug, “but they struggled for years. Everyone in Russia did. When my father organized the cooperative that bought the mill, it was a chance for a future, but still just a chance. They worked hard for every potato we ate. I should have said she finally had hope.”

He drew a long breath, seeming to steel himself. His voice hardened.

“The problem was, profiteers were moving into Russia at the same time. One tried to bribe my father into selling his controlling interest in the mill. He refused and we were harassed for months.”