The nightmares that have plagued me since Mom’s death stayed away.
Smile broadening, I open my eyes and sit up. It’s bright and sunny, so I’ve probably overslept. I’m not too worried, though. Nikolai isn’t here to enforce the mealtimes, and in any case, now that I know him better, I don’t think he’ll fire me for such a minor transgression.
Still, I don’t want to take advantage, so I hop out of bed and turn on the news. They’re again reporting on the primary debates, but all I care about is the time—9:20 a.m. It also happens to be a Saturday, I realize, looking at the date. I wonder if that means I get a day off.
I should probably ask Nikolai about that the next time we talk.
A warm glow fills my chest at the thought of him calling me again and the two of us talking late into the night—almost like a dating couple. Because that’s how that videocall last night felt: like the kind of thing you do with your boyfriend while he’s away, a long-distance date of sorts. Though we spent most of the time talking about Slava, as befits our employer-tutor relationship, there’d been a definite softness in the way Nikolai looked at me and the way he spoke… an undercurrent of tenderness that makes my heart skip a beat each time I think about it.
It’s almost as if he’s starting to care for me, as if there’s something more between us than animal attraction.
* * *
I try not to think about it as I go about my day because it’s such a foolish notion. There’s no way Nikolai is developing feelings for me. Not only is it way too soon, but I’d be an idiot to imagine that a man like that would be interested in me for any reason other than proximity. I am the only available woman here; he can’t exactly hook up with Lyudmila or his sister. So what if he called me as soon as he landed yesterday? That doesn’t mean he was thinking about me during the long flight.
He could’ve just been concerned about his son.
Still, that warm glow stays with me as I sneak into the kitchen to grab myself a late breakfast—the official breakfast being over—before taking Slava for a nice long hike. And it persists through lunch despite Alina’s presence at the table reminding me of her strange warning.
“How’s your headache?” I ask when we sit down to eat, and she waves away my concern, claiming that she’s fully recovered. However, I can’t help but notice that she’s quiet and oddly distant, frequently staring off into space during the meal. It makes me wonder if she’s high again, but I decide not to ask.
Last night, the campfire and the pot lowered everybody’s inhibitions, creating a false sense of intimacy, but today, she feels like a stranger again. So does Lyudmila, who doesn’t even smile at me as she brings out the food. Maybe she’s embarrassed I saw her stoned? Either way, I hurry through the meal, and as soon as Slava is done eating, I take him to his room for our play lessons.
We build another castle and review the alphabet, and I teach him how to count to ten in English. Afterward, we play hide-and-seek and read some books, including, at Slava’s request, a story about a family of ducks. Before we begin, he proudly shows me a book in Russian that appears to be a translation of it, and I realize he’s trying to apply his knowledge of the plot and characters to better understand the English words and phrases I read out loud to him.
“You’re such a clever boy,” I tell him, and he beams at me. Though I doubt he understands exactly what I’m saying, my tone of approval is unmistakable.
I sit on the floor, my back leaning against the bed, and Slava climbs into my lap as we start the story—which turns out to be surprisingly complex for a children’s book. The duck family isn’t all happy and go-lucky; they squabble and have conflicts, and at one point, the main hero, a young duckling, runs away from home. When he returns, he finds Mama Duck gone, and he cries, thinking that he caused her to leave.
I keep an eye on Slava during this part, worried that this might bring up memories of losing his mother, but the boy’s expression remains curious and relaxed. However, when we get to the part where the young duckling has to stay with his grandfather, Slava stiffens and insists on skipping over the next three pages.
“You don’t like Grandpa Duck?” I guess, and the child shrugs, avoiding my gaze.
“Okay. We don’t have to read about him. Forget Grandpa Duck.” Smiling, I ruffle his hair and move on to a less problematic section of the book.