In which we learn that the phrase “holiday spirit” is an unknown one to Alexi.
Lucya…
Two weeks later…
“Could we get a Christmas tree?”
Alexi looks up from his laptop and frowns. “A tree?” He says it with complete incredulity, as if a Christmas tree is something so outrageous and offensive that he can’t believe I uttered the words out loud.
“Well, yeah.” I gesture around the living room. “I recognize it might disturb the symmetry of your all-black home decor, but maybe I could find lumps of coal to hang on it instead of ornaments.”
He spreads his long arms over the back of the couch, eyeing me with interest. “Are you saying that my- our home looks like the inside of a cave?”
Is this humor? His gorgeous face rarely changes expression so it’s hard to tell. “Well,” I flounder, “I know we won’t celebrate Christmas until January seventh in St. Petersburg, but we live in Boston, so you know… when in Rome?”
“If you like,” he looks down at his laptop again.
“What about a couple of wreaths, maybe?” I don’t know if I’m pushing my luck.
“You’re welcome to decorate however you like,” he says with a hint of a smile. “Unless you want those hideous inflatable things. None of those. Ah, that reminds me.” He takes an envelope from the desk drawer and hands it to me.
It’s a black credit card with my name on it. I can tell from the look of it that it’s one of those, ‘I have no limit so buy the most expensive thing on the planet… hell, buy the planet’ type of cards. “I don’t need something like this,” I say, trying to hand it back. “I don’t even want the responsibility of having it in my wallet.”
His hand goes around the back of my neck and he pulls me closer. “You’ve been struggling for the last four years, working yourself to the bone to support your sister’s spending habits. I doubt you’ll come home with a Lamborghini and a pet tiger – though with that credit line, you could buy them.”
I have to laugh. “No pet tigers. Well, there goes your Christmas present.”
Looking mildly bemused, he says, “I don’t need any gifts.”
“It’s Christmas!” I’m scandalized. “You must have gifts! What does your family do?”
“We don’t do anything,” he says. “My brothers and I occasionally give each other a good bottle of vodka or scotch.”
“That’s so…” I want to say incredibly depressing. I want to say that it sounds lonely and miserable. Instead, I say, “That’s different. Is it all right if I give you a present or two? You don’t have to get me anything,” I hasten to add.
Alexi shrugs as if the concept of a warm, loving holiday is impossible to process. “If you wish.”
“You really weren’t kidding about the security thing, were you?”
Alexi takes me downstairs, clutching my black card, where I find four men standing by a black Maserati SUV. I recognize two of them from that night when Alexi and I had sex.
Brushing that thought away before my face turns an unattractive tomato shade, I give them a nod as he introduces each man.
“This is Artur, David, Ioann, and Pyotr.” Each man is wearing a dark suit with their hands folded in front of them. They all look like they could tear a grown man’s head off with their bare hands if necessary, which I guess is a comfort. “Pyotr will be your personal guard.”
“Skuchat’ Dubrovin, Miss Dubrovin, it is an honor,” Pyotr intones. He’s a little older than the others with silvered hair and a serious amount of bulk. He and Alexi must be eating raw meat and lifting tractor tires together. To be honest, it doesn’t really look like he thinks it’s an honor, but he nods politely and I smile back.
“I’m pleased to meet you all,” I say, “I’m very boring, so I won’t be making your job any harder than it has to be.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” Alexi murmurs in my ear, so close that his lips touch my skin and I shiver. He addresses the men, who are pretending they don’t see my blush and loose-lipped grin. “Today, my intended wants to go Christmas shopping. His nostrils flare as if he’s about to say something vulgar. “She will be getting a… tree.”
Pressing my lips together, I try not to laugh at the sight of these hardened men shuddering at the very concept of something so festive.
Alexi leans in close. “Listen to Pyotr and the other men. Their only concern is for your safety.”
“I had bodyguards back in St. Petersburg,” I say, “well… and apparently here, too. They sucked. The ones here, I mean! But I understand their importance.” And I do. Even if this is a little ridiculous and overkill, this large contingent of men also shows Alexi’s elevated level in his Bratva.
“Very good,” he says.
I wish he’d kiss me. Maybe he will, eventually. Some Bratva leaders are openly affectionate. Watching his broad back as he strides back into the elevator, my shoulders slump.
Probably not.
Boston is glittering, decked out in its holiday finery. As we pass the Seaport Tree, I gawk up at the three-story pine, groaning under the weight of all the massive green, red, and silver ornaments.
There’s a seasonal ice rink close by, and I wonder if Alexi would consider going there with me. My family grew up ice skating on the Neva River, which runs through St. Petersburg and freezes over in the winter. Despite that one time I fell through the ice at my family’s pond, I am a good skater. It might be hard to convince him of that.
It seems like most of our close encounters in Russia consisted of him saving me one way or the other. On one visit to the equestrian park close to our home, he’d raced in and pulled me out of the path of a panicked horse trying to gallop away from the stable.
Then, there was the mortifying moment at a holiday party when I must have bumped a tall iron candle stand, because the lit tapers nearly set my hair on fire before he rapidly put out the flames..
Yeah… He probably figures any celebration with me will require saving my life yet again. No wonder he’s not feeling the holiday spirit.
A little discouraged, I wander through a holiday market by Copley Square, dropping some money in the basket for the carolers, dressed in Victorian wear as they plow through a spirited version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”
There’s a tree lot at the far end of the market where I’ve gotten a small tree for Inessa and me before. It was a far cry from the massive trees that decorated nearly all the main rooms in our mansion at home, but it brought back the memories from our childhood, so I insisted on one every year. My bristling security contingent is getting some looks – well, a lot of looks – from the other shoppers so I hurry into the little grove of trees to find the perfect one.
Alexi’s home is beautiful. It’s elegantly designed and still manages to be comfortable. And it’s dark as hell. I’m getting the biggest tree I can because he’s got the high ceilings for it and I’m desperate for some light and color. Maybe one for the bedroom, too.
“Schastlivykh vam prazdnikov, Happy Holidays, Lucya Dubrovina!” The owner of the tree farm greets me with a huge grin. He’s another Russian expatriate, a nice older man who often visits the restaurant for some comfort food from home.
“I tebe, and to you, Vadik Popov,” I say, holding out my mittened hand. He’s about to shake it when Pytor steps between us with a growl. “Hey, Pytor, he’s a friend!” I said, gingerly patting his arm. My bodyguard reluctantly moves his muscled self and allows me to shake hands with Vadik.
“It’s good to see you here,” he says, “can I direct you to the smaller trees, or…” he eyes the four men surrounding me, “or have circumstances changed?”
“Yes!” I say happily. “I want to look at your biggest, bushiest trees.”
A slow grin spreads across his weathered face. “Please come with me, then. I have an excellent selection.”
As we wander through the enormous Scotch pines, he extolls the virtues of one, then another as my security contingent weaves through the trees alongside us. I feel something drop into my coat pocket and look up at Vadik, startled.
“Someone from home wants to reach you,” he whispers, “your family is worried about you.”
Other than a short conversation to reassure my mother – as Alexi loomed over me – that I was all right, I hadn’t spoken to her or Inessa in weeks. But… why would Vadik be in touch with them? How is he involved? Maybe Boris at the restaurant told him what was happening. “Thank you,” I whisper before we return to our tree talk.
By the time we return home, there’s a delivery truck following us with three enormous trees, along with several boxes of lights and ornaments. Alexi stands in the entryway, arms folded and not looking entirely pleased.
“We discussed a tree.”
“Hi honey, I’m home!” I smile, trying to flutter my lashes and failing miserably. I have never been a flirt, and based on his expression, my game has not improved. “You did say I could decorate as I liked, right?”
He grunts, watching my security guards carry in our new pine forest and ornaments.
“One goes in the living room,” I gesture to the bank of windows looking out over the harbor, “one in the bedroom, and the last one, I thought we could put it on the rooftop by the fire pit. Won’t that be pretty?”
He picks up a box of Christmas lights from the towering stack. “This will light up the roof bright enough to land a space shuttle there,” he grumbles.
“If you hate it, we can take it down,” I say, hoping that he won’t change his mind.
Tossing the lights back on the pile, he runs his thumb over my cheekbone. “Does this please you?”
“Yes!” I nod enthusiastically enough to make myself dizzy.
“Then of course.”
The clamor of the men dragging in all my purchases fades as I smile up at my husband-to-be dreamily.
He may not love me, but this is one step closer.
