At one that afternoon Lorna was driving on a winding country road called Pontiac Trail. Sunlight glinted off the snowy landscape, creating a glare that made it difficult to read the numbers on the mailboxes. Directions weren’t Lorna’s strong point at the best of times, but on her third pass she located 2257 and turned into the narrow gravel drive.
She stopped the car a hundred yards farther on, rather surprised at the stables and brand-new A-frame in front of her. From the crisp, cultured voice of the man she’d spoken to on the phone, she’d rather idly expected an ivy-covered cottage and an English garden-covered with snow.
Stepping from the car, she automatically checked to make sure her chignon was in place and her coat neat, then snatched up her small briefcase and headed toward the door. It opened just as she raised her hand to push the bell. “Mrs. Whitaker? I was beginning to worry about you.”
“Make it Lorna, please, and I’m terribly sorry I’m late. It’s not that I didn’t start out in plenty of time-”
“It doesn’t matter. Let me get you a cup of coffee. I’d like to talk to you for a minute before you meet my mother.”
“Fine.”
He took her coat, escorted her to a pine-paneled contemporary living room and brought coffee a moment later. Lorna studied the man absently while he poured her a cup of the dark brew. His name was Stan Valicheck. He looked to be in his early forties, a spare, neat man, wearing loose corduroy pants in the European style and a navy blue crewneck sweater. He had kind eyes, something Lorna always noticed first in a person, and their brown color almost exactly matched the shade of his hair.
“My mother used to know your father-that’s why I looked you up, Lorna. I think I told you that on the phone…”
Lorna nodded, aware she was being thoroughly assessed. He seemed to approve of her simple cranberry wool slacks and matching sweater; she could tell that he liked the neat chignon. She guessed he was single from the speculation in his eyes, but there was nothing offensive about his perusal. He moved easily, as if he’d never had a trace of nerves in his life.
He sat down across from her. “For three years, my mother’s been working on this book, about her childhood in Russia. I just let her be-it gave her something to do. She’s been lonely in this country, what with the language barrier.”
“I understand,” Lorna said compassionately.
He nodded, smiling wryly. “But now that she’s done with the manuscript, she’s intent on getting it published. Frankly, Lorna, I haven’t the least idea if it’s excellent or terrible-I can’t read a word of Russian. To please her, I’m willing to have it translated. I didn’t want to discuss the fees with you on the phone because I wanted to explain. What I had in mind was a flat five thousand. If by some chance the story proves to be worth something, I’d be willing to add to that. I’m trying to be honest with you, though, there’s no counting on more. And just as frankly, I couldn’t care less about the financial success of the venture. I have only my mother’s happiness on my mind. And maybe preserving the story of her past for posterity.”
Lorna leaned forward, touched by his attitude toward his mother. “Please understand, I’m grateful for the chance to work on this. I’ve written sewing-machine instructions in four languages, composed travel brochures, described computers and electronics component systems, but I’ve never translated literature, and frankly, I may not even be qualified. I am enthusiastic about the project, though, because I was raised on Russian folklore and the Russian feeling for life. Through my father. And I’d like to tell you I would put your mother’s book before everything else. But as I said on the phone, I do have regular commitments.”
And Matthew’s nest egg was bothering her, though obviously she couldn’t tell Stan Valicheck that. In principle that was money due Johnny, but emotionally, Lorna still felt unhappy about it, guilty that she hadn’t been able to salt away any savings on her own. Security mattered; she never knew how much until her father died, until she was alone with no one to turn to when Johnny needed something she couldn’t provide. With this job, even if she had to work nights to fit it in with her other commitments, she could either put her earnings in the bank or begin to pay back Matthew.
They talked a few more minutes before Stan stood up, smiling warmly at her. “Time to take you up to meet Mother, then.” He hesitated. “You’re an awfully pretty lady for someone who spends hours buried behind foreign-language dictionaries. Are you married, Lorna?”
“Divorced. With a nine-year-old son,” she answered, setting down her cup and gathering up her briefcase to follow him.
“I know you’ll be working at your home, but Mother will be counting on you to report in from time to time. You’re welcome to bring the boy. We have horses in back-”
“I noticed.” Lorna felt something chafe at her nerve endings. Stan obviously liked children; he was a kind man, not bad looking. She didn’t know his profession, but the house hadn’t been put together on a shoestring. A father for Johnny. The thought clicked automatically in her head; it was the same thought that had colored her judgment of men for years. Until she’d met Matthew again. Last night’s lovemaking lingered in her head, yet she brought herself sharply back to the present, forcing the memory away. One of the thousand things she seemed to have forgotten last night was that Matthew, up to this point, could barely tolerate hearing Johnny’s name mentioned. “I’d like to bring my son,” she admitted slowly, and glanced at Stan. “But I don’t want to jump to any conclusions. For one thing, your mother might not even like me, and as I just told you I’ve never had the chance to do this kind of work before.”
“She’ll love you,” Stan assured her, as if he couldn’t imagine anyone who didn’t.
Anna Valicheck was in her late sixties, but she looked ninety. Her son had not inherited her heavy features. Her stark white hair was drawn back in a severe bun; her legs were covered with a blanket to hide arthritic limbs. The two women drank tea from a samovar, chatted in Russian of history and literature and Lorna’s father. The thick, handwritten manuscript was in Lorna’s lap, and though she was itching to look at it, there was no time. Anna was lonely for the ease and comfort of being able to talk in her own tongue; Lorna couldn’t deny her.
Lorna loved her. The woman had grown up in Siberia, where her father had been exiled for political activism, both a sad and dramatic story that was the basis for her “diary,” as she called it. She evinced no self-pity. She had an acerbic tongue, and a dramatic way of speaking that was uniquely Russian. Lorna, raised on Eastern fairy tales, could appreciate Anna’s collection of enameled and jeweled eggs more than someone who never knew their origins. They both forgot the time as they talked, until Lorna looked up in surprise to find Stan in the doorway, smiling with humorous affection at both of them.
“Now, I told Lorna we would take an hour of her time, and here it is five o’clock,” he scolded his mother.
“But you cannot leave,” Anna told Lorna. “You will stay for dinner.”
Lorna stood up, smiling. Truthfully, she would have loved to stay for dinner. She felt a spontaneous warmth toward both Anna and Stan, as if they were old friends rather than potential clients. But she shook her head regretfully. “I appreciate the invitation, but I’m sorry-I really can’t.”
“Of course you can,” Stan insisted.
She shook her head again, not explaining that she had left Johnny with a sitter the night before and that she never did that two evenings in a row. She got to her feet, shifting the heavy manuscript in her arms.