“Mr. Rustanov was very clear about wanting your shelter to have twenty-four hour protection. Front and back.”
“Yes, but… we get by with what we already have. And twenty-four hour security protection isn’t exactly in the budget.”
“Consider it a gift from Mr. Rustanov. A security endowment.”
Sam opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. Then closed it, truly frustrated because… yeah, it was a gift she hadn’t asked for and no, she didn’t like having decisions forced upon her.
But unfortunately, Nikolai had hit her right in her weak spot. She didn’t want to give in, but she had a duty to her shelter. If anyone else had given them a “security endowment,” she would have thanked them with a handwritten letter, then again in person with a plaque, and then yet again with a mention in their bi-annual donor newsletter.
She also would have called Josie in a fit of delight to tell her the good news. The only reason she didn’t now, and knew she wouldn’t later, was because this generous gift came via Nikolai Rustanov, who was apparently trying to—actually she wasn’t quite sure what he was trying to do with this extreme gesture.
“May I show you something?” Suro asked, interrupting her conflicted thoughts. His face had gentled, she noticed. Less all-business mode, and more sensitivity than she would have guessed him capable of possessing at first sight.
He pulled out his phone and came to stand beside her. Then he swiped a picture on to the phone’s rectangular screen. A little girl with creamy brown skin, a bubbly expression and chubby legs and cheeks appeared. She looked to be about two, on the thin edge between baby and toddler, and she was nothing less than completely adorable.
“This is my daughter, Gracie,” Suro said with a smile in his voice. He swiped the screen again to the picture of a little black boy. This one was definitely a toddler, standing up strong and confident with a dinosaur toy raised above his head. “And this is our adopted son, Spidey.”
Before Sam could ask if he’d really named his adopted child, Spidey, Suro swiped again. This time to a picture of two young teenagers, one Asian, one black, sitting at a piano together with intent expressions on their faces. “We call these two the twins, but they’re technically my son and stepdaughter. They formally introduced me to my wife.”
He swiped the phone to reveal one last picture: a pretty woman with dreadlocks, smiling sleepily up at the camera as a newborn Gracie slept on top of her, her small head nestled into the woman’s shoulder. “And this is my wife, Tasha.”
He gave the picture a thoughtful smile before tucking the phone back in his inside pocket. “I’d do anything to keep my family safe and if Tasha were working at a place like this, I’d make sure she had security I could trust. Let Mr. Rustanov do this for you.”
The slideshow had been cute. Too cute. It had left a sweet ache in Sam’s heart that made her rub a hand over her chest for the second time that morning.
Suro was probably right about Nikolai doing this because he wanted to protect his family. But he was wrong about Nikolai doing it for her. He’d hired a security guard for Pavel, and she supposed this was his way of making sure the baby inside her womb received the same standard of protection.
Nonetheless, the fact remained: she’d be an idiot to turn down such a gift. She’d always put the Ruth’s House shelters first, and she was prepared to downshift her pride if it meant the women who came to her would benefit from Nikolai’s commitment to providing security for their baby.
She forced a smile onto her face and asked Suro, “Since we’re going all out on security, do you think it’s possible to get four women guards in here? I’ve been asking the agency we use here and in Alabama to provide us with women for years now, but it’s kind of a “take what you can get situation” at the wages we’ve been paying.”
Suro nodded, family man gone and all business now that she had agreed to let him assess Ruth’s House Indiana’s security needs.
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” he answered.
28
“Can you pass me the salt, Pavel?”
Nikolai watched his nephew pass his wife the salt shaker sitting in front of his own plate. So close, in fact, that the obvious thing would have been for her to ask Nikolai for the salt. But his wife had been using Pavel as a go-between all night. In fact, she hadn’t said a word to Nikolai, beyond hello, since he walked in the door.
Nikolai added a bit of pepper to the lemon chicken his wife had made with a tight jaw. It was Monday, technically the night after their disastrous wedding dinner, but despite what had taken place between he and his wife that morning, nothing had changed. She barely looked at him throughout the meal. And just like every other night they’d had dinner together so far, she and Pavel did most of the talking, leaving him to sit there with a strange emptiness in his stomach, wondering if he’d ever be able to do the things that came to her and Pavel so naturally. Wondering if he’d ever be able to act like he was a member of a normal family.
If Pavel had wanted to talk about the best gun for killing a man quietly, Nikolai could have held forth on that topic all night. But for most of the meal, his nephew and his wife talked about some TV series that sounded both inane and complicated. A show called Avatar, which Pavel loved, even though it wasn’t based in any way whatsoever on the James Cameron movie of the same name. At least not so far as Nikolai could tell.
In any case, his wife and nephew had yet to choose a topic he could feel comfortable talking about. But he was no longer a little boy, forced to exist on the periphery of the Rustanov family, he reminded himself.
His father was dead. And his Russian relatives for the most part were proud to have a famous hockey player in their family tree now. He had a big house and more money than he knew what to do with. He owned a professional hockey team, he thought to himself, biting down fiercely on a piece of chicken. He refused to be intimidated by the small talk of one small woman and one even smaller boy. Also, he’d be damned if he was going to let Samantha avoid him by talking to Pavel all night.
When their conversation about the boy avatar versus the girl avatar came to a close, he forced himself to jump in.
“Pavel, how is your schooling?” he asked, his voice terse.
Pavel’s eyes widened as if a statue had suddenly come to life at the table. “How is my schooling?” he repeated carefully. “It’s cool, I guess. I’m still behind in math. But Mama’s a good tutor. She’s been helping me.”