The Stanislaskis: Taming Natasha. Нора Робертс
“Funny. Natasha once told me the same thing.”
Pleased, Nadia popped bread into the toaster. “Smart girl.”
The kitchen door swung open. Alex, dark, rumpled and heavy-eyed, grinned. “I smelled breakfast.”
The first snow was falling, small, thin flakes that swirled in the wind and vanished before they hit the ground. There were some things, Natasha knew, that were beautiful and very precious, and here for only such a short time.
She stood alone, bundled against the cold she didn’t feel. Except inside. The light was pale gray, but not dreary, not with the tiny, dancing snowflakes. She hadn’t brought flowers. She never did. They would look much too sad on such a tiny grave.
Lily. Closing her eyes, she let herself remember how it had felt to hold that small, delicate life in her arms. Her baby. Milaya. Her little girl. Those beautiful blue eyes, Natasha remembered, those exquisite miniature hands.
Like the flower she had been named for, Lily had been so lovely, and had lived such a brief, brief time. She could see Lily, small and red and wrinkled, her little hands fisted when the nurse had first laid her in Natasha’s arms. She could feel even now that sweet ache that tugged when Lily had nursed at her breast. She remembered the feel of that soft, soft skin and the smell of powder and lotion, the comfort of rocking late at night with her own baby girl on her shoulder.
So quickly gone, Natasha thought. A few precious weeks. No amount of time, no amount of prayer would ever make her understand it. Accept, perhaps, but never understand.
“I love you, Lily. Always.” She bent to press her palm against the cold grass. Rising again, she turned and walked away through the lightly dancing snow.
Where had she gone? There could be a dozen places, Spence assured himself. It was foolish to be worried. But he couldn’t help it. Some instinct was at work here, heightened by the certainty that Natasha’s family knew exactly where she was, but refused to say.
The house was already filled with noise, laughter, and the smells of the celebrational meal to come. He tried to shake off the feeling that wherever Natasha was, she needed him.
There was so much she hadn’t told him. That had become crystal clear when he saw the pictures in the living room. Natasha in tights and dance shoes, in ballet skirts and toe shoes. Natasha with her hair streaming behind her, caught at the apex of a grand jeté.
She’d been a dancer, quite obviously a professional, but had never mentioned it.
Why had she given it up? Why had she kept something that had been an important part of her life a secret from him?
Coming out of the kitchen, Rachel saw him with one of the photographs in his hand. She kept silent for a moment, studying him. Like her mother, she approved of what she saw. There was a strength here and a gentleness. Her sister needed and deserved both.
“It’s a beautiful picture.”
He turned. Rachel was taller than Natasha, more willowy. Her dark hair was cut short in a sleek cap around her face. Her eyes, more gold than brown, dominated. “How old was she?”
Rachel dipped her hands into the pockets of her trousers as she crossed the room. “Sixteen, I think. She was in the corps de ballet then. Very dedicated. I always envied Tash her grace. I was a klutz.” She smiled and gently changed the subject. “Always taller and skinnier than the boys, knocking things over with my elbows. Where’s Freddie?”
Spence set down the picture. Without saying it, Rachel had told him that if he had questions, they were for Natasha. “She’s upstairs, watching the Macy’s parade with Yuri.”
“He never misses it. Nothing disappointed him more than when we grew too old to want to sit in his lap and watch the floats.”
A laughing squeal from the second floor had them both turning toward the stairs. Feet clomped. A pink whirlwind in her jumpsuit, Freddie came dashing down to launch herself at Spence. “Daddy, Papa makes bear noises. Big bear noises.”
“Did he rub his beard on your cheek?” Rachel wanted to know.
“It’s scratchy.” She giggled, then wriggled down to run upstairs once more, hoping he’d do it again.
“She’s having the time of her life,” Spence decided.
“So’s Papa. How’s your head?”
“Better, thanks.” He heard the sound of the truck pulling up outside, and glanced toward the window.
“Mama needs my help.” Rachel slipped back into the kitchen.
He was at the door waiting for her. Natasha looked very pale, very tired, but she smiled when she saw him. “Good morning.” Because she needed him, she slipped her arms around his waist and held tight.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She was now, she realized, when he was holding her like this. Stronger, she pulled back. “I thought you might sleep late.”
“No, I’ve been up awhile. Where have you been?”
She unwound her scarf. “There was something I needed to do.” After peeling off her coat, she hung it in the narrow closet. “Where is everyone?”
“Your mother and Rachel are in the kitchen. The last time I looked, Alex was on the phone.”
This time the smile came easily. “Sweet-talking a girl.”
“Apparently. Freddie’s up with your father, watching the parade.”
“And putting him in heaven.” She touched her fingertips to Spence’s cheek. “Will you kiss me?”
There was some need here, he thought as he bent toward her. Some deep, private need she still refused to share. Her lips were cold when his met them, but they softened, then warmed. At last they curved.
“You’re very good for me, Spence.”
“I was hoping you’d catch on to that.” He gave her bottom lip a playful nip. “Better?”
“Much. I’m glad you’re here.” She squeezed his hand. “How do you feel about some of Mama’s hot chocolate?”
Before he could answer, Freddie came sprinting down the steps again, one shoelace trailing, to throw her arms around Natasha’s waist. “You’re back!”
“So I am.” Natasha bent to kiss the top of Freddie’s head. “What have you been up to?”
“I’m watching the parade with Papa. He can talk just like Donald Duck, and he lets me sit on his lap.”
“I see.” Leaning closer, Natasha took a sniff. There was the telltale fragrance of gumdrops lingering on Freddie’s breath. “Does he still hog all the yellow ones?”
Freddie giggled, casting a quick, cautious look at her father. Spence had a much different view of gumdrops than Yuri. “It’s okay. I like the red ones best.”
“How many red ones?” Spence asked her.
Freddie lifted her shoulders and let them fall. It was, Spence noted with some amusement, almost a mirror image of Natasha’s habitual gesture. “Not too many. Will you come up and watch with us?” She tugged at Natasha’s hand. “It’s almost time for Santa Claus.”
“In a little while.” Out of habit, Natasha crouched to tie Freddie’s shoelace. “Tell Papa that I won’t mention the gumdrops to Mama. If he saves me some.”
“Okay.” She dashed up the stairs.
“He’s made quite an impression on her,” Spence observed.
“Papa makes impressions on everyone.” She started to rise, and felt the room spin. Before she could sink to the floor again, Spence had her arms.
“What