ANNASOPHIA
When I see Nicholas Karpov in the foyer, studying a finger painting Alexandra created at age six, the formless dread nagging me since last night changes to something sharp and defined. My breath catches. He’s nuts about Alexandra. How’d I forget him?
He studies the wall-mounted canvas. Above and below it hang two far more subdued paintings by Anastaysa and Magnus at the same age. The three works of art never met Michael’s criteria for display at Belle Haven, but when we moved, I unearthed them and hung them in a place of prominence. Nicholas won my heart the first time he entered our new house by expressing his admiration for the trio—though it was obvious by how much time he spent staring at Alexandra’s piece which one he favored.
God, where do I begin to explain? He’s only sixteen.
Back rigid, he opens and closes his thick, rough hands. Black hairs extend from above his cuffs to his fingers like a caveman’s pelt—tangible indicators of his Russian ancestry.
Peasant ancestry, I hear Michael snipe. Despite that judgment, Nicholas demonstrates the manners of a Russian aristocrat and the awareness of a vigilant kinesiologist.
A smell or a sound or a movement that eludes me catches his attention. He steps away from the painting, his inelegant face a canvas of crevasses and hollows and angles as irregular as those geometric shapes in Alexandra’s masterpiece.
“Good evening, Mrs. Romanov.” What his face and body lack in elegance, his rich baritone makes up for. “I hope you are well.”
Of course, I am not well, but I evade his directness. “Hello, Nicholas. How are you?”
“Well. Ready for a ... memorable evening with Alexandra.” His intonation is so stilted, I wonder how formal life is with his father, whom I’ve met once at a school function.
“Let’s go into the living room.” I lead him to the front of the house and indicate the sofa while I take the nearest armchair. “I didn’t realize you and Alexandra had a date tonight.”
“We decided since we couldn’t go out last night—”
“Why not?” I realize my question is abrupt and soften my sharpness. “Why did you and she decide you couldn’t go out last night?”
“She had already promised to spend time with her girlfriends. I believe they’d planned a sleepover at Emily Johnson’s house.”
“Is that what she told you?” I’m stalling. Alexandra told me she and Nicholas were going to the movies.
“Yes. We’d talked about a movie, but her friends wanted some girl time. So we decided we’d go out tonight.” His thick, raised eyebrows telegraph, What’s wrong?
“Do you have any idea what she and her girlfriends had planned?”
“Alexandra said guys wouldn’t understand.” He shrugs, and his dark eyes flare.
“Did you know Alexandra was going to bars with her friends?”
He sits up straighter and presses his back into the sofa. “Excuse me?”
“Do you know a bar called Leather’s?”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“I’m underage.”
“Did you know Alexandra went there with some of her friends?”
He leans forward and plants his feet on the carpet. “Is Alexandra ready?”
“No. Alexandra is not ready. She’s not here.”
“Where is she?” His baritone deepens.
“I’d rather not tell you for the moment.” I hear the stuffiness in my tone, but I refuse to say more until I know what he knows. Until I know he really cares for Alexandra.
“Will she be at school tomorrow?”
“She will not.” Why play games?
“What’s wrong? Is she ill?” He runs a hand through his wavy black hair—perhaps his one physical feature that detracts from the impression of Cro-Magnon. “What has happened?”
The poor guy’s teetering on the edge of panic. Feeling petty, I reply, “She’s ill. She’s been under great stress the last—”
“She said she was better. She said I helped her ...” Confusion and despair inflame his unfinished statement.
“I’m sure you have helped her, but for whatever reason—”
He leaps to his feet. “What does that mean? I don’t understand. Is Alexandra here—or in a hospital?”
“She’s not here, Nicholas.” I stand so that he’s not towering over me.
“Where is she?” The flash of his teeth reminds me of a wild animal at bay.
“You’ll have to trust me for a few days. No matter what you hear at school, don’t believe anything but what I tell you.” My chest tightens. His face is so drawn and colorless I worry he’s about to pass out.
“I called her nine, ten times today. To make sure I had the time correct for tonight.”
“She doesn’t have her cell phone. She can’t use it for at least … several days.”
“Please.” He looks as if he’s ready to go down on his knees. “What is wrong?”
Unwilling to break his heart with details of the bedroom scene and Alexandra’s defiance, I say, “Sit down.”
“I love Alexandra.” He returns to the sofa, but his glare negates his cooperation. “She loves me. Why would you withhold information?”
My maternal antennae shoot up. I state the obvious. “Alexandra’s my daughter. She’s fortunate you’re in her life, but I decide who gets to know what’s happening with her right now.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Romanov, but you may not be the best person to make that decision. How many of Alexandra’s friends do you know? How many of them do you think have her well-being as a priority? How many, besides me, give a damn about her and what she’s been through with her father’s death?” He doesn’t thump his chest, but I have the sense he’s close to resorting to such gestures to get my attention.
“I appreciate your loyalty—”
He leaps to his feet. “Loyalty? I love Alexandra. She is smart. And funny. And beautiful. And brave.”
His declarations imbue me with such sadness my lungs collapse. How can he possibly understand his princess screwing a stranger she’d picked up in a bar?
To fight my cynicism, I pinch the inside of my elbow. “Do you know a guy named Maverick O’Rourke?”