“You’re here, finally.” Sergei was halfway across the pub, which was full of customers, but that didn’t stop him from booming over everyone’s heads as soon as she cleared the threshold. He put his whole arm into waving her over.
Big surprise. Sitting half-hidden until she’d waded through the crowd was Depy. Her former mother-in-law made a meal out of standing to plant powdery kisses all over Hannah before Rachel could back away from her. Back in the exhausting post-divorce, post-birth months, when living at Depy’s house was the least of several evils, she’d failed to make peace with the woman. Relied on her, yes. Trusted her to keep Hannah safe and loved, yes. Agreed about her nine thousand theories of childcare, not even close.
Over several colic-pacing nights she’d investigated the laundry room and kitchen and cleaning supplies, trying to pinpoint the particular combination of scents that lead to Depy always seeming a bit musty around the edges. She’d never found it, and never quite gotten used to it, though she was ready to admit that her feelings about Depy and her ex-husband fueled her reaction more than actual sensory objections.
At least there was no denying the woman’s devotion to Hannah. And the adoration was mutual, much to Rachel’s mingled relief and frustration. Now, losing Mary Lynn, she resolved to appreciate someone else putting Hannah at the center of the world. Or, close to the center. Depy would always value her son above everything.
Almost always. Only when Sergei’s behavior during the divorce threatened to put a permanent wedge between Depy and her soon-to-be-born grandchild had the woman put her foot down with him. Now Depy kept him following the visitation schedule, and in time he’d figured out how to be a decent father. If not a decent ex. Plus, Hannah adored her papa, and the thing Sergei loved most in the world was the adoration of others. In return, he was charming and focused and capable of behaving like a prince.
Just like he’d once been with her. So charming, so infatuated, so ready to bask while she worshipped him.
The problems came when mutual infatuation faded to what should be some kind of mature partnership. She’d gone through it herself, and seen him do the same with girlfriends in the years since they’d separated.
She’d even been jealous of those girlfriends, the ones with the backbone to stand up to him when he smashed the pedestal he’d built for them and used the shards to hurl abuse their way. Those other women—Depy made sure she knew about all the other women—didn’t stick around while Sergei belittled them and used his pitying tone to explain how they weren’t book smart, and they ought to buy clothes that didn’t make them look so frumpy, and they should let his mother show them how to starch his collars.
Depy never shared those stories, but Rachel could sense them from the way Sergei’s charming facade began to slip a few months in to any relationship, He was less reliable with Hannah drop-offs. His texts about the schedule got snippier. He stopped posting pictures bragging about Hannah on Facebook. It didn’t matter that Depy and Hannah still idolized him; a single blow to his armor and he treated the whole as if it was about to rust in place around him.
It took her three of his failed post-divorce relationships to learn that she had to stop scurrying around with an oilcan and polishing cloths trying to keep his armor shiny for him. He would have to squire himself. Or let Depy do it.
Rachel’s job was to be all the parent Hannah would ever need, because at some point, Sergei was going to decide she wasn’t enough of a reflection of his glory. Hannah would need a place where she could always be herself, even if her self wasn’t in the mood to heap adulation upon her father. It might not be until she was seventeen, or it might be when she was seven, but at some point, it would happen. And until then, Rachel would monitor Hannah’s post-visitation moods for signs that Sergei was giving Hannah the broken pedestal treatment.
It was another reason she was forced to be grateful for Depy. Depy was many things, and many of those things fed into Sergei’s outsized self-regard, but she was Hannah’s champion. Rachel could trust her to shield Hannah from any of Sergei’s direct insults. Even if he snuck in some of his insidious tearing down of the girl’s self-worth, she would be protected, thanks to Depy.
Who smelled musty around the edges.
“Hannah, you’re getting too big for Yia Yia. Come sit on my lap because if I hold you in my arms they will break from the strain.”
She refused to roll her eyes. “So the reward chart and stickers are in the bag. You got my email about the schedule?”
Depy shook her head. “Yes but those newfangled tricks are all wrong. I will tell when my Hannah is ready for big girl panties.”
“We don’t say that phrase.” Depy deigned to look at her, so she clarified. “‘Big girl,’ I mean. Potty readiness doesn’t relate to size.”
“But she is a big girl. Aren’t you, Hannah? Aren’t you Yia Yia’s big girl? Your mama doesn’t know a big girl when she sees one?”
The woman might set back every milestone she and Hannah had reached, but Rachel didn’t need to stand there and watch it happen. Sergei, giant surprise, had slipped off somewhere. So she kissed Hannah and retreated to the bar, needing a glass of water and a moment to herself before leaving her daughter in Depy’s know-it-all hands.
“Ron, got a minute?”
The brewer turned from his whiteboard, lifting his chin in affirmation. “What’s up?”
Theo stepped into the walled off section beside the fermenting tanks, sliding to the left of the door to catch a bit of the breeze from the floor fan. Despite the buildup of heat on the brewery floor, Ron refused to set up a desk in the brewpub’s front offices. It gave Theo more room to spread his work out, but doomed him to hunting across yet another area for the packing lists that Ron shoved on a clipboard and Sergei stacked in a cardboard box under the bar.
Such was the life of the CFO. “Hey, did Javi check the delivery of the 2-row and red wheat this time?”
Ron gestured at the clipboard hanging on a nail by the door. “Told him to.”
Pulling the wedge of receipts free, Theo said, “Thanks. Listen, I need to see if we can move up the monthly meeting. I’m heading to Fort Worth early. Annalisa wants to take him on this schools-end campout Saturday, so I’m going Thursday-Friday this week and extending Father’s Day to the whole weekend.” He straightened the paperwork, shuffling the pink half-sheets from their malt vendor to the top so he could verify that the dockhand had counted the sacks before storing them on the pallet rack.
Ron, who’d been consulting his calendar, said, “I wanted to bring the summer ale to the meeting. Won’t be ready before Thursday. Can we do it the next week?”
“I’ll check with Sergei.”
Ron grunted. “He’ll care?”
Straightening, Theo rapped his knuckles against the doorframe. “Monday after lunch, then. I’ll let Sergei know.”
He passed through the swinging doors beside the back bar, and just about smacked into Rachel. She was settling Hannah’s overnight bag onto a stool, eyes trained on where her daughter danced in Depy’s lap.
“Oh, sorry.”
She spun to face him, backing up a hasty step and increasing their personal space more than Theo thought was strictly necessary. She looked grim, brackets alongside her mouth and shoulders slumped like they still bore the weight of the duffel. “Theo.”
He waited, but that seemed to be the extent of her comment on his presence. Not that there was anything remarkable about his being in his own business. “You doing okay?”
She shrugged, turning back to watch Hannah. There was something coiled about her, Theo thought. A spring ready to bounce, a catapult ready to fling. He skirted around her, watching Sergei’s interactions with his mother and daughter. The man was scrolling through his phone, which come to think of it he was doing a good quarter of the time Theo saw him. He’d condensed as much of his job as possible to fit on his phone—another reason Theo was able to spread out in the brewery’s office. Hannah reached over for a fistful of Sergei’s shirt, and Depy unhooked her fingers before sweeping the girl up for a series of kisses.
Rachel wrapped her arms around herself.
“Do you...?” He trailed off, relieved she hadn’t seemed to hear him. Her tension wasn’t any of his business. And none of his ideas for how to help her relax were, he had to remind himself, wise ones.
But then Sergei stepped away from the family tableau, lifting his phone to make a call. He plugged his other ear with his free hand, squinting down at his squealing child.
Rachel’s indrawn breath was sharper than the well-honed blades on the industrial blender. She turned back to him. “Do I what?”
He was stammering for an answer that would be nothing but kindness and banality, but maybe his cheeks had flared or his Adam’s apple had bobbed or somehow else she saw that he hadn’t started the question with pure intentions. She stared. He closed his mouth. She nodded.
“I do.”