toothy smile.
“Very cute. Reminds me of when my sons were that age.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Damned if I can remember.”
I burst out laughing, and Anneke winked at me.
I slowly guided the woman across the square, and the crowd parted and cleared a path for her toward the black car waiting at the far end. Everyone seemed to be leaving an awfully large circle around her. Was that just Croatian custom, or did they know who she was? Were they scared of her? I had no idea.
“Do they always stay away from you like this?” I signed to her. My arms ached from lifting the bags as I ran through the signs, and I decided that regardless of her answer, I was done talking until we got to the car.
“They hear rumors and make up their own stories to fit them,” she signed back. “They think—“
Anneke caught her foot on a loose cobblestone and suddenly pitched forward. I reached out and blocked her fall—pushing her back upright again—but the grocery bags dragged me off balance in her place and I toppled to the ground with a loud thud.
“Goddamnit!” I hissed, rocking back and forth melodramatically and holding my knee.
I could feel the burning of my skinned knee, and a little reddish-black spot was already spreading on my jeans as they soaked up the blood. Anneke slowly chased after a green pepper that was doing its best to escape into the crowd, and as I struggled to my feet, someone reached down to help me up.
“Hey, you okay?” said a very familiar man’s voice, and as the outstretched hand yanked me to my feet, I stared straight into the face of Sergei Ibramovic.
“Um… yes. Yes, I’m okay,” I stuttered, staring into his almost unrealistically brown eyes. He smiled back at me and then squeezed my hand once before releasing it.
“Careful there, Sarah. Got to keep an eye on where you’re going or you might get hurt.”
Was that supposed to be a threat? I couldn’t tell. He flashed a bright and friendly grin, and I wrote my interpretation off as a combination of personal paranoia and the language barrier.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, smiling back at him. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problems at all,” he said, flashing that same, almost rehearsed grin. “How is my dear mother doing today?”
“Anneke is doing just fine, thank you,” I answered, suddenly feeling defensive toward the old lady.
Something about the way Sergei asked the question put me on edge, but I still couldn’t figure out why. Was he really that threatening, or had Peter poisoned the well and biased me against his brother so completely?
“Good, I am glad,” he said, still smiling at me oddly, and he crouched down beside me to help pick up the spilled groceries.
“You don’t like me, do you?” he suddenly asked as he handed me a spilled bunch of grapes.
“No… well, I… I don’t know,” I stammered. “Peter hates you, and everything I know about you is from him.”
“Of course he hates me,” said Sergei, almost purring. “My brother is a stereotypical miserable millionaire. He spent his entire life building up that company of his and forgot about everything else. Forgot about his family, about his personal life…”
He glanced up at me and shrugged before continuing.
“As for me? I’m doing just fine for myself. I’m not as wealthy as Peter, but I’ve got a million to my name, and I don’t need any more than that. I’m ten times as happy as he will ever be.”
“Is that really all there is to it?” I asked. He made a good point about Peter’s company—as far as I knew at least—but I’d seen beyond Peter’s disguise before, and I believed there was more to him.
Sergei turned away from me, and just as I thought he was going to ignore me and leave, he turned back to me again.
“Peter’s intuition is terrible about many things,” he said, leaning in uncomfortably close to me, “but there is one thing, one detail, that he is exactly right about.”
“And that
“Very cute. Reminds me of when my sons were that age.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Damned if I can remember.”
I burst out laughing, and Anneke winked at me.
I slowly guided the woman across the square, and the crowd parted and cleared a path for her toward the black car waiting at the far end. Everyone seemed to be leaving an awfully large circle around her. Was that just Croatian custom, or did they know who she was? Were they scared of her? I had no idea.
“Do they always stay away from you like this?” I signed to her. My arms ached from lifting the bags as I ran through the signs, and I decided that regardless of her answer, I was done talking until we got to the car.
“They hear rumors and make up their own stories to fit them,” she signed back. “They think—“
Anneke caught her foot on a loose cobblestone and suddenly pitched forward. I reached out and blocked her fall—pushing her back upright again—but the grocery bags dragged me off balance in her place and I toppled to the ground with a loud thud.
“Goddamnit!” I hissed, rocking back and forth melodramatically and holding my knee.
I could feel the burning of my skinned knee, and a little reddish-black spot was already spreading on my jeans as they soaked up the blood. Anneke slowly chased after a green pepper that was doing its best to escape into the crowd, and as I struggled to my feet, someone reached down to help me up.
“Hey, you okay?” said a very familiar man’s voice, and as the outstretched hand yanked me to my feet, I stared straight into the face of Sergei Ibramovic.
“Um… yes. Yes, I’m okay,” I stuttered, staring into his almost unrealistically brown eyes. He smiled back at me and then squeezed my hand once before releasing it.
“Careful there, Sarah. Got to keep an eye on where you’re going or you might get hurt.”
Was that supposed to be a threat? I couldn’t tell. He flashed a bright and friendly grin, and I wrote my interpretation off as a combination of personal paranoia and the language barrier.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, smiling back at him. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problems at all,” he said, flashing that same, almost rehearsed grin. “How is my dear mother doing today?”
“Anneke is doing just fine, thank you,” I answered, suddenly feeling defensive toward the old lady.
Something about the way Sergei asked the question put me on edge, but I still couldn’t figure out why. Was he really that threatening, or had Peter poisoned the well and biased me against his brother so completely?
“Good, I am glad,” he said, still smiling at me oddly, and he crouched down beside me to help pick up the spilled groceries.
“You don’t like me, do you?” he suddenly asked as he handed me a spilled bunch of grapes.
“No… well, I… I don’t know,” I stammered. “Peter hates you, and everything I know about you is from him.”
“Of course he hates me,” said Sergei, almost purring. “My brother is a stereotypical miserable millionaire. He spent his entire life building up that company of his and forgot about everything else. Forgot about his family, about his personal life…”
He glanced up at me and shrugged before continuing.
“As for me? I’m doing just fine for myself. I’m not as wealthy as Peter, but I’ve got a million to my name, and I don’t need any more than that. I’m ten times as happy as he will ever be.”
“Is that really all there is to it?” I asked. He made a good point about Peter’s company—as far as I knew at least—but I’d seen beyond Peter’s disguise before, and I believed there was more to him.
Sergei turned away from me, and just as I thought he was going to ignore me and leave, he turned back to me again.
“Peter’s intuition is terrible about many things,” he said, leaning in uncomfortably close to me, “but there is one thing, one detail, that he is exactly right about.”
“And that
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