The Imperial Wife by Irina Reyn Page B

like.”
    â€œWow. I don’t want to essentialize and say there’s something unique about Russians, but I think you’re amazing,” he says. He’s used that hyperbolic word before—“amazing.” It thrills me almost as much as it worries me. Is he seeing me or some heroine out of Doctor Zhivago, a fur stole around her shoulders, melancholy blue eyes staring deeply into the expanse of icy steppes? Does it matter? “I could tell from the minute I saw you studiously naming those frankly ugly paintings behind your desk. This girl, I thought, is the opposite of complacent. She glows with fire. I have to tell you, I was pretty drawn to it.” Reaching over the corner of the table, his hand is warm on my wrist. It burns a hole in its center. There’s that Look I can’t define, filled with reverence.
    How grateful I am for that Look. How much my wobbly confidence needs the fire of all that admiration. I place a trio of fingers on his forearm. “Hey, you know what? I want to read your book when it’s ready. I’ll love it. And I can help you with any Russian words.”
    â€œWould you? It’s kind of getting killed in this workshop I’m taking right now, but the only thing people understand in workshop is short stories. It’s a waste to even put it up for workshop.” He bends his head to mine in an arc of conspiracy. “But I’ve got a feeling you’ll inspire me. Moi kotenok . Am I saying that right?”
    The restaurant has more people standing than sitting, waiting their turn. All that waiting makes me feel at the cusp of uncultivated possibility. “Tiramisu and two forks,” he tells the waitress. How confident he sounds ordering for us both. A sprinkle of cocoa powder, the moistness of rum, two forks meeting in the center. The last time I was this happy was when I won the third-grade spelling bee and overheard parents whispering that I’d only arrived in the country nine months ago.
    When the bill arrives, the tiramisu not reflected on the final tally, Carl makes sure to call the server back and inform her that she forgot to charge for the dessert.
    â€œYour man is an honest one,” the woman says, and brings us a decadent complimentary bread pudding even though it will enrage the hostess and all those hungry people, and extend our stay here together, indefinitely. Your man.
    *   *   *
    Eventually, the day arrives when he says, “Are you ready to meet the Vandermotters?”
    It’s an invitation for which I’ve spent years at Worthington’s preparing. I know only this much: his mother likes to be called Cece, she will expect a thank-you card after the dinner, and I’m to eat as much as possible before heading over because there will probably be little food on offer.
    â€œReady,” I say, instructions memorized. I can’t possibly eat, my stomach flip-flopping.
    The weekend before, I spend an entire paycheck shopping for the occasion. Entering Bergdorf’s department store is not unlike entering Worthington’s, where the salespeople instantly appraise your worthiness of their solicitude. A store where dresses hang far apart from their neighbors in neat rows, sleeves queued up like soldiers. So different than the usual places I shop—the Russian-preferred discounted jumble of Loehmann’s, the bins of sample sales and clearance racks of Century 21. At Bergdorf’s, even the sale signs, when they crop up, are so discreet and tiny, they almost dare you to scrutinize them.
    In a dressing room the size of my bedroom, I tremble into dresses of pink floral patterns and absurdly expensive blue and white cotton twill, and hold my breath at the exorbitant price tags.
    â€œWhat is the return policy?” I ask the saleswoman. She assures me it is sixty days with receipt so I buy the Chanel blazer and bag and conceal the sales tag in one of the pockets.
    As the day draws