loaves of Ukrainian Christmas bread.”
“Kolach,” Tony Nguyen said, and he wrote my order in a small ringed notebook. “And your name?”
“Joanne Shreve,” I said. I gave him my address and phone number and said I’d pick up the baking on December 24. “Are the Brokaws still in Regina?”
“They moved to Victoria,” Tony Nguyen said. “They sought more pleasant winters.”
His wife boxed the strudel. “They worked hard all their lives,” she said softly. “Now this is our dream.”
“I’m sure you’ll have great success,” I said. “You seem to be doing all the right things.” I paid my bill; Rose Nguyen handed me my purchases, and I dropped them in my shopping bag.
“My brother, Phuoc Huu, bought the grocery store,” Tony said. “His borscht is very good with pumpernickel.”
I glanced outside. The grey was oppressive. “It looks like a perfect day for borscht,” I said. “Thanks for the suggestion.”
Like the Brokaw’s Bakery, the Brokaw’s Market was unchanged: the refrigerated display cases were filled with fresh and deli meats and an impressive variety of sausages. The freezers held cabbage rolls, perogies of every permutation or combination, and borscht – vegetarian and meat. Even the aisle that displayed Ukrainian gifts and cards was the same. I considered a pretty embroidered cloth, then, remembering that I had thirty-five years’ worth of tablecloths at home, put it back. There was a glass shelf of Russian nesting dolls. They had fascinated my own children when they were little. Their dolls had long since gone the way of all toys with moveable parts, but looking at twin Natasha dolls, one with black painted hair, one blonde, I knew they’d be a hit in Madeleine’s and Lena’s stockings and I placed them in my basket. There was a larger matryoshka nesting doll, dark-haired, pink-cheeked, and very pretty. I wouldn’t have minded finding her in my own stocking, but the price tag was $37.50, so I left her behind and went off in search of borscht and sausage.
Phuoc Huu Nguyen rang up my purchases. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
“And to you,” I said. I started for the door, but the lure of the pink-cheeked bright-eyed matryoshka doll was powerful. “I’ll be right back,” I said, and I went to the gift area, found my doll, and handed her and enough additional cash to Phuoc Huu Nguyen.
“Impulse buy,” I said.
“Works for me,” Phuoc Huu said, and he slipped the money into the register and handed me my purchase.
The Brokaws’ condo was downtown over a vintage record shop in a pedestrian mall of upscale shops and bistros. Whatever the season, Scarth Street Mall was a good place to be. Twice a week from the May 24 long weekend till Thanksgiving, it was the site of an open-air farmers’ market; in winter, the space became a skating rink. That afternoon the rink was all but deserted. The ice had been cleared, but there was only one skater, and he moved with a mechanical joylessness that seemed in tune with the grey and lowering sky.
The entrance to the condos was unprepossessing – just an ordinary door opening into a small vestibule with a panel of buzzers. I touched 201 and waited. There was no response. I tried again – and again. Finally, I gave up. As I turned to open the door to the street, I walked into Louise Hunter.
She was wearing a hot pink knitted cap with earflaps, a black leather jacket with matching pants, and knee-high black leather boots with knitted tops of hot pink – very chic and very youthful. She looked two decades younger than the world-weary, self-loathing woman I’d met at the Wainbergs’ party, but it wasn’t a question of clothes making the woman. That afternoon, Louise was sober, and that fact alone made all the difference.
“I just got here,” she said. “But I think I understand your problem.” Her voice was full of life. “You’re trying to get through to the older couple who just moved in down the hall from me.” She
“Kolach,” Tony Nguyen said, and he wrote my order in a small ringed notebook. “And your name?”
“Joanne Shreve,” I said. I gave him my address and phone number and said I’d pick up the baking on December 24. “Are the Brokaws still in Regina?”
“They moved to Victoria,” Tony Nguyen said. “They sought more pleasant winters.”
His wife boxed the strudel. “They worked hard all their lives,” she said softly. “Now this is our dream.”
“I’m sure you’ll have great success,” I said. “You seem to be doing all the right things.” I paid my bill; Rose Nguyen handed me my purchases, and I dropped them in my shopping bag.
“My brother, Phuoc Huu, bought the grocery store,” Tony said. “His borscht is very good with pumpernickel.”
I glanced outside. The grey was oppressive. “It looks like a perfect day for borscht,” I said. “Thanks for the suggestion.”
Like the Brokaw’s Bakery, the Brokaw’s Market was unchanged: the refrigerated display cases were filled with fresh and deli meats and an impressive variety of sausages. The freezers held cabbage rolls, perogies of every permutation or combination, and borscht – vegetarian and meat. Even the aisle that displayed Ukrainian gifts and cards was the same. I considered a pretty embroidered cloth, then, remembering that I had thirty-five years’ worth of tablecloths at home, put it back. There was a glass shelf of Russian nesting dolls. They had fascinated my own children when they were little. Their dolls had long since gone the way of all toys with moveable parts, but looking at twin Natasha dolls, one with black painted hair, one blonde, I knew they’d be a hit in Madeleine’s and Lena’s stockings and I placed them in my basket. There was a larger matryoshka nesting doll, dark-haired, pink-cheeked, and very pretty. I wouldn’t have minded finding her in my own stocking, but the price tag was $37.50, so I left her behind and went off in search of borscht and sausage.
Phuoc Huu Nguyen rang up my purchases. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
“And to you,” I said. I started for the door, but the lure of the pink-cheeked bright-eyed matryoshka doll was powerful. “I’ll be right back,” I said, and I went to the gift area, found my doll, and handed her and enough additional cash to Phuoc Huu Nguyen.
“Impulse buy,” I said.
“Works for me,” Phuoc Huu said, and he slipped the money into the register and handed me my purchase.
The Brokaws’ condo was downtown over a vintage record shop in a pedestrian mall of upscale shops and bistros. Whatever the season, Scarth Street Mall was a good place to be. Twice a week from the May 24 long weekend till Thanksgiving, it was the site of an open-air farmers’ market; in winter, the space became a skating rink. That afternoon the rink was all but deserted. The ice had been cleared, but there was only one skater, and he moved with a mechanical joylessness that seemed in tune with the grey and lowering sky.
The entrance to the condos was unprepossessing – just an ordinary door opening into a small vestibule with a panel of buzzers. I touched 201 and waited. There was no response. I tried again – and again. Finally, I gave up. As I turned to open the door to the street, I walked into Louise Hunter.
She was wearing a hot pink knitted cap with earflaps, a black leather jacket with matching pants, and knee-high black leather boots with knitted tops of hot pink – very chic and very youthful. She looked two decades younger than the world-weary, self-loathing woman I’d met at the Wainbergs’ party, but it wasn’t a question of clothes making the woman. That afternoon, Louise was sober, and that fact alone made all the difference.
“I just got here,” she said. “But I think I understand your problem.” Her voice was full of life. “You’re trying to get through to the older couple who just moved in down the hall from me.” She
Similar Books
