Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(32)

His eyes glinted with intensity, but when he spoke, his voice was cool. “We have two hours before the train departs. I would like to continue exploring the city, for I doubt I will pass this way again.”

She fumbled inside her attaché case and produced his ticket, handing it to him without a word. He took it, and she turned to board the cable car, grasping the hold bar and hoisting herself aboard.

They locked steely glares, but he made no move to follow her on board, and with a jerk, the trolley continued on its way, leaving Dimitri behind.

She watched as he faded into the distance, still facing her as she quietly seethed. Let him get lost in a strange city if he thought she was being unreasonable. She’d come all the way across the country to meet him, and he couldn’t even go twenty-four hours without letting his overly emotional temperament upend her life.

She’d always wanted a fearless man, but now that she had invited one into her world, it was turning into a disaster.





15





Dimitri watched the cable car pull away, the clang of its bell blending with other noise on the busy street. Was she really going to abandon him in the middle of a strange city? He swallowed back a momentary rush of panic. He’d made it this far from the wilds of Siberia with little more than the clothes on his back. He could get to the train station before his train departed.

Besides, he’d seen a Russian shop a few blocks away, and perhaps they would have newspapers from home. It would be good to know what had transpired in the months since he’d fled. He headed back up Market Street until he found the storefront with its familiar Cyrillic lettering painted across the top of the window.

A pang of homesickness hit as he entered the shop, which was redolent with the scent of tobacco and spicy sausages. It had been years since he’d set foot in a Russian store like this, with ropes of sausages dangling from hooks and barrels of dry goods on the floor. Kettles of soup, salads, and delicatessen meats were behind the front counter.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted the shopkeeper in Russian. Sadly, the store did not carry Russian newspapers, but his attention was quickly diverted by the group of men gathered in a tiny dining area, wolfing down hearty bowls of stolichny salad. Dimitri wasn’t hungry, but the traditional salad made from potatoes, capers, onions, and peas, all covered in sour cream, was a familiar touchstone with home.

He ordered a bowl, then reached into his pocket to study the American currency. He had a wad of ten-dollar bills and several fives and ones. How much was that? He had no understanding of American money, but the bowl of salad was less than a dollar, so he bought an almond cake and sweet rolls to share with the men at the back table.

They gladly made space for him when he approached with the huge platter of food. They clapped him on the back and welcomed him like an old friend. He felt an instant comradery with these men, whose humor he shared and who had no complicated loyalties to banks or international investments. The men were soon engaged in a fierce debate about a shipment of timber that was late, and since they cared so passionately, Dimitri did too.

One of the men provided a shot of vodka for their coffee, and soon they were singing songs from the old country. They smoked cigars and gave one another long and complicated toasts, falling over themselves to pay compliments. It would have been nice to linger among this newfound comradery of the people who spoke his language and welcomed him with such ease, but Natalia and the train would not wait.

He wanted to take a piece of Russia with him on the train, and he selected a box of cream cigars because the familiar scent of vanilla, tobacco, and dark coffee was like the most precious perfume known to man. He didn’t even enjoy smoking, but he wanted to get drunk on their heady fragrance.

He should buy something for Natalia. He scanned the shelf of trinkets, nesting dolls, and cheap hair combs with paste jewels. The only thing that truly caught his eye was a little figurine of a firebird. It was brightly painted in the colors of a blazing sunset, and he wanted to share the bit of whimsy with her.

He bought the cigars and the firebird, then flagged down a streetcar in the same manner that he’d seen Natalia do and rode it to the train station.

American train depots were not terribly different from those in Saint Petersburg, except here the porters were black men in uniforms of the Pullman company instead of former serfs from the countryside. He saw a passenger tip a porter with a few coins. Tipping was another difference here, but Dimitri had always been generous, and the roll of bills Natalia had given him was fat.

He approached a porter and showed him his ticket. “Can you tell me where I should board this train?”

The porter studied the ticket, which indicated Dimitri had a sleeping berth for night travel but was sharing a first-class compartment during the day. “I’ll escort you to both, sir.”

The porter showed him to a men’s sleeper car, where his newly purchased clothes had already been delivered. The sleeping berths were stacked on top of each other three high, but each had an accordion screen for privacy. Facilities were in a neighboring car and would be shared by all the men slotted into these odd, coffin-like sleeping berths. Then the porter walked him through a series of cars joined together by pass-throughs until they came to the first-class compartments.

Dimitri had no idea what sort of tip was the norm, so he peeled off a few bills.

“Thank you, sir!” the porter said with a huge grin, and a surge of benevolence overcame Dimitri. He was alive and had made it to America. He was on his way to New York in a first-class compartment. He peeled off a few more bills and tipped the porter again, grateful for another broad smile because Natalia would probably still be angry and this might be the last friendly face he would see today.