Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(75)
It seemed like another lifetime, but it had only been a year ago when he conversed with Natalia’s cousin during one of their marathon wire exchanges. He had teased Gwen about her blunt, unappealing nickname and insisted on calling her Gwendolyn. She sent him a recipe to distill the fragrant juniper berries that grew near his outpost into a perfume, and he had managed to produce it during the long, dark Siberian nights. That bottle of perfume, along with everything else he’d owned, was abandoned after he was arrested at the Amur River.
She smiled at him. “I thought you had forgotten that.”
“I have forgotten nothing of my conversations with Natalia,” he said. “They were happier times.”
“Happy?” Gwen asked in surprise. “We were given to understand that you were lonely and miserable in Siberia.”
Had he been miserable? It was a more innocent time, when all he worried about was how to fill the hours while battling loneliness and cold, but pride in what he had accomplished during those years was a form of joy too.
“Sometimes our best memories are born during our harshest trials,” he said. “They become happy only in hindsight.”
Gwen sent him a smile of bittersweet understanding before gesturing him toward the house. “Come out to the back porch and tell us about it,” Gwen said. “We’re about to have lunch.”
Dimitri followed her through the house to a porch overlooking the lake. A luncheon had been set out on the picnic table, but he had no interest in it. All he wanted to do was wrangle an introduction to Maxim Tachenko and persuade him to record “Waves of the Amur,” but Gwen was adamant that it was impossible.
“He’ll never agree to do it,” she said as she poured lemonade into glasses. “Once he retreats to his lake house for the summer, he turns away all guests. He battens down the hatches, takes in his welcome mat, and lives like a monk. He is a complete recluse.”
Her husband was equally adamant. “Old Mrs. Johnson learned that the hard way last summer when she put a cherry pie on his doorstep in honor of the Fourth of July, and he blasted it to pieces with a shotgun. He’s a fussy artist with an insanely irrational streak.”
“He is a patriot,” Dimitri insisted. “That man was driven out of Russia because he couldn’t resist stoking the revolutionary fire. A man like that might like to start a little conflagration over here as well. Which house is his?”
He scanned the opposite side of the lake and identified Tachenko’s house even before Gwen pointed to the gabled roof peeking through the woods. It was a classic Russian dacha, painted pale blue with white gingerbread trim. A rickety wooden fence surrounded an overgrown garden and a profusion of wildflowers.
“We should go over there,” he said. “We are accomplishing nothing sitting here, discussing why he will not cooperate. I shall go ask him.”
Patrick stood. “Not without backup. I’m serious about that man’s irrationality.” He looked at Gwen. “We’ll need you to come with us to soothe his ire. Let’s go.”
Natalia was surprised by the shabby condition of the famous violinist’s house and garden. The picket fence needed a coat of paint, and the eaves on one side of the porch listed at a dangerous angle. The garden was a mess, full of unkempt wildflowers and vines crawling along the fence. She hoisted her skirts to hop along the stepping-stones barely visible in the overgrown grass. Gwen pointed out the lilac shrubs she had saved last year, but it was impossible to pay attention because a violin solo coming from an open window held Natalia captivated. It was a Mendelssohn solo but heavily embellished with improvisational riffs and cadenzas that felt like joy itself shaking off its cocoon and coming to life.
She looked at Dimitri, who stilled and placed his hand over his heart, equally moved. They stood in wonder, for such music deserved complete reverence. Oh yes, she must convince Mr. Tachenko to record his music for posterity.
Gwen and Patrick had gone ahead to stand on the back porch, preparing to knock. “Are you coming?” Gwen called back to them.
The music screeched to a halt. “Go away!” a voice hollered from inside. It was followed by a string of curses in Russian, along with the sound of window sashes slamming down, one after another in rapid succession.
Dimitri raced to the one remaining window still open and leaned inside. “Mr. Tachenko, we have come to pay homage!” he announced in Russian.
Another string of curses came as the violinist stomped toward the final window, preparing to slam it down on Dimitri’s outstretched arm. Good heavens, Tachenko was wielding a baseball bat!
“Wait!” Natalia implored. “This is Count Sokolov, the hero of the Amur River.”
Tachenko reared back in surprise. He dropped the bat and held his arms wide. “Comrade!” he boomed. “Welcome to my home!”
He threw open the back door and beckoned them inside. Natalia craned her neck to admire the dacha. It wasn’t a splendid craftsman’s house like Gwen’s but like her mother always described Russian country dachas. The cedar plank walls were unpainted except for some folk patterns along the edges. Carpets in tribal patterns covered the floors, and lacy curtains framed the windows. Jugs of wildflowers sat beside a priceless Meissen figurine; a chipped mirror hung beside an oil painting framed in gilt. It was a curious mix of grandiosity and humble folk art, and she loved it.