The village was a fair distance from the small train stop where I got off, along with another woman dressed in festive clothing that she clearly didn’t like. With a sigh of relief, she yanked off a brooch pinned to her fancy blouse, pulled a hair tie from the pocket of her wide, floral skirt, and gathered her flirtatiously loose hair into a ponytail at the back of her head. Then she picked up two bags stuffed with groceries from the ground and trudged down the cracked steps of the weed-overgrown platform. From the steps, a narrow path led to a small forest, then across a field, beyond which I could see the first houses of the village I’d come to.
I’d been here before with my parents, back when my grandmother was still alive. After she passed, my parents moved abroad permanently, but I stayed in Ukraine because I didn’t want to abandon my university studies. Life got busy after that, and I landed a good job here. Web designer. I made a lot of money—more than I could abroad, even with my excellent English and design skills. On top of that, I painted for my own enjoyment and sold my artwork. I had money. Everything was going great. Until now. Now, I didn’t have a job. But I planned to paint more and sell more. I already had a steady clientele, so that wouldn’t be a problem.
Going abroad to my parents right now, just to hear my mom’s sighs and my dad’s scolding, wasn’t something I wanted. I’d figure things out on my own and make my life good again. I just needed a little rest. To calm down. Make a plan. Come up with something. I’m strong, and I can handle any hardship. Yes. That’s who I am. I know it. I’m a modern young woman who has everything in life! And now, I’ll have a child too!
With those thoughts, I walked toward the village. Optimistic ones, no doubt about it.
“So, who are you here to see?” I heard the voice of the woman who’d gotten off the train with me. “Not many people come to our village. And not many live here either. Maybe you’re here for the agro-firm? For work?”
“No, not for work,” I reply to the curious woman. “I’m going to live here. Well, at least for the summer, to rest,” I make up on the spot. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll stay permanently. After all, I’m a city girl through and through. I know village life is tough. But I’ll give it a try. That’s what I’m thinking. And I explain a bit more to the woman. “I’m heading to Melania Romanivna’s house. I’m her granddaughter.”
“Melania Romanivna’s?” the woman repeats, looking at me with a wary expression for some reason. “Her granddaughter, huh?”
“Yeah, my name’s Marta. And you are?”
“I’m Olena Petrivna,” the woman introduces herself. “I work at the school here. Math teacher. Today’s a free day from classes—we call it a planning day. So I went to the city to do some shopping. Everything’s expensive at our local store, and they don’t have much anyway. So, you’re heading to the house by the river?” she clarifies.
“Yeah, that’s where my grandmother lived. Is the house still standing?” I ask. “I’m worried it might have fallen apart by now. I haven’t been there in ages.”
“Oh, it’s still standing,” the woman says. “But…”
“But what?” I ask, growing uneasy. I don’t like her pause.
“You’ll find out soon enough. Someone’s already living there.”
“What do you mean, living there? It’s my house. I’ve got the paperwork to prove it,” I say, patting my bag where my passport, house documents, and laptop with all the digital copies are stored.
“Yeah, someone came to work at the agro-firm. A scientist. Studying something or other. He’s got some kind of contract or project with ‘Flora.’ And since there was nowhere else for him to stay, they put him in your house. The village head decided that. So… I don’t know, you’ll have to sort it out yourself.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. A stranger in my house! I was getting worked up.
“But legally, it’s my house!” I started mentally arguing with the village head.
“Yes, yes, it’s yours, I’m just saying you’ll figure it out somehow,” the woman agreed. “By the way, I live not too far from there. I’ve got a cow and chickens. If you need milk, cheese, sour cream, or eggs, just let me know.”
“Thanks. And hey, you don’t have to call me ‘you’ so formally,” I say, a bit embarrassed. I’m just a little over thirty. ‘You’ as in a casual way works fine.
“Alright,” the woman nods. “But I’m a teacher. It’s a professional habit. I’m used to addressing everyone formally. And in the village, everyone does the same with me… So, are you married?” Olena Petrivna asks, giving me a once-over.
“No, never really got around to it,” I smile. “Work. Career.”
“Yeah, everyone’s like that these days,” she nods. “On TV shows, they say it’s fine to get married even after fifty. And why not? It’s modern life. But here, things are still pretty traditional.”
“I guess I’m not married because I haven’t met my true love yet, someone who really speaks to my soul,” I say, and Rest’s face flashes before my eyes, the jerk. Ugh, forget him! But my heart doesn’t want to forget—it aches.
“Maybe so,” the woman agrees.
Lost in conversation, we didn’t notice how we’d already entered the village. The road was paved but beat-up, full of potholes and puddles. It must’ve rained recently. Back in the city, it hadn’t rained in ages. Strange. I remembered the way to my grandmother’s house clearly—it was etched in my memory. At the first turn off the main street, not far from the river. By an ancient willow tree.
Olena Petrivna turned toward a neat little house with a modern tiled roof, a tall metal fence, and gates painted bright red.
I kept walking and soon saw the house. Just as I remembered it from childhood. Only the willow was gone. An old, overgrown stump, now a tall bush, showed that the tree had either fallen long ago or been cut down.
Surprisingly, the little house didn’t look neglected. The grass along the path leading to the doorstep had been neatly mowed. The windows weren’t boarded up, and the door had recently been painted a garish yellow. I winced at the color. Clearly, the new occupant’s doing. But now the real owner was here. As Olena Petrivna put it, “we’ll sort it out.”
And right now. Because the door swung open, and a man stepped out onto the porch. Shirtless, wearing only jeans, barefoot. A light stubble made him look like one of those French heartthrobs from the old romance movies I love so much. He reminded me of Alain Delon. Oh, heavens, how am I supposed to deal with someone like this?
I’ve long noticed that beautiful, striking people knock me off my feet just by being there. That’s the artist in me. So I stood frozen, staring at his chiseled torso, defined biceps, and shoulders roped with muscles. And that perfect face of his—it was begging to be sketched...