That evening, Irma visited the house where she had spent her childhood. Her mother lived there now, but Irma still dropped by at least once a week.
Once upon a time, this cozy nest had been lovingly tended by her grandparents. It was her grandfather, Orest Zakrevsky, who had founded the trauma center now owned by Stephen Wozniak. Sadly, Irma’s grandparents were no longer with them. Only her grandmother had lived long enough to witness her daughter’s divorce, but by then, she no longer worried about such things. So now, the old house belonged solely to their daughter—Faina Wozniak.
Irma walked slowly along the stone-paved path to the intricately carved front door. It was March, but primroses and mysterious green, white, and pink hellebores were already blooming alongside the path. She could still see a bit, though darkness was beginning to settle over the yard.
Lights glowed in the windows, so her mother was already home, which was convenient since Irma had forgotten to call ahead and let her know she was coming. Not that it was necessary—she had her own key—but she desperately wanted to talk to her mother.
Irma unlocked the door and stepped into the dim entryway, shedding her coat and boots before slipping into her favorite soft green velour house slippers. Music drifted from the living room. More precisely, it was singing—a low, pleasant male voice crooning in French.
Irma peeked into the living room. Everything there remained just as it had been in her grandmother’s time. Her mother hadn’t changed a thing, preserving the space in memory of her parents. And why change anything when it was already so cozy and beautiful?
Faina Wozniak sat in an armchair, reading a book. At nearly fifty, she was still an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Her styled gray hair, falling almost to her shoulders, lent her an air of charm and elegance. She refused to dye it on principle. Irma knew there were a few wrinkles on her well-cared-for face, but from a distance, they were barely noticeable. Even at home, Faina never wore robes, preferring elegant dresses. Her harmonious presence inspired nothing but respect and admiration in everyone. Irma sometimes regretted that she didn’t resemble her mother more, taking after her father instead. Perhaps that was why her parents had divorced—they were just too different?
— Hi, — Irma said softly, as her mother hadn’t noticed her yet.
— Oh, hello! — Faina Wozniak set her book aside, using a beautifully designed bookmark. — Sweetie, are you hungry?
Irma shook her head and stepped into the living room, plopping down onto the sofa with a sigh.
— Hannah and I met at a café and had a decent dinner.
— Such a nice girl, your Hannah. How is she? Not married yet? — her mother inquired.
— She hasn’t found ‘the one’ yet, as she puts it.
— If she doesn’t give anyone a chance, she never will. But that’s her business. How about you? How’s work? Any news?
Irma ignored the first two questions and jumped straight to the topic weighing on her mind.
— Hasn’t Dad told you?
— Told me what? We haven’t spoken in a while.
— Nina came up with a new format for his birthday celebration.
— Oh, that? No, your father didn’t mention it. But Nina personally called me to let me know the party will be themed around the 1920s. And that she and Stephen expect to see me there with a dance partner.
A faint smile appeared on Faina Wozniak’s face. She always seemed above any potential drama. Even when she learned that her ex-husband was remarrying—and to whom—Faina had merely raised her eyebrows and remarked, “An interesting experiment.”
— A personal call to her husband’s first wife… How sweet! You’re not even friends, never have been. What a… rude woman, — Irma muttered. — Did you satisfy her curiosity?
— About a partner?
Faina rose gracefully from her chair. Everything she did was smooth, refined, almost perfect—at least, that’s how it always seemed to Irma. She suspected her mother was a better dancer than she was. But Irma never felt jealous; she was proud of her.
— Exactly.
— I just said I’d be there. No details, no specifics. I’m not sure if that satisfied Nina’s curiosity.
Unlike Irma, who had brought Nina into their home, her mother had never liked her. Though, being the refined woman she was, Faina never explained why. Perhaps she wanted Irma to figure it out on her own, since young, impulsive people often think they know best. It seemed her mother’s intuition was far sharper than hers.
— You don’t have to, — Irma replied.
That’s why she never asked if her mother was seeing anyone.
— Enough about her. — Faina Wozniak headed toward the kitchen. — I’d like some coffee. Will you have some?
— Sure.
— Sit for a bit. Want a magazine? By the way, I have some kurabiye (a type of shortbread cookie from the Middle East—author’s note).
— No, I don’t want a magazine. Let’s go together. We can chat in the kitchen, — Irma stood up as well.
— So, there’s more about this party?
Irma sighed.
— Unfortunately, yes. Don’t you want to turn off the music?
— Does it bother you?
— No.
— Then let it play. I like this voice.
In the kitchen, her mother immediately put the kettle on. She didn’t believe in coffee machines and always brewed her coffee in a cezve.
Irma washed her hands and settled at the solid wooden table.
— Mom, I need a suitable dress. You know I don’t have time to go shopping.
— I’m not sure if our local stores have anything appropriate. We might have to try and recreate the spirit of that era.
Her mother placed a beautiful antique cut-porcelain bowl filled with cookies in front of Irma.
— That’s why I’m asking you. If there’s anything fitting in this town, it’ll be at your boutique.
Faina Wozniak owned a rather popular vintage boutique among enthusiasts, where one could find all sorts of items, sometimes quite rare.
— Alright. Then I’ll expect you there tomorrow. Will lunchtime work? I’ll have something picked out by then.
— Unfortunately, lunch won’t work. I have a meeting scheduled for that time with… just a meeting.
Irma glanced at her mother and caught her curious look. Had something in her voice sounded anxious? She truly didn’t know if her planned venture would succeed.
— Just a meeting? Don’t want to share?
— Well… — Why not tell her? If it worked out, her mother would find out anyway. And if it didn’t… Better not to dwell on that, or it definitely wouldn’t happen. — Fine. I’m meeting Movchan, Hannah’s brother. You don’t know him, but Hannah’s mentioned him before.
— What’s the purpose of the meeting, if it’s not a secret? Usually, you schedule important non-work meetings during lunch breaks.
Irma grimaced.
— I need a dance partner for that party.
— First, don’t make that face. Second, what happened to Fred? Is he sick?
Irma shook her head.
— Fred’s fine. At least he was at lunch today. But he’s refusing to come with me.
— That’s surprising, — her mother sat down at the opposite end of the table, elegantly folding her hands with their well-manicured nails. Speaking of which, Irma reminded herself to get a manicure. — Did he explain why?
— He said he doesn’t want to be looked at like he’s invisible.
— That’s an unpleasant situation for you. So, you’re looking for a replacement?
— Just for one evening. It doesn’t change anything between me and Fred. He suggested it himself.
Her mother raised her eyebrows ever so slightly.
— Then… I wish you luck.
— I’ll need it.
At that moment, the kettle began to boil…
* * *
The next day during her lunch break, Irma ordered a taxi and headed to her friend’s place.
Earlier that morning, she and Hannah had spoken on the phone, and Hannah had whispered that Movchan had arrived and was sleeping like a log. The friends weren’t sure how to broach the necessary conversation with him, so they decided to pretend Irma was just stopping by for lunch—to catch up and chat about girl stuff. They’d figure out the rest as they went.
Truth be told, Irma was a bit nervous. More than a bit, actually. After all, a lot depended on this upcoming talk with her friend’s brother, since she had no other options. You could even say Movchan was Irma’s last hope to show up at the party with a date and prove that it wasn’t a problem for her.
As Irma climbed the stairs to the fourth floor of an old, somewhat dated five-story building, she kept trying to picture what Movchan might be like now. The last time they’d seen each other was ages ago. She thought Movchan had been twenty-five back then, which meant she and Hannah were around twenty. Had it really been nine years? Wow! Did Movchan even remember her?
Irma hesitated but finally pressed the doorbell with less confidence than usual.
So, he must be thirty-four now. Back then, he’d been a decent-looking guy, but now, he’d probably aged, maybe even gone bald…
The door swung open, revealing a broad-shouldered, lean, and rather tall male figure. Dark gray eyes, sharp features…
— And not bald…
His expressive eyebrows twitched briefly.
— Good afternoon to you too, Irma. Long time no see. What, was I supposed to?
— What? — she mumbled, caught off guard.
— Go bald, — a corner of his well-defined mouth quirked up.
Even in his younger years, Movchan had been sparing with his emotions, so this didn’t surprise Irma. What did shock her was that she’d said those words out loud without even realizing it.
— Good afternoon, — she greeted belatedly, figuring it was better than trying to explain the unexplainable. Normally, Irma didn’t act like a scatterbrain. — Can I come in? I mean, is Hannah home?
She didn’t want him to think she’d come to see him. Though, in a way, she had—but it was too soon for Movchan to know that.
— She’s home. Come on in.
Movchan stepped aside to let her pass. Irma entered and began taking off her coat with determination. Suddenly, her hands brushed against his, and her coat felt almost weightless.
Was he… helping her?
It had been ages since anyone had helped Irma with her coat. Maybe someone would have liked to, but as Hannah once pointed out, they didn’t dare because Irma always seemed like a woman who could handle everything herself.
Of course she could. She wasn’t helpless, and she never expected handouts from men. But right now, as Movchan assisted her, Irma found she liked it. Probably just a fluke, since she was a bit on edge.
— Irma! — Hannah appeared in the hallway, glanced at Movchan, and hugged her friend. — I’m so glad you’re here! — Hannah stepped back and shot another look at her brother. — See, Movchan’s arrived. We’re having lunch. Together. Isn’t that great?
She was overacting terribly, and Irma rolled her eyes for a moment before glancing at Movchan. He stood there, eyeing them with the same suspicion he’d shown once before. Back then, the friends had been heading to a party but had looked him in the eye and lied in unison that they were off to study at the library.
— Sure is, — Movchan finally said, then headed to his room.
— Where are we eating? — Hannah called after him.
— Wherever you want. Doesn’t matter to me. I’m not some fancy lord, — his voice echoed from the room.
— Is he in a bad mood or something? — Irma whispered.
— Who knows? You can never tell with him, — Hannah replied under her breath. — So, shall we set up in the kitchen?
— Fine. But let’s be quick. My lunch break isn’t endless, — Irma muttered. — And the outlook doesn’t seem too promising.
— It’s not over yet, — Hannah added, nudging her friend toward the kitchen. — There’s less room to maneuver in the kitchen. By the way, my shift at the clinic starts at three. So let’s not waste time.
They quickly set the table. Hannah ladled borscht into bowls and called her brother to join them. Irma licked her lips. Her friend was a much better cook than she was, so the borscht was bound to be delicious.
The friends settled at the table, leaving Movchan the stool farthest from the door. That’s right—they were blocking his escape route. Not that they believed it would stop Movchan, but it might at least slow him down a bit.
He entered, silently assessed the setup, and sat in the empty spot. He picked up a spoon and a piece of bread, then said:
— Bon appétit.
The friends echoed the sentiment, exchanged a glance, and dug in. At first, they ate in silence. Then Hannah started sharing funny stories. Irma had heard many of them before but still politely chuckled. Movchan, true to his name, remained as quiet as ever.
Eventually, Hannah began serving pilaf onto plates, while Irma quickly gathered the empty bowls and placed them in the sink. Lunch continued in the same vein, and Irma was almost losing hope that she’d manage to start the conversation she needed. Normally, she was a very decisive person, but not today. Maybe this whole idea of involving Movchan in the party was a bad one.
— Did you know Irma’s dad has a big birthday tomorrow? — Hannah suddenly blurted out, apparently tired of waiting for Irma to take the lead.
— Fifty? — Movchan asked in his low, almost thick voice. The kind her mother liked.
— Yep, — Irma confirmed. — There’s a party. Tomorrow.
Movchan pushed his plate away and said:
— I’ll have coffee later. — He looked at both of them. — So, ladies?
— So what? — they asked in unison, and Irma felt like a twenty-year-old girl again.
— Come on, spill it. What do you need from me?
— I’ll be in my room, — Hannah said, standing up. She gently touched Irma’s shoulder. — Call if you need me…