Home Again, Home Again

By Showandah S. Terrill and Ciroja

What do you do, when achieving what you most desire, involves facing what you most fear?

Peter Aarons has been cast in the role of a lifetime. He is portraying his hero, Sergei Rachmaninoff in a major motion picture. He's been working hard and loving every minute of it, but now his part involves filmin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shorthorse Press
• Release date: Jan 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781734219463

Showandah S. Terrill

Showandah S. Terrill is an award winning speaker and storyteller, as well as a lifelong writer and equestrian. Steeped in Native American culture, she was raised as the only child of an itinerant cowhand on sprawling ranches in Southern California during the turbulent 1960's. She is currently writing two extended series: the epic science-fiction Dragonhorse Chronicles and the fictional autobiographical Peter Aarons' novels.

Book preview

Home Again Home Again Cover

HOME AGAIN,

HOME AGAIN

It was like walking down a darkening street at twilight, when all the lights are on, and good smells are coming from the kitchens, and you know you belong in one of these houses, but you aren’t sure which one, and suddenly, someone opens a door and the light pours out to greet you, and they motion you in, and you are home.

Look For These Other Peter Aarons Books:

Glory Days (#1)

Another Man’s Wife (#2)

The Converging Objects of the Universe (#4)*

Oh, Baby! (#5)*

Visit our website at

www.peteraarons.com

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And This Author’s Dragonhorse Chronicles:

Dragonhorse Rising (Book 1)

Conscience of the King (Book 2)

Peace on Another’s Terms (Book 3)

A Lopsided Colorwax Heart (Book 4)*

Spirit in Motion (Book 5)*

Visit our website at

www.dragonhorserising.com

*COMING SOON

Showandah S. Terrill

HOME AGAIN,

HOME AGAIN

Book Three of the Peter Aarons Novels

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This book is a work of fiction, and any reference to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, places, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Published 2021 by Short Horse Press

Copyright © 2000 – 2021 by Showandah S. Terrill

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form other than a brief quote for purposes of review.

Book editng & design by Jeremy T. Hanke

Front Cover Photography (Bolshoi-749878) by Ciroja. Pixabay.com

Rear Cover Photography (Tree-3065557) by Егор Камелев. Pixabay.com

Cover design by Jeremy T. Hanke

Internal Art (Russia Map) by Vemaps.com

Cover design © 2021 by Short Horse Press

The text for this book is set in Times New Roman, 11 point

Manufactured in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020925709

ISBN: 978-1-7342194-5-6 (hardcover)

ISBN: 978-1-7342194-6-3 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-7342194-6-3 (eBook)

For Eva with Love

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And my wonderfully diverse and

widely spread Highland Scottie family

and the beautiful valley that will always be

HOME

CHAPTER ONE

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My bride studied the script she had lying in front of her for some time, then looked up, squinting over her reading glasses.

Well, she sighed, I can certainly see why you’re annoyed with this on a personal level.

Annoyed? I exclaimed. Annoyed? Phipps, annoyed is a parking ticket. This... I glared at the offending wad of papers, pisses me off on a multiplicity of levels! Why in the hell did they ask me to advise the film if they’re not going to take my advice? They’ve already compressed everything in Rachmaninoff’s life until it’s nearly unrecognizable. The characters have no credibility left. Sweet Jesus, they’ve even written Modeste Tchaikovsky as a woman! As Peter Tchaikovsky’s wife, not his brother. How much sense does that make, I ask you? And when I told them they’d made a mistake they said they’d assumed Modeste was always a woman’s name, because women are more modest than men, but did they fix it? No, they did not. They said, and I quote, ‘It doesn’t really matter that much.’ And now this smirking implication that Rachmaninoff was romantically involved with Terisina Valetti? He said her technique was mediocre, and that she got by on charm, that she was very mean, and he couldn’t get away from her fast enough when the concert tour reached Moscow. How in the name of the Living God can he have been involved with her? How can any serious, scholarly writer imply that?

Philippa just shook her head and smiled up at me from where she was sprawled on her stomach, blue jeaned and barefooted, soaking up the early morning sun that was her favorite. Dear Heart, she ventured, do you think maybe you need to stop thinking of this as historical inaccuracy, and think of it as a nod to the public’s desire for romance? This may be the price you have to pay for bringing Sergei Rachmaninoff’s music to that same public.

She went back to studying the script and I steamed over to the edge of the balcony and slouched on the wide concrete ledge, sipping coffee and looking out across the trees toward the city stretching south and east of us. Beautiful morning. Sunny. Not too smoggy yet. It was going to be another sweltering afternoon in the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains.

No filming today. Today we packed. Tomorrow we loaded the chartered planes, and flew to Russia – to the recently collapsed Soviet Union – for the location shooting. Into the unknown and unknowable. Me, and my new bride. And, admittedly, a few dozen others, but I was feeling vulnerable and more than a little apprehensive, and that annoyed me nearly as much as the convoluted script she was perusing.

I turned away from the view to fold down beside Philippa on her green fuzzy blanket with the ducks on it. Is this going to make the trip? I asked, rubbing the blanket with my palm.

She took her nose out of her coffee cup and turned to look at me. One pale eyebrow went up as though she wasn’t sure what I’d asked, then her nose went back in her cup and her eyes went back to the script in front of her. Mmm.

And when are you going to tell me what’s in that big mystery trunk that you’ve been packing over the last couple of weeks? I persisted.

Her eyes narrowed. She pushed the script to one side and sat up to contemplate me. You seem very mellow all of a sudden. Did your meds just kick in, or what?

That was the second question she hadn’t answered. She, too, had things on her mind. Reality check. I realized I have more important things to do today than fight over a couple of added scenes I don’t like.

Well, I hope you keep feeling that way, because once they put that actress on the plane, she’s going to stay in the script, Bud. You’d better holler if you’re going to. Not that it will do you any good, she added under her breath.

Her comment jolted me. I exhaled sharply and shook my head, half in disgust, and half in admiration for David Swift’s tactical maneuvers. I’m pretty sure she was there all along, I sighed. They knew I’d have a fit, so they just didn’t bother to hand me these scenes until last night. Damn that boy, anyway. I chuckled in spite of myself.

I think you can live with this, she smiled. Maybe you can finesse a little of the heat out of it during those long hours on the plane with David and Sheila. David Swift is a reasonable man. Do you know who he cast in the part?

Inez Kirkfeld, I groaned.

Eeew, sorry, Phil grimaced, knowing full well my loathing of tall blondes with long fingernails. Kind of a big name for a relatively small part.

Sexy walk-on. It’s a choice bit in a huge production. I’ll bet she jumped at it. I wonder how long she’s known. Probably not very long or she’d have blabbed it all over the tabloids by now. Maybe we’ll get to see it on the entertainment page at breakfast this morning.

I’m sorry they did this to you, Philippa said, then pointed and smiled as a Scrub Jay landed on a nearby oak branch and bobbed up and down a couple times before shooting off toward the Nature Conservancy property up the hill behind the house. I do wish Vladi was coming along, she sighed. He’s such a hoot to work with. He’d be good company in Russia.

I nodded, sensing the tenuousness in her voice. Vladi Dyer was playing violin virtuoso Franz Kreisler, good friend to Rachmaninoff. Their quick interchanges, occasionally in the midst of major concerts, had made for some of the most humorous moments in the movie. I, too, hated to see him stay home, but he wasn’t needed for the Russian shoot.

This was going to be almost two months of hot and heavy film making covering, among other things, the seventeen years from 1900 until the Rachmaninoff family’s escape to Scandinavia and then the USA. It was during this time that Rachmaninoff composed most of his life’s work, and he was at the peak of his career as a composer in Russia, so I was going to be doing one hell of a lot of piano playing. The concerts would be recorded on location in Moscow, but most of the solo piano music would be recorded in the sound studio here. I’d still be playing his Second Concerto, Third Concerto – lots of polkas and preludes – banging them out en toto, even if we had to record over them.

It seemed the producers were bound and determined that there should be piano music at all times, and heavy emphasis was being put on Rachmaninoff’s stage performances, even though he’d been more into composing than concerts at that time in his life. Why let facts get in the way of a good story, I’d groused. On that, they’d agreed with me.

The country house scenes were of great importance to the producers. That sumptuous, opulent, aristocratic spread, and they’d twisted the plot mercilessly to get as much action into that setting as they could. Stuff that happened twenty years before had somehow miraculously come to rest at Ivanovka.Stuff that happened twenty years later, forty years later? That was there, too.

Ivanovka was Rachmaninoff’s country estate. It had been located about three hundred miles southeast of Moscow, near the town of Tambor, in the black soil region of Russia, and had been demolished by Revolutionaries shortly before the Rachmaninoff family’s escape to the west.It had been decided many months ago in the comfort of an LA high-rise studio office where all things seemed easy and possible, to rent a country estate for shooting the Ivanovka sequences. Something close to where Ivanovka had once stood, of course.

Then had come the ugly and unexpected surprise. Even with the dire monetary straits Russia found herself in, there were no estates to be had near Moscow, not within five hundred miles of Moscow. Not for love nor money, and the producers had tried both. Finally, after weeks of searching and near despair, a country house belonging to a multinational corporation had been found between Novgorod and Saint Petersburg, where the weather could be cold and damp all year around, and even in August we could expect weather in the low sixties.

The estate was surrounded by magnificent gardens and woodlands which had been scrupulously cared for, though the same could not be said for the house itself. It had been more or less maintained on the outside until recently, at least recently as centuries go, and needed only minor cosmetic repairs to make it work for us, but the interiors were in poor condition. The heating was antiquated and inefficient, and there was no electricity. The plumbing was rusted clear through in spots. There were no showers at all. The kitchen facilities were very literally out of the last century, and we’d have to live there all the weeks we were shooting.

Because of its remote setting, David Swift and the other two producers of Rachmaninoff, had reluctantly elected to use the mansion and outbuildings not only for filming, but to house the forty American members of the Russian unit; twenty-five crew and fifteen actors. Even as we lounged on our balcony in California, Russell O’Halloran and three dozen Russian carpenters were working feverishly to get things ready for our arrival. Cheerless as it sounded, it wasn’t going to work any other way, and we had millions of dollars and thousands of man-hours already committed to a film that was nearly finished. David told us to dress warm and brace for the worst.

I was bracing for the worst, all right. I’d been born on a country estate somewhere in the wilds of Russia. Hidden there with my mother and her family during the occupation, and ultimately, captured there. If I hadn’t wanted the part of Sergei Rachmaninoff with something akin to desperation, I wouldn’t have considered for one second going back to Russia – anywhere in Russia.

The French doors on one of the long, narrow guest rooms opened, and Glory’s impressive and beloved bulk filled the opening. Are you children coming down for breakfast this mornin? Aloysha, David called wantin’ to know if youall had talked to Pappy Shepherd. I told him you call him back.

We’re coming, I smiled, offering Philippa my hand and scooping the blanket up off the concrete. I ask you again, woman, are you taking this to Russia with you?

She looked incredulous. A grown woman with a security blanket? Of course I’m taking it! Gimme it! It’s mine! she exclaimed, and ran laughing ahead of me into the house

She sat down to her usual breakfast, which consisted of a second cup of coffee, four small bites of steak, two strawberries and a sliver of sharp cheddar, while I had bacon and eggs, fresh fruit and toasted bagels. It occurred to me that I needed to touch base with Eddy Rousse, the food services director, about Philippa’s dietary requirements. I knew her. I knew she was too shy to do it herself. She ate pretty close to a pure protein diet with a few green vegetables and some berries thrown in for good measure. She rarely if ever touched carbohydrates to any degree, and I had an inkling that Russia might be six weeks of potatoes, boiled cabbage and beet soup. Philippa would starve to death.

Well, ain’t you sparklin’ company this mornin’, Glory smiled, putting another of her homemade bagels on my plate and her hand on my shoulder. What’s the matter, Boy?

I reached up and patted her hand. I just have a bunch of last minute stuff running through my mind.

Two pairs of eyes rolled my direction, and I realized I was using that line entirely too often. The hand on my shoulder became an encouraging pat. Why don’t you go see you mama while Phipps and me finish up the packin’? It’ll make you feel a whole lot better to visit with her ‘fore you go. Kiss them babies and relax a little.

Philly? I asked, and she nodded emphatically.

Absolutely. But don’t forget to call Pappy first, or David, or whomever it is you need to call. And remember, everything needs to go to the airport by five O’clock.

They were obviously trying to get rid of me, and I was willing to be gotten rid of. Okay, I smiled, gave them both a kiss, picked up my coffee cup, and wandered down to my study.

I called David and told him I had, indeed, been in touch with Pappy. There was a full concert grand piano in the house, and after conferring, we had opted to use it rather than ship one in over the bad roads that existed between Saint Petersburg and the estate. There appeared to be no damage of any kind, and Russell O’Halloran, the construction supervisor, said all the keys worked and made a sound. Pappy’d told him to call a tuner out from Saint Petersburg, or Novgorod, which was considerably closer, and apparently that was in the works.

I hung up with David, got my tuning tools out of the bench, and went upstairs, adding them to the pile of stuff in the spare bedroom – just in case. Then I changed from jeans and a tee shirt to slacks and a nice button up shirt, and drove to my parents’ house.

It was huge, and Moorish, and looked like the set from The Bodyguard, right down to the tiered pools out back and the splashing fountain in the circular drive. I parked in front of the house, and went around to the small, side garden that was my mother’s favorite. I knew better than to go to the front door. I was, persona non grata, dead in my father’s eyes. That most loathsome of creatures, a Jew turned Christian. I prayed for strength as I always did at that moment, and carefully opened the wooden gate into the garden.

Alex looked up from where he was reading in my mother’s lap and came limping to greet me. I scooped him up and tickled him, and he wiggled all over with laughter, this son of my dead ex-wife – this child who was not of my blood, but ever so close to my heart.

Hard to believe that two months ago he’d ridden his little bike out in front of a car and lay dying in a hospital. Hard to believe that this beautiful child was the source of my misery with my father. But in a way, he was. I’d promised Philippa’s God that if he would save Alex and prove his reality to me, I would worship him until the day I died. And here was Alex, laughing in my arms and giving me milky kisses, and there, on the second story, was the drape closing in my father’s study.

Good morning, Mother, I sighed, stooping to kiss her cheek. She returned the kiss without getting up, and patted the seat beside her with a slender, elegant hand.

Good morning, Peter. Are you ready for your big trip tomorrow?

I thought a moment and decided to be honest. I don’t know. Physically, I am. Mentally I have reservations.

How so?

I sat Alex down with his book and switched to Russian. I’m ashamed to admit it, Mother, but I still have nightmares about...that time, you know...and lately, they’re worse than ever. I’m afraid, and I don’t even know what I’m afraid of. I’ve tried to think about it, but it’s all so vague.

Fear of the unknown is the worst kind of fear. Close to that, is fear of the half-remembered. Do you have half-remembered delights, Peter? I do. I know how even delightful things can twist themselves in the mind to become more, different, than they are. They take on substance and a life of their own. How much more can fear, which is the deepest of primal emotions, take on such a life. You were little more than a baby – not even as old as Alexander. You had no understanding of what was happening to us. You saw things no child should have to see. To have nightmares about such things is not cowardice, it is inevitable.

She smiled at me, and her cider brown eyes still sparkled like a young girl’s. She touched my temple with the tips of her fingers and said, Your hair is turning white, little Peterkin. Not much so far, but it will go. It will go.

I am happy to have it so, I said. My bride says it makes me look dignified.

You have always looked dignified, my mother chuckled. You were a dignified two-year-old, Peter, even when your hair was fine and standing all on end and the keyboard on your grandfather’s piano was at eye level as you stood next to it, begging to be picked up so you could play it. Dignity, you do not lack. Does she find it attractive?

She does, I smiled. Mother, I am so in love. For the first time in my life I understand what it means to want to grow old with someone.

I see the joy in your face, my mother said, and touched my cheek. I wish you and your father…not that I…your choices are yours, of course. She lowered her hand slowly and her voice was wistful. I would love to meet your Philippa.

You will, I said firmly. I caught her hand, and pressed it to my lips, then covered it with both of mine, and held it in my lap. Mother, tell me about when we lived in Russia. About the house we lived in. I need to know.

Ah, she sighed, There is a story with many doors and many windows, one of darkness and light. My father, your grandfather, was an intellectual and a member of the aristocracy. His father was one of the few to survive the Bolshevik Revolution – old money, old bloodlines going very far back in Russian history. But they were well respected, so much of what they had was not touched. Your grandfather was a good man who shared with those less fortunate, and they sheltered him...us. He was a big, dark, imposing man, like you, with a deep voice and a merry laugh. In that way, too, you remind me of him. He fell in love with my mother, whose father was his father’s lawyer, and a very influential Jew.

I remember, I said gently, but her eyes were lit with memories of times past, and I knew that if I wanted any of the story, I was going to have to sit for all of it. Please tell me again.

Oh! she laughed, as though I hadn’t interjected a thing, "What a fuss there was when they announced their intent to marry! But after all they were young and headstrong and in love, and despite religious differences they were a good match and for many years they lived happily. I was born, and then my brother, then, much later Annika, the baby.

What a wonderful childhood we had in that huge old house, all of us together – children, parents, grandparents – the wonderful parties, the sleigh rides in winter, the horseback riding and sailing and picnicking in the summers, the hunting in the autumn. It was a good life. A good time. A time of peace, and plenty. She sighed, and her eyes grew misty. Then, I met your father. Oh, Peterkin, he was so handsome, and I was so young...only seventeen. I know what we did was indiscreet and brought great embarrassment to my parents, and ultimately, to his, but we were so in love. We really expected that he would stay for a long, leisurely visit there in the country, and then I would leave with him, back to America. Young lovers have such plans, you know. But it was not to be. One day, he was just...gone, expelled by the government. Soon after, I discovered I was carrying his child. We wrote back and forth, such beautiful letters he sent – how much I wish I still had them – but he seemed so happy with his University days, I didn’t want to spoil it for him by telling him about you.

She patted my knee to take the sting out of her words. I knew he would welcome you, Peter, but I also knew he would give up his education, and a good education is so important. Look at you, with two Master’s degrees, with a Doctoral degree! How far you have come! I wanted that for your father, so I held off telling him.

I understand, I murmured. Alex looked up, and I winked at him.

I can’t understand hardly any of what you’re saying, he said, but I guess that’s the idea, isn’t it?

I nodded, put my finger to my lips, and asked my mother to go on.

Oh, there’s not much to tell after that, she said vaguely. Things got so bad…

My heart sank. I’d gotten her just about this far more times than I could remember, and then she just shut down on me. Tell me, Mother, I prompted, "when did you decide to let Dad know you were in trouble?’

We were all in trouble, she said grimly. I wrote and told him of the terrible danger. I told him that even my father’s influence and our location deep in the countryside could no longer protect us. I told him he had a son, a beautiful, tall son with eyes and hair as black as coal. I told him I’d named you for him. I loved saying your name – Peter – I could see him when I said it. She frowned and looked momentarily away as something interrupted her thoughts. It annoyed me, always, that your grandmother found it necessary to call you Aloysha. She said it was so she could distinguish you from her husband. She gave herself an almost imperceptible shake and went on. Ah, but your father. He wrote back, such a good man, and told me not to worry, he’d get us out, but by then we were prisoners in that big yellow house that had always felt like living in perpetual sunshine... prisoners in our own home.

Tell me about the house, Mother. You said it was yellow. What did it look like?

Hiding, like mice. My father devised a plan to try to save us. He spread a rumor that he had turned the estate over to Mister Kashkin, his...caretaker, I guess you would call him, and that we had fled north and west, trying to escape to Sweden. Whenever the soldiers came near on the road or the property, Papa Kashkin would hide us away. Many times they came in the house, but we were always safe. she choked back a sob and looked away from me, even as her hands gripped mine. Annika was terrified...and she was crying...and they heard her behind the walls. Oh, Peter! she gasped, I can’t talk about this! It’s too horrible...worse that those days and weeks in the camp, even...Oh, God, Peter...they raped her...and she was only ten years old! Me, it didn’t matter so much, but then they took Annika…and they broke her neck because she wouldn’t stop screaming. I can still hear her screaming. I can still smell the smoke as they set our house on fire.

I know. I was there, I whispered, putting my arms around her, I know Mother. I’m so sorry for what happened to you, and to Annika, and to the rest of our family.

The side door flew nearly off its hinges and my father came striding toward us. The anger, like flashes of lightning across his craggy features, was terrible to behold.

Catherine, he said, come in the house, now!

It’s all right, J.R., she said in English, pulling out of my embrace, Peterkin and I...

Now! he shouted, and he never raised his voice to my mother.

She looked shocked, took a few steps, turned back to me with a defiant little gleam in her eye and said, You and Philippa have a safe trip, Peter.

We will, Mother, I smiled, and in that instant my father stepped up and backhanded me so hard across the mouth I could taste blood.

And you! He yelled, Is this how you show love for your mother, by making her cry? What kind of a son are you? You make me ashamed! He jerked an arm and pointed a shaking finger, Now, go!

I turned away, but Alex caught me halfway to the gate. Peter! he cried, Are you hurt? Why did he hit you? You have blood on your mouth!

I gathered him up and held him close and told him not to worry about me, that I was fine. Alex, this is just grownup junk, I soothed. It’s just a little argument, that’s all.

My parents fighted and argued all the time, and now my mother is dead and I don’t know where my father even is! he sobbed. Grownup junk is why I don’t have a family anymore and I’m in foster care with your parents. My real grandparents don’t even want me! My father doesn’t want me! You and Phipps wanted me, and you couldn’t have me because you’re a Christian religion, and I don’t even know what that means! You think I don’t see? You think I don’t hear? Don’t leave me! Please, don’t leave me!

I looked helplessly across the patio at my seething father. Come on, I said quietly, You know I have to be gone for a while because of my work. I’ll be back before you know it, I promise. Let me take you back to Bubee Cat and Grandpa J.R. They love you with all their hearts, Pipsqueak, and so do I.

How can he love me and hate you? Why can’t you come in the house anymore?

Alex, you ask very hard questions for such a little boy, and I don’t have any answers for you. I do know this, they love you, and Philippa and I love you, and we’ll always be here for you, whether we fight amongst ourselves or not. And I’m counting on you to take care of them and your baby sister while I’m gone. Can you do that for me? Will you write to me at that address I gave you? Because I’ll be lonely if you don’t.

He nodded against my neck and I turned with a look of apology on my face and walked back to where my father was standing, listening. See, Grandpa and I are just fine, I said, and my father took Alex gently out of my arms.

Grandpa, why do you hate Peter so much? He loves you.

Don’t be silly, My father said. Time for some milk and cookies, young man, and he turned away from me into the house.

I’d been planning to go over to Bellwether Studios and say goodbye to Kit and Tommy, but I thought better of it. I could feel my bottom lip swelling up. Luckily most of the damage seemed to be inside, where my teeth had been driven into my lip, but it had an obvious cut outside where Dad’s ring had caught me. Both Kit and Tommy were angry with my dad as it was. I didn’t want to fuel that particular fire. I’d go home for a little ice and some lunch, and to tend for an appropriate amount of time to the odious task of packing my most personal things, then I’d call Kit and see if he wanted to go do something for a while.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, grabbed an ice pack, and found Glory and Phipps upstairs – suitcases open all over the room – things going in with assembly line precision.

You back quick. Glory said, and stopped as she saw my mouth. What happened, Boy?

Philippa turned from what she was doing and sucked air in through her teeth in sympathy. I’ll bet that hurt.

It did, I muttered. Glory, he hit me. Dad slapped me.

She looked incredulous. He...hit you? As in, he touched hisself to youself?

Exactly. Then, he looked me right in the eye, told me I was a bad son for making my mother cry, and told me he was ashamed of me.

By that time Glory was laughing, and she caught me up in a big, bone crushing hug. You gettin’ less and less dead all the time, Aloysha! You makin’ progress!

My wife just shook her head, snorted softly like one of her beloved horses, and went to rummage in her closet.

Unfortunately, Dad hit me in front of Alex, and it scared him half to death. He blurted out all this stuff that just broke my heart. That little guy thinks nobody loves him or wants him, and I think Dad forgets what he’s been through, and how little he is. Please keep a close eye on them while we’re gone. I know you have a lot to do….

It all take time, Glory soothed, dabbing at my lip. I do believe if you sit down right now and apply that ice pack you won’t even have a mark in the mornin’. You didn’t tell me yet how you liked going to church with that Unitarian friend of Jacob’s yesterday, she said. What was it like?

Weird, I sighed. Weird in a nice sort of way, but weird. He told me about all the really intellectually stimulating things they did, but he forgot to mention that, while they think Jesus is a great role model, I don’t think they accept his divinity. Why bother becoming a Christian if you’re going to turn around and deny that Jesus was a supernatural being? They’re a very kind people, certainly very thoughtful, but I don’t think that’s the place for me. I sat sipping hot coffee and holding an ice pack to my lip between times. Probably wasn’t doing me a bit of good, but at the moment I didn’t really care.

Maybe you should try the Russian Orthodox church while you’re over there, Philippa suggested, turning from the suitcase she was packing with sweaters and jeans for me. I was always amazed at how quiet she stayed during certain interchanges, and yet she always seemed to know what I was thinking. She put down the stack of shirts she was about to transfer, and came to give me a kiss. You didn’t find out what you wanted to, did you Bud? You didn’t get to talk to your mom about the house.

I just blinked up at her. I was dead certain I hadn’t said one word to her or anybody else about that house. How did she know? She said it was yellow, and she said the Nazi’s burned it, I said quietly. Phipps...

It’s been a very active part of your dreams ever since you found out where it was located, she said, replying without a question. She gave me another kiss, and turned back to her packing. Was your mother happy there?

Very, I smiled.

Remember that, she said. It’ll help. Oh, Glory, here’s the other half of that pair of Birkenstocks. Which reminds me, I have something for you, Bud. She turned away from her packing again, hurried across the room to her closet and returned with a box, which she placed in front of the chair where I was sitting. Something to take the chill off those Russian nights.

I set aside my coffee cup and the ice pack and slid my fingers under the tape on the box. The lid came off and the smell of fresh leather poured out. Wow, Phil! Thanks! I said, lifting the contents into the light. They were hard soled moccasins – knee high, with laces up the front and the hair still on the inside for warmth. Buckskin? I asked.

Elk, of course. Left over from that two hundred pounds of elk jerky I have salted away in that trunk over there.

The trunk was indeed packed and sitting near the door. Philippa’s mystery trunk. Somehow I doubted it was elk jerky, and I told her so. Okay, I confess, it’s ball gowns. One can never have too much formal wear on a trip to an aristocratic Russian mansion, now can one?

You’re a nut, I chuckled. Did you have these made for me?

You know the answer to that, she laughed. How many stores do you suppose carry elk skin moccasins in your size?

Only P.K. Tyler’s Wilderness Supply. Phipps, these look wonderful. I slipped off my shoes and slid my feet into the moccasins. They were as soft as butter, and fit like...well, like they were made for me. That’s it. I’m in these for life, I sighed, leaning back in the chair.

Comfy?

Um hm.

Happy boy, are we?

You bet.

Good, she smiled, then get off your fanny and pack that mound of stuff that’s in on your old bed. It’s nearly time for lunch.

In less than half an hour I was done. I checked next door and the girls, too, were finished. The last of the suitcases was slid in next to the big trunk, and we called it a wrap. Glory and I each grabbed two suitcases and headed downstairs, Philippa behind us with our heavy jackets.

By the time lunch was on the table, Rafael and I had put everything including Philippa’s trunk into his big Ford pickup. I know what’s in the trunk, I chanted softly, smirking as I walked into the kitchen.

Philippa turned around from where she was pouring drinks and looked expectant. Well?

Your tack?

Damn, you’re good, she grinned. You really are amazing.

Too light to be elk jerky, too un-Philippa-like to be ball gowns. I asked myself what my wife would like least to be parted from for a couple months, and, voila! Her saddle came immediately to mind.

Amazing, she smiled. Come and eat.

After lunch I took Philippa up to the dim coolness of the library, opened the safe, and said, Speaking of things we don’t want to be parted from. I know you hate to do this, I know I hate to do this, but we gotta.

I know, she sighed.

She slid off her wedding ring with its ruby hearts and diamond daisies, put it in its black velvet box, and set it in the safe. I took off my beautiful ring with its diagonal flash of diamonds and the engraved sentiment I loved so much, put it in its box, set it in the safe next to Philippa’s, and shut the door, giving the lock a spin. Well, now they’re safe and sound until we get home, I said cheerfully, wishing I could say the same for us.

I pulled out a slender gold band with tiny white gold runes engraved on it, and slipped it on her finger. Time to go back to being Mr. and Mrs. Rachmaninoff for a while.

I’m glad we got to bring these home instead of leaving them with props, she sighed, contemplating the ring. At least we’re not walking around naked.

She brought out a plain gold wedding band, not as wide as my own, with a rolled edge and slipped it on my finger. This is fun, she chuckled. We get to play wedding over and over and over…

Lucky for us we’re not superstitious, I said, and pointed her down the hall.

I sat down at the piano with Philippa behind me and began to run some slow scales, readjusting to the feel of a lighter ring. Six weeks ago I was getting used to wearing a ring at all. I just shook my head and let it sink in.

What are you thinking?

How quickly things change. Eight months ago if you’d told me I’d ever get married again I’d have laughed in your face. Tommy practically had to hold me at gun-point to get me to meet you, Philippa. And here we are, husband and wife. It still doesn’t seem real.

May it always be a dream and a pleasant one, she said quietly. She stood with her arms loosely around my neck and her cheek against mine, listening to the piano.

I still have some rough spots in this one movement of his Second Piano Concerto, I said, and when I thought of anything but the music again, she was gone. I promised myself I wouldn’t spend much time at the keyboard. I just needed to relax a bit, and work on a couple of spots that were troubling me.

There was a soft puff of air at the back of my neck, followed by a tender, lingering kiss, and I said, Hello, my darling.

Hello, came the breathy reply.

I do think you should know, my wife doesn’t blow on the back of my neck. Also, she doesn’t have five O’clock shadow.

Other than that, how was it? Was it good for you?

Like always. Were you satisfied?

Kit Miller seated himself on the bench beside me, and I heard his puppy, HLM, flop contentedly onto the carpet behind us.

I understand the Academy Award winning Connor Lockhart is going to Russia with the crew, he said, cracking his knuckles and wiggling his long, slim fingers.

I modulated into something he could play with me. Probably because he’s one of the few available makeup artists in Hollywood who also does hair, I said.

Most important, he also does David.

I just had to laugh. I didn’t want to, but Kit had that effect on me, had since we were in Mrs. Gould’s A.M. Kindergarten class together. Kristoffer, you shock me, I sniffed. David is making every effort to keep the Russian unit small. Having someone as talented as Connor along will certainly help that effort without sacrificing quality.

Can you tell me why, Kit asked, idly playing two handed counterpoint in the treble clef, with the millions of dollars they’re spending on this flick, they’re being so chintzy in Russia? This is such an important part of this major motion picture, supposedly the biggest thing coming out this year, and they’re sending a skeleton cast and crew.

I think you just hit the nail on the head, I chuckled, giving up the piano and heading for my favorite chair. I don’t think it has to do with money, I think it has to do with mortality.

Kit stretched out across from me. Meaning? He looked at me more closely. You have a tiny little cut on your lower lip.

I touched it. The swelling was gone. Grazed it with my watch band, I said. The Soviet Union collapsed about ten minutes ago, Kit. Things are changing rapidly over there. There is every indication that it’s going to be primitive by our standards, and it may be dangerous. I think David’s hedging his bets. ‘Forty of Hollywood’s finest are dead,’ sounds better than, ‘A hundred of Hollywood’s finest are dead.’

That’s it. You’re not going.

Believe me, I sighed, I don’t want to. I recovered myself quickly. But, I have to. Being in a film like this is the opportunity of a lifetime. I’ve loved Sergei Rachmaninoff’s music for as long as I can remember. It’s just…

The part where you go to Russia, I know. Don’t get flushed in the face and mad at yourself, Buddy. I know you’re scared. You have every right to be.

No, I don’t, I snapped. What happened was so far in the past that I have very little conscious memory of it. Why am I letting it haunt me?

It hasn’t until now. You’ve lived a perfectly normal, successful life because you haven’t had to step off a plane and confront that fear until now. Bud, you saw people murdered, raped, mutilated, tortured. I’m amazed you’re sane at all. I’m amazed that any of you who went through that are sane.

And people who went through far more than I did, who were older and less resilient than I, have handled it a hell of a lot better. That makes me feel really soft.

You are soft, Kit said gently. Buddy, you’re an artist. You have a sensitive soul. You’re a man who cries. That’s who you are. You’re also a man who I’ve seen stand up for what he believes, over and over again. I’ve seen you take mental, moral, and physical chances. I remember the hell you went through in primary school because your English was broken. You took all that ridicule with such grace. You’d just walk away. I wanted to beat the living shit out of those kids. You waited until you got home and pounded on your grandmother’s piano. Rumpelstiltskin spun straw into gold, you spun pain into music. You prevailed. The accent went away, but the grace never did. You may be soft, but you’re sure as hell not weak.

Glory stuck her head around the corner and said, Youall havin’ supper with us, Kit?

Supper? I blinked, and leaped out of my chair. Oh, damn! Where did the time go? I need to get that luggage to the airport!

It’s gone, Darlin’, Glory said. You good wife and my good husband left outta here with it an hour ago. She shook her head at the question in my eyes. Phipps said she didn’t mind none. You was getting work done at the piano that needed doin,’ and she figured that was more important than a ferry trip to the Hollywood Burbank Airport. She so nervous she can’t set still anyway. Can you stay for dinner, Kit?

I was going to take my best buddy out for a last meal before his days of beet soup and salted cabbage begin, Kit grinned.

Glory cocked an eyebrow. We havin’ Burgoo.

I’m here! Kit laughed, and Glory disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

As Kit and I headed out for a swim we passed the table on the cabana, and saw that it was set for supper for five. Who else? Kit grimaced. I wanted you to myself. Bad enough I’m having to share you with that woman these days.

Just Glory and Rafael, I soothed. We eat together a lot during the summer, you know that. We always eat together when we have Burgoo. Philippa has plans to talk to Wenonah and Kelly on the phone this evening, and to the Hitchers. We’ll have plenty of time together.

And now we have to eat with the hired help, Kit sighed, then burst out laughing at his imitation of my first wife. He tossed a Frisbee into the pool, and the boxer launched himself in after it with short, piercing yaps of delight. So, are we going to follow him in there or are we just going to stand here and blister our feet?

I gave him an answering shove into the pool, then dove in beside him and we paddled, following