So maybe his run was about more than exorcising Evgeny’s ghost from his mind. “Tell me about your latest love, Roma.”
“Oh yeah, it’s hot. I spent yesterday at the gym, arguing with the dead weights, and the night before having a long and personal chat with a bowl of ramen noodles. I’m the man.” He shook his head. “Sorry. My long run as a single guy is in no imminent danger of ending.”
“You expect too much, Romeo.” Having stood on the sidelines watching Roman trot through numerous short-lived relationships, he knew his friend wouldn’t stay single long. The man was a sponge for women, with his tousled brown hair, thick muscles and easy laughter. It was Roman who couldn’t seem to figure out what he wanted.
“All I expect is a woman who cares about honesty and living a life for God.”
“I’m not sure, but I think there is a rule about nuns getting married.”
Roman elbowed him, and Vicktor dodged a puddle, laughing.
“I’m serious. Those types of women don’t exist. Sure, you might find a Godly woman—look at Mae. How about Sarai? You had a good thing going with her back in college. But even those women have their hidden agendas. In general, women can’t be trusted.”
“Ouch. That’s a pretty cynical statement, considering two of your best friends are women.” Roman veered around a meteorsize crater in the middle of the sidewalk. “Seriously, though, you don’t trust women? Mae, Yanna?”
“I’m not dating Mae or Yanna. Nor will I. I learned from Mae that dating warps friendship. Love is a game for a woman—one designed to confuse and decimate men.” He gave a mock shudder.
Roman didn’t laugh. “Nice. You’re a real walking Don Juan. I’ll bet the ladies love hanging around you.”
Vicktor ignored him and he went on. “Sorry, but that’s the truth. Remember what Sarai did to you? She led you on, then blink, walked out of your life without even a goodbye. I’d think you’d be my champion.”
Roman’s hand clamped on his shoulder, yanking him to a halt. His friend’s eyes sparked, and Vicktor recoiled, suddenly aware he’d pushed Roman too far.
“You couldn’t be more wrong, Vicktor. About God. About women. About Sarai. I regret losing her more than you can guess. But I don’t blame the entire female population for my broken heart.”
“Sorry.” Vicktor shrugged off Roman’s grip, feeling like a jerk for mentioning Roman’s first love.
Roman inhaled an unsteady breath, his blue eyes scrutinizing his friend. “I don’t know what happened to you yesterday, but you need to get a hold of your fear of trusting people. Trust is a choice, pal. No man is an island, and, unless you choose to believe in people, you’re going to live a pretty chilly and barren life.”
Roman’s words felt like a sucker punch. Vicktor already lived a desolate life, his best friends being attached to a modem. Yes, he had Roman and Yanna, but more often than not he poured out his frustration to a dog he didn’t even like. “That’s not fair. I trust you.” He broke their gaze.
“And I trust you, my friend. But you need more than me and Yanna, Mae and David. You need the Savior. And you need the love of a good woman.”
“Just like you do?”
Roman smiled. It eased the moment, as well as the band around Vicktor’s chest. “Da.”
Roman released his grip and they fell into step, cooling down from their run with a brisk walk. The winking sun had skimmed the tops of the apartment buildings and the wind was dissected by the wad of budding trees along the boulevard. The smell of freshly baked bread swirled on the crisp air. Vicktor’s stomach roared.
“That animal sounds hungry.” Roman smirked.
Vicktor ignored him, cut off the path and tramped across the stiff grass toward the Svezhee Bread Factory.
Five minutes later, two loaves of bread tucked under his arm, he rejoined Roman, who waited on the sidewalk, eyebrows high, tapping his foot.
“Gotta feed Alfred,” he mumbled.
Roman laughed. “By the way, I found a woman for you. Someone honest and not confusing in the least.”
“What?” Vicktor frowned.
Roman jerked his head, indicating a blonde heading in their direction. Her hands were fisted in her coat pockets, her legs, pulling against the hem of her denim skirt as she strode. Her vivid scowl and blazing eyes broadcast her fury as she stalked toward them.
“Just your type, Vicktor,” Roman said, voice low, teasing.
Vicktor’s eyes roamed over the lady, for some reason empathizing with the frustration written on her face.
Five steps away, she glanced up and met his eyes. Green. Intense. Vulnerable. His heart caught at that last impression and he barely remembered to stumble backward to let her pass.
“Da. Just my type,” he echoed as he watched her march down the sidewalk.
Gracie felt the man’s stare on the back of her neck and picked up her pace. Way to go, Gracie. Ex-pat rule number one—don’t make eye contact with a man in Russia. Or anywhere, for that matter.
She distanced herself from the gawker on the sidewalk, her heartbeat slowing. Poor guy did look frayed. His pensive blue eyes, a furrowed brow, his black hair in spikes and perspiration running down his unshaven jaw. Her heart twisted in response. She knew all about feeling frayed, worn down, defeated.
A frosty wind gusted through her thin raincoat and she shivered.
The smell of fresh bread wafted after her as she beelined to the bus stop. She would have dearly loved to pick up a fresh loaf for Evelyn, but thanks to Leonid, her absent chauffeur, she was hoofing it all over Khabarovsk. Leonid had better have a wallop of a reason for being late three times in a row. She once again wished for Andrei, but he was already assigned a new post somewhere. Thank the Lord for Larissa, who had come into work at Aeroflot Travel early to meet her. Her travel agent friend even bumped her into first class.
“Your flight is at four p.m. Be there by one p.m. and don’t be late,” Larissa had said, melancholy in her eyes. “There’s only one flight a month out of here now, and it’s packed.”
Friends like Larissa, and her cousin, Andrei, would be difficult to replace.
Especially since she was leaving, forever.
Gracie’s throat closed and she didn’t dare look at heaven. She knew she’d blown it. The reality was mortifying—a missionary who had never led someone to the Lord. Why, she couldn’t even convince her best friend, let alone the masses. Larissa’s heart was as hardened to the gospel as a rock on the Lake Superior shoreline.
With five days left, the time bomb of a ticket in Gracie’s pocket ticked away.
She joined a handful of old women waiting for the bus, their wide faces peeking out from fuzzy gray scarves wound twice around their heads. Their desolate eyes matched their headgear. Life took all the guts the elderly could muster, especially on gray spring days.
As a grimy orange bus chugged up to the curb and coughed exhaust, Gracie fished around in her coat pocket and unearthed five rubles for fare. She climbed aboard and squeezed in beside a grizzled old man. The vodka on his breath nearly knocked her to her knees as she snared an overhead bar.
She hoped Evelyn was still home. Her boss wasn’t expecting her, but Gracie dearly needed a fresh e-mail from her mother to ward of the feeling of dread that hovered over the morning. She gritted her teeth against the breath of the toothless rummy, and hung on while the bus lurched toward Victory Square. The bust of Lenin towered over the cobblestone parade grounds, a heap of bouquets wilting at the base.