“I know,” his father said.
“I tried to remember what you told me.”
“You did well.”
“I got wet.”
“I can see that.”
“And I ate pie.”
For some reason, that nearly undid me.
The man closed his eyes, and I thought I saw his mouth tremble before he pressed it into a firm line again.
“Pie,” he repeated.
“It was apple.”
Ray, my cook, who had been pretending to wipe the same section of counter for the last full minute, muttered, “The good slice, too.”
The man turned his head.
Ray immediately looked down at the counter.
Misha sniffed. “Anna gave it to me.”
For the first time, the man looked directly at me.
I had faced angry customers, impatient landlords, city inspectors, and bill collectors who smiled too much. I had learned how to stand my ground when my knees wanted to shake. But this man’s gaze made me feel as if he could read the unpaid invoices stacked in my office, the exhaustion under my eyes, the fear I had carried for months that my father’s diner would die under my hands.
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What is your name?” he asked.
“Anna Bell.”
Something moved behind his eyes.
Not surprise exactly.
Recognition.
It passed so quickly I almost convinced myself I imagined it.
He stood slowly, keeping one hand on Misha’s shoulder. Misha leaned into him, the way children do when they are trying to be brave but need to touch someone safe.
“I am Mikhail Volkov,” he said.
“I gathered.”
Ray made a quiet choking noise.
I ignored him.
