The Stanislaskis: Taming Natasha

“Among other things.” Because he was far from finished, he leaned over her and opened the door on her side. For a moment, they were so close, his body pressed lightly to hers. She had an urge, almost desperate, to rub her fingers over his cheek, to feel the rough stubble he’d neglected to shave away. “I’d like you to come up,” he told her. “I have something for you.”

Sydney caught her fingers creeping up and snatched them back. “It’s nearly six. I really should—”

“Come up for an hour,” he finished. “Your driver can come back for you, yes?”

“Yes.” She shifted away, not sure whether she wanted to get out or simply create some distance between them. “You can messenger your report over.”

“I could.”

He moved another inch. In defense, Sydney swung her legs out of the car. “All right then, but I don’t think it’ll take an hour.”

“But it will.”

She relented because she preferred spending an hour going over a report than sitting in her empty apartment thinking about the scheduled board meeting. After giving her driver instructions, she walked with Mikhail toward the building.

“You’ve repaired the stoop.”

“Tuesday. It wasn’t easy getting the men to stop sitting on it long enough.” He exchanged greetings with the three who were ranged across it now as Sydney passed through the aroma of beer and tobacco. “We can take the elevator. The inspection certificate is hardly dry.”

She thought of the five long flights up. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that.” She stepped in with him, waited while he pulled the open iron doors closed.

“It has character now,” he said as they began the assent. “And you don’t worry that you’ll get in to get downstairs and spend the night inside.”

“There’s good news.”

He pulled the doors open again as the car slid to a smooth, quiet stop. In the hallway, the ceiling was gone, leaving bare joists and new wiring exposed.

“The water damage from leaking was bad,” Mikhail said conversationally. “Once the roof is finished, we’ll replace.”

“I’ve expected some complaints from the tenants, but we haven’t received a single one. Isn’t it difficult for everyone, living in a construction zone?”

Mikhail jingled his keys. “Inconvenient. But everyone is excited and watches the progress. Mr. Stuben from the third floor comes up every morning before he leaves for work. Every day he says, ‘Mikhail, you have your work cut out for you.’” He grinned as he opened the door. “Some days I’d like to throw my hammer at him.” He stepped back and nudged her inside. “Sit.”

Lips pursed, Sydney studied the room. The furniture had been pushed together in the center—to make it easier to work, she imagined. Tables were stacked on top of chairs, the rug had been rolled up. Under the sheet he’d tossed over his worktable were a variety of interesting shapes that were his sculptures, his tools, and blocks of wood yet to be carved.

It smelled like sawdust, she thought, and turpentine.

“Where?”

He stopped on his way to the kitchen and looked back. After a quick study, he leaned into the jumble and lifted out an old oak rocker. One-handed, Sydney noted, and felt foolish and impressed.

“Here.” After setting it on a clear spot, he headed back into the kitchen.

The surface of the rocker was smooth as satin. When Sydney sat, she found the chair slipped around her like comforting arms. Ten seconds after she’d settled, she was moving it gently to and fro.

“This is beautiful.”

He could hear the faint creak as the rocker moved and didn’t bother to turn. “I made it for my sister years ago when she had a baby.” His voice changed subtly as he turned on the kitchen tap. “She lost the baby, Lily, after only a few months, and it was painful for Natasha to keep the chair.”