Zoya

She lay there and sobbed for what seemed like hours, longing for his gentle touch again, for the sight of him, the smell of the cologne he used … the fresh smell of the soap he used to shave … anything … anything … he would never come home again. Simon was gone, like the others.

CHAPTER

45

When Sasha came home, she found her mother sitting in the dark. When she heard why, for once in her life she did the right thing. She called Axelle, who came to sit with her and make plans for a memorial service. The next day Countess Zoya was closed, its doors draped with black crepe. And Axelle stayed at the apartment with Zoya, as she sat woodenly, unable to think coherently, or do more than nod, as Axelle planned the memorial service for her. Zoya seemed unable to make any of the necessary decisions which was so unlike her.

Her final act of courage had been in going to see Simon's parents on Houston Street the night before, his mother had screamed and wailed in her husband's arms, and finally Zoya departed quietly, stumbling as she left, clutching Sasha's arm. She was blinded by grief and pain and the loss of the man she had loved more than any other.

The service itself was an agony, with its unfamiliar litany and his mother's wails, as Zoya clutched Axelle's and Sasha's hands, and then they had taken her back to cry endlessly at her apartment.

“You must go back to work as soon as you can,” Axelle looked at her and said almost harshly. She knew how easy it would be to let go, to give up, she almost had when her own husband died. And Zoya couldn't allow herself that luxury now. She had three children to think of, and herself. And she had survived tragedy before. She had to do it again now, but she only shook her head, as the tears continued to stream down her face as she looked bleakly at Axelle. There seemed to be nothing left she wanted to live for.

“I can't even think about that now. I don't care about the store. I don't care about anything. Only Simon.”

“Well, you have to. You have a responsibility to your children, yourself, your clients … and to Simon. You must continue in his memory, continue to build what he helped you start. You can't give up now. The store was his gift to you, Zoya.”

It was true, but the store seemed so trivial now, so ridiculously unimportant, without Simon to share it with, what did any of it matter?

“You must be strong.” She handed the beautiful redhead a glass of brandy from the bar, and insisted that she take a sip as she watched her. “Drink it all. It will do you good.” Axelle was suddenly a martinet as Zoya smiled through her tears at her friend, and then only began to cry harder. “You didn't survive the revolution and everything that happened after that, only to give up now, Zoya Hirsch.” But the sound of his name attached to her own only made her cry more, and Axelle returned every day until she convinced Zoya to go back to the store. It seemed a miracle when she finally agreed to go back, but only for a few minutes. She wore somber black, and sheer black stockings, but at least she was back in her office. And the minutes became hours after a few days. And eventually she went and sat at her desk, for most of the day, staring into space and remembering Simon. She went there like a robot every day and Sasha had begun giving her trouble again. Zoya knew she was losing control of her, but she couldn't deal with that just then either. All she could do was survive the days, hour by hour, hiding in her office, and then go home at night to dream of Simon. Even little Matthew broke her heart, just seeing him was a constant reminder of his father.

Simon's attorneys had been calling her for weeks, and she had avoided all their attempts to see her. Simon had left two loyal employees in charge of his mills and the factory where they made his coats. She knew everything was in control there, and she was having enough trouble running her own store without facing that as well. And talking to the attorneys about his estate would mean facing the fact that he was gone and she couldn't. She had been thinking of him, remembering their weekend in Connecticut when one of her assistants gently knocked on the door of her office.

“Countess Zoya?” The woman spoke through the door as Zoya dried her eyes again. She had been sitting at her desk, staring at a photograph of Simon. She'd had another argument with Sasha the night before, but now even that seemed unimportant.

“I'll be right out.” She blew her nose again, and glanced in a mirror to patch up her makeup.

‘There's someone here to see you.”

“I don't want to see anyone,” she spoke quietly as she opened the door a crack. ‘Tell them I'm not here.” And then as an afterthought, “Who is it?”

“A Mr. Paul Kelly. He said it was important.”