Zoya

“Hello?” It was the Florida State Police. Her heart stopped, instantly fearing why they'd called her. They told her that Sasha and Freddy had been in an accident on their way home from a party somewhere, and as she held her breath, her worst fears came to fruition. She set the phone down, staring at Nicholas, unable to tell him. A moment later, the baby's nurse called them, hysterical to be left alone with the baby. And Nicholas talked to her and promised to fly down in the morning to pick up the child. The nurse explained everything to him, as he looked at his mother in silent horror. She blamed herself as she cried that night, she had done all the wrong things, she insisted, and now it was too late. She had failed her, and now she was dead.“… She was so sweet when she was small …” Zoya cried. But Nicholas had other memories of Sasha. He remembered only how spoiled she had been, how selfish, and how unkind to their mother. But to Zoya it didn't seem fair. She was only twenty-one, and now she was gone, like a fleeting, brilliant flash of falling star on a dark summer night. One moment alive and then suddenly gone forever.

Nicholas flew to Florida the next day, and brought back his sister's body, and her tiny baby, Marina. It was a somber Christmas for Zoya, as she opened presents with Matthew, fighting back tears, with trembling hands, and wondering if there were something she could have done and had failed to do for her daughter. Perhaps if she had never worked, if things had been easier, if Clayton hadn't died … or Simon … or perhaps … the agonies were endless, as she tried to concentrate on Matthew, who seemed not to understand what had happened to his sister, he was much too calm, which frightened Zoya. But she realized that he understood too well when he turned wide brown eyes up to Zoya's and inquired quietly, “Was she drunk again, Mom?”

She was shocked as she heard Matthew's words. But he was right. She had been. And Zoya didn't deny it, as she held Sasha's baby. And late that night, Zoya sat staring down at her, as she opened her eyes and yawned sleepily. She was four months old, and all she had was Zoya now, and Matthew and Nicholas, her uncles.

“I'm too old for this,” Zoya sighed that night when Paul called, as he always did.

“No, you're not. She's better off with you than she would have been with them. She's a lucky child.” And he was a lucky man to share his life with her. The blessings in Zoya's life touched everyone around her … except for Sasha, and she accused herself again that night, knowing how totally she had failed her. But could she have done otherwise? She knew, with searing pain, that she would never have the answer. All she could do now to make up for it was love Marina as though she were her own. She put the baby's crib next to her own bed, and sat for hours looking at the baby sleeping there, her eyes closed, her skin warm, her hair silky red, like Zoya's own, and she promised to keep her safe, and do the best she could this time. And then, as a sob caught in her throat, she remembered the night Sasha and Nicholas had almost died in the fire … little Sasha had lain on the pavement, the firemen fighting to revive her from the thick smoke, and then she had stirred, and Zoya had held her sobbing, as she did now, remembering her … how could things have gone so wrong. In the end, in spite of everything, at only twenty-one, she had lost her.

The funeral was two days afterward, attended by some of her friends from school, and the people she had known growing up in New York. Their faces registered silent shock, as Zoya left the church on Nicholas's arm, Matthew holding her hand, and she saw Paul standing solemnly in the back row, his white hair standing out above the crowd, his eyes offering her everything he felt for her. She looked at him for only a moment and then walked on, her sons on either side of her, and tiny Marina, her whole life about to begin, waiting for them at home, in the bed next to Zoya's.

CHAPTER

49

Nineteen forty-seven was the year of the New Look from Dior, and Zoya took Matthew and Marina to Paris with her, when she went to order her new lines. Matthew was almost eight years old by then, and Marina was still a baby. But she took him to the Eiffel Tower, walked along the Seine with him, and to the Tuileries, where she had gone with Evgenia so very long ago.