Zoya

“Tell me again about your grandmother.” She smiled as she told him all of it again, about the troikas in Russia when she was a child, and the games they had played, the people they had known. It was a way of sharing her history with him, and in effect his own. They went to the south of France afterward, and the following year, with both children again, Zoya went to Rome. She took Marina everywhere with her, as though in some way she could make up to her for the mother she had lost. Marina was like her own child now, and she looked so much like Zoya as she staggered happily around the ship on the way home, that people naturally assumed she was Zoya's child. At forty-nine, she still had an air of youth, and it wasn't incredible to anyone that she should still have young children around her.

“It keeps me young, I suppose,” she told Paul more than once. And he agreed with her. She looked even lovelier than before. Nicholas was running the company by then, and by the spring of 1951, he had the textile mills well in hand. He was almost thirty years old, and when Zoya came back from Europe with the little ones, he came to see them to hear all about the trip. Matthew was eleven, and Marina was four and a half, with her shining red hair, and big green eyes. She squealed with laughter when Nicholas tickled her, and he put Marina to bed himself, and then returned to the living room to tell Zoya his plans.

“Well, Mama …” He hesitated, smiling at her, and she sensed that something important was happening.

“Yes, Nicholas? Am I supposed to wear a serious face, or are you just trying to frighten me?” She had been expecting it for a while. He had been seeing a charming southern girl. He had met her when he was in South Carolina, checking on the mills. She was very beautiful, and a little spoiled. But Zoya never commented on that. He was a grown man, and free to make his own choices with his life. As she said to Paul, she respected his judgment. He was a sensible young man, with a kind heart, and a mind that had been honed by running Simon's businesses.

“Will you be very surprised if I tell you I'm going to get married in the fall?” His eyes played with hers and she laughed.

“Should I be surprised, my love?”

“Elizabeth and I are getting married” he proudly announced.

“I'm happy for you, darling,” she looked at him and smiled. He was a good man, and both his fathers would have been proud of him. “I hope she makes you happy, my love.”

“She already does.” Zoya couldn't have asked for more, and she offered to help her find a wedding dress the next time they spoke, remembering to herself Sofia's inquisition before she and Simon had gotten married years before. Simon's parents were long since gone, and his uncles after that. She had never been close to them, but she had seen to it that Matthew visited them often before they died, and they were grateful.

She reminded herself not to be difficult, when Elizabeth swept into the store and was rude to everyone. The wedding dress was the least of it. She also seemed to expect Zoya to supply her entire trousseau, and buy them an apartment. Zoya felt a tiny chill run up her spine, as she stood at the wedding after that, watching Matthew carefully balance the ring on the cushion he held, and Marina swing a tiny basket of rose petals, as she waved at her grandmother in the front row, and Zoya smiled proudly at them.

But Nicholas carried on valiantly, supplying her every need, meeting her every demand, catering to her every whim, until he could stand it no more. Almost four years to the day that Zoya had watched Marina tossing rose petals at them, Nicholas sent Elizabeth home to her parents. Marina was nine by then and Zoya was taking her to ballet class every day. It had been her only passion in life since she was five. And this time, Zoya was determined to do everything she could for the child, still feeling that she had somehow failed Sasha. She left the store at three o'clock every day, picked Marina up at Miss Nightingale's, and took her to the ballet classes where she did the same tours jetos, the same plios, the same exercises that Zoya herself had done a lifetime ago in St. Petersburg with Madame Nastova.

It was odd how things repeated themselves again. She told her about the Maryinsky School, its wonders and joys, and how demanding Madame Nastova had been. And when she and Nicholas went to her recital, she sat quietly and cried. Nicholas looked over and touched her hand, as Zoya smiled through her tears, watching Marina.

“She's so sweet and innocent.” Life was just beginning for her. And she worked so hard at everything she did, she was such a good and earnest child. Matthew was like a brother to her, although they were seven years apart, not unlike Nicolai when she was growing up herself. It was odd how it all happened again and again, generation after generation, her own passion for the ballet reborn in Marina.