Undone, Volume 2 (14 page)

At the mention of
paparazzi, his grandmother tsked in disapproval. She reminded me so
much of the British actress Maggie Smith I almost had to pinch
myself.

“So you're a
baroness?” I asked, slightly timidly. I wanted to be a good guest,
making polite conversation, but I wasn’t at all sure where to find
common ground for a nice chat.

“Yes,” she
confirmed. “Well, technically a dowager baroness.”

“Oh, quite so.”
What was I saying? I never said quite so in all my life. She was
going to think I was making fun of her!

“But you mustn’t be
put off by all that,” she continued, unfazed. Leaning in with a
slightly conspiratorial air, she added, “You know, if you go back
far enough, we’re actually Irish.” She said the word “Irish”
as if revealing a dark secret, a skeleton in the closet. I nodded,
wondering if I should act scandalized but not feeling that way in the
least. “And really,” she continued, “I’m sure we all have
royalty somewhere in our lineage if we dig far enough back.”

I didn’t know about
that. I was pretty sure if you went back in my family history you’d
find a long line of peasants descending from a long line of peasants,
toiling, starving, drinking. That was the Russian way. I’d heard
about it enough from my parents, usually accompanied by a lecture on
the importance of hard work.

“At any rate,” the
Baroness continued, “no one gives a fig about royals these days.
Celebrities are all the rage. Like our Asher here.” She turned her
gaze on Ash, or Asher as she called him. So formal. Wait, if she were
a baroness, did that mean that he was a baron?

“What do think of the
way Asher dresses?” she asked me, surveying him with a critical
tilt to her head.

“Oh…” Caught
between the truth—fucking sexy as hell—and polite agreement, I
said nothing.

“A bit scruffy, isn't
it?” she filled in for me.

“I guess it’s sort
of his look,” I offered. I loved his faded t-shirts that fit him
just so, hugging his biceps and shoulders in soft cotton. The couple
of thin, braided leather necklaces he wore that I constantly itched
to reach over and play with. The way his jeans fit on his slim hips
and perfect ass. Could I ask the serving staff for a spare fan?

“He does have a
certain rogue’s quality to him, doesn't he? Fresh in from the
hunt.”

“Yes, I guess you
could say that.” I could see her commissioning a portrait of her
grandson, Ash all in rock-and-roll black yet up on a steed and
surrounded by hounds and foxes.

“Well, do try to
clean it up a bit for this one,” she admonished Ash. “She’s not
your usual strumpet.” I nearly spat out my tea at the word. I
didn’t know if I’d ever heard anyone use the word ‘strumpet’
in casual conversation. I might love this woman. “Anika is
certainly worth your putting forth some effort.” Yes, I did love
this woman.

“I'll do my best,
Gram.” Ash took the advice like a champ, smiling at his Gram with
affection. A whole other side to Ash, doting grandson. He kept
getting better and better the more I got to know him. That wasn’t
good.

“I'm sure you will,
my boy.” She smiled back at him warmly.

Conversation flowed
forth, much more easily than I ever would have imagined. Witty,
polite, refined, we enjoyed our time in her bright, sunlit morning
room, a servant ensuring all provisions remained fully stocked. I’d
been in a lot of wealthy Upper East Side homes teaching piano, but a
morning room? How many rooms could an apartment in Manhattan have?
With a breathtaking view of the city skyline, too.

If Ash felt at home
with all of this, what would he think of my family? I didn’t really
need to worry about it, of course. He would never meet them. But I
couldn’t help compare the Dowager Baroness Kavanaugh in her pearls
and coiffed hair up in a bun, with my mother, always fussing,
muttering and superstitious, throwing salt over her shoulder and
usually forgetting to take off her apron. My Aunt Irina lived with
us, too. She’d never married, just come over from Russia to join
us, and all day long the two of them bickered and chatted and laughed
and bickered nonstop. With a giant bosom and a penchant for tea
cakes, Aunt Irina hadn’t seen her waist since about 1986.

The Baroness looked
trim and sparkling in a cream silk blouse and wool scarlet pants,
suede shoes the exact same color. But she wasn’t cold or mean, she
was welcoming and kind.

“I must say, Asher,”
she declared, setting down her tea cup on a saucer. “I’m
absolutely thrilled to see you with a musician.” I enjoyed the
praise, but I had to admit, it made me think about the fact that he’d
dated musicians before. Maybe his grandmother didn’t know that he’d
dated Mandy Monroe?

“A legitimate
musician,” she added, as if responding to my unspoken thoughts.
“With classical training. It’s about time you paired up with
someone who can push you a bit. Keep you on your toes, instead of
simply adulating at your feet.”

She invited me to
attend an upcoming concert with her, a private benefit featuring one
of the most famous and renowned pianists in the world. No big deal, a
typical Thursday night for her. I wanted to leap at the chance, but
realized late January was outside of our time frame. Ash and I would
already be off on our separate ways, back into our real lives.

In two short weeks, I’d
be ripping out her grandson’s heart in some sort of
widely-publicized venue. Hopefully her aversion to all the social
media hype would mean she’d never see it. I didn’t like the
thought of losing her good opinion. She seemed so genuinely pleased
with me, with us.

Professional distance,
I reminded myself. I kept a polite smile on my face. And I tried not
to show how much it meant to me when the baroness declared, “Asher,
this one’s a keeper.”

But I’m not sure I
was able to keep all of my reaction under wraps when Ash looked at
me, serious and satisfied, and said, “I agree.”

§

On Christmas Eve, I
slept at my parents’ house. My room hadn’t changed at all.
Posters of movies I’d liked when I was 15 still hung on the wall.
My bookshelves still displayed the collected series of the books I’d
loved, from
Anne of Green Gables
to
Twilight
to the
Hunger Games
. I even
had a small poster of Ash Black. It was from their very first album
seven years ago, back when I’d still bought CDs. Inside, when you
unfolded the label you got a photo of Ash. Technically, it was the
whole band, The Blacklist, but Ash was out in front, those sultry
eyes, that famous pout, arrogant as hell, daring you not to find him
sexy. I found him sexy. I think he’d taken my 17-year-old-world and
revved it up into hyper-speed, giving me a whole new kind of man to
fantasize about. The kind you didn’t want to take home to meet mom
and dad.

And now, here he was in
my life, but I wasn’t taking him home to meet my parents. He was
dividing the holiday between the city and Connecticut, spending
Christmas Eve with his grandmother, then driving up to see his
sister, mother and stepfather on Christmas Day. His family sounded
scattered, fragmented more than by simple geography. Ash seemed close
to his Gram and his sister, Gigi. The rest he spoke of in curt,
dismissive tones, clearly not wanting to get dragged into discussing
family drama.

I’d gotten a bit out
of him. His father had passed away just this past summer, dying of
cancer. I felt terrible when he told me, but then even more chilled
when he explained that his father had always found him a deep
disappointment. He didn’t seem close with his mother, either. His
parents had divorced when he was 12 and afterwards he’d moved to
England and lived with his grandmother. He’d also mentioned a
stepmother and when I’d asked him if he was going to see her on the
holiday, he laughed. He explained that his father had only married
her a few years ago and he’d barely exchanged more than a few words
with her. Not exactly a tight-knit family.

I bet most days it
didn’t matter too much to him. Ash Black, rock star, had too much
going on to dwell on his fractured family. But I bet growing up he’d
felt some pain. And I bet Christmas might not be the most fun day of
the year for him. Even the most hardcore, rock-n-roll baller had to
feel the pull on that holiday, the desire to sit in front of a fire
with loved ones, enjoying the peace and harmony of the season.

Christmas morning,
activity in my childhood home started early. My parents would
celebrate again in January, observing the traditional Julian calendar
as well as the Roman Catholic calendar, covering all their bases. But
they’d lived in America for almost three decades now, and each year
they did December 25th took more and more precedence. We hit the
early church service, emerging a cool two and a half hours later.

“What’s this? About
you and the punk rocker?” Older women I’d known since I was a
baby came over to me with coffees in the adjoining hall, pinching my
cheeks and warning me against predatory men.

“Our Anika has a good
head on her shoulders,” my mother assured them, though privately
last night she’d asked the exact same questions. I’d managed to
dodge most of her bullets. I hadn’t played fair—I’d arrived
late in the afternoon on the 24th when I knew food preparation and
table decorations would take precedence over all else. Even when your
daughter was rumored to be dating a no-good, sleeze-bag of a rock and
roller. Her words.

“It’s nothing,
really,” I told them all, knowing I was actually speaking the
truth. There honestly was nothing real between us. “The press likes
to follow him around and make up rumors.”

“How about what he
did to that nice girl, that Moira?” They shook their heads in
disapproval.

“Well, I don’t know
how much of that happened exactly like they say it did.”

They lit up. “You do
like him! Our little Anya with the rocker!”

At home, we bustled
around, the number of dishes at least two times the large number of
guests. My mother and I laid out two enormously long tables comprised
of a number of borrowed folding tables pushed together, all covered
by table cloths and ornate fruit bowls and candles. To my father’s
right, we set an extra plate at the table to honor those who’d
passed. Before we sat down, I had to remind my mother to take off her
apron and her babushka. She still had a red headscarf tied neatly
under her chin like she was heading off to the open-air market in
Moscow. In 1908.

The toasts, the wine,
the teasing, the laughter, it felt so good to see my family.

“He’s a hot one!”
Aunt Irina declared, already on her third glass of cordial. She’d
been serving it to me on the holidays since I was five, waving away
my mother’s concern with “It’s fruit and nuts!” And cognac,
lots of it.

I turned to my cousin
sitting next to me, praying Irina wasn’t launching into a speech
about Ash. But the thirteen-year-old by my side had the same topic on
her mind. “Can I meet him?” she asked, her eyes wide with hope.

“Oh, honey, I barely
know him. But I can see about getting you his autograph.” I let her
down gently.

“I’ll get it!” My
mother rose to another knock at the door. Most of our guests knew to
arrive by two o’clock, but you never knew who might stop by on the
holiday, and my parents had a wide-open door policy. She disappeared
out of the dining/living/kitchen area where we’d taken over, all of
us sitting down together to eat. When she came back, looking
surprised and a bit flushed, she had Ash Black standing next to her.

“Hey.” He gave a
small wave, looking shy as he walked in on everyone seated at the
table.

“Oh!” I leapt up,
nearly clattering my plate to the floor. “Hi! I didn’t realize!”

“The punker!” Aunt
Irina toasted his arrival.

“Who’s this now?”
My father at the head of the table rose in his argyle sweater vest
with at least equal parts welcome and confusion.

“Hi, um.” I could
barely remember my own name, standing in my kitchen with Ash and my
parents and my entire extended family all watching us. For such a
noisy crew, now you could hear a pin drop.

“I’m Asher. I’m a
friend of Ana’s.” He stuck out his hand to my father and they
shook. “I’m sorry to disturb your dinner. I tried to call ahead
but I couldn’t reach you.” He looked at me.

“My phone’s
upstairs.”

“I just wanted to
wish you a Merry Christmas. And give you a couple of gifts.”
Bringing his hand up, he rumpled his hair and gave me a bashful
smile. My heart melted into a hot puddle on the floor. “But I can
head out.”

“Don’t be crazy!”
My mother swatted him with a dishtowel. “There’s more than
enough. You sit! Sit and eat!”

Before I knew what was
happening, Ash got squished in between my Aunt Irina and Uncle Yuri,
seated in front of a large bowl of borscht, an overflowing plate of
blinis and beans and peas and cod fish, and a large goblet of
cordial.

“It’s just fruit
and nuts!” Anut Irina lied to him. “Drink! Drink!”

In the ensuing madness,
I was glad no one could tell I was rendered speechless. With all of
the excitement over Ash’s arrival, I couldn’t have gotten a word
in if I’d tried. And I couldn’t find words. I was floored to see
Ash, absolutely floored. Was this another PR stunt? Were cameramen
waiting outside our home?

In a moment of relative
calm, I caught his eye across the table. “Cameras?” I asked,
nodding nervously toward the front door.

He shook his head, no.
“Took my brother’s truck,” he reassured me. “No one knows I’m
here.”

After dinner, a couple
of cousins trapped Ash on the couch, asking him about Taylor Swift.
Did he know her? What was she like? Was she super nice?

I went into the kitchen
to help with dishes, and soon as he could escape he joined me,
washing as I dried, making conversation with my mother about how
Christmases here compared to Christmases growing up.