[Quarry Road 01.0] All the Lies We Tell

  Ilya shook his head. “What do you connect?”

  “Mostly real estate. I find properties that are in foreclosure or other financial difficulty and connect buyers that have the finances and desire and abilities to turn those opportunities into successful projects.”

  “You lost me,” Ilya said.

  Theresa laughed. “I spend a lot of time on the Internet looking up properties for sale or the places that have liens and back taxes, or are in an underserved location, or are somehow unique. Then I get in touch with people who like to invest in that sort of thing and try to connect them.”

  Ilya chuffed somewhat amazed laughter. “And this works out for you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Theresa said airily, with a wave of her hand. “It’s been terrific. Best job ever.”

  Something in her tone sounded a little off. Her smile, a little dim. Ilya tossed his cola can in the trash and went to the fridge to pull out a couple of beers. He handed her one. “How’d you get started with that?”

  Theresa waved away the beer. “Not for me, thanks.”

  He put it back in the fridge and cracked the top of his. “You don’t drink?”

  “Nope.”

  Ilya frowned. “Since when?”

  “Since . . . forever,” she said. “For a long time, anyway.”

  “You used to.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Maybe once. Here. That party you guys had.”

  “That was a long time ago, Theresa. You’re telling me you haven’t had a beer since then?”

  She shrugged. “Yep. It happens, you know.”

  “But . . .” He shook his head. A life without booze? “Why?”

  She brushed past him to grab a glass from the cupboard. Her perfume, something fresh, wafted over him. Her hair, long and thick and dark, tumbling over her shoulders and down her back, brushed his shoulder. He took a step back as she drew a glass of water from the tap and turned to face him, sipping.

  “I don’t like it, that’s all. Where’s your mother and Niko?”

  “She’s upstairs. I don’t know about him. People should start arriving soon, though. I think Galina told them around seven.” Ilya tipped the bottle to his mouth and drank, savoring the tang of hops and the underlying flavor of honey. His brother had picked this up. It was fancier than what Ilya usually drank. “You don’t drink at all? Not even a glass of wine with your girlfriends? Not ever? That’s weird.”

  She looked him over. “It’s not weird. I need to get changed before everyone gets here. You didn’t go in to work today?”

  “Nah.” He’d thought about it, but Alicia would take care of things better than he ever could.

  “Are you planning to go tomorrow?” Brow furrowed, Theresa looked him over with that same wrinkled nose from earlier.

  “Look, you can get off my case, okay? All of you can get off it.” He drained the beer and tossed the empty bottle into the garbage with a clatter of glass. He took the second—the one she didn’t want—from the fridge, and popped the top without looking at her.

  “Sorry.” Her voice was cool. Theresa glanced at the teapot clock that had hung over the sink forever. “You’re right. It’s not really any of my business. I need to go get changed before people get here.”

  “And you want to know what else is weird? You.”

  She turned back to look at him with narrowed eyes. “Me?”

  “Yeah. You showing up here after all this time, and you’re staying in the house? That’s weird.” Ilya tipped the bottle at her, enjoying the way the word clearly needled at her. Getting a rise out of her.

  “Your mother offered,” Theresa said after a pause. “It was nice of her.”

  “In this house with a shitty shower and drafty windows? And that bed’s hard as a rock. Don’t tell me it’s not.” He laughed harshly. “You’d be better off in a hotel.”

  Theresa frowned. “Why are you always such a colossal dick, Ilya? Really. I haven’t seen you in a long time, we have nothing to be angry at each other for, and I haven’t done a damned thing to you. Ever. I mean, are you holding a grudge against me because I used your toothpaste a couple decades ago, or what?”

  The truth was, he had no idea why he was so bent on being such an asshole to her. In reply, he set the bottle on the counter and crossed his arms. Theresa rolled her eyes.

  “Fine. I’ll pack up my things and be out of here tonight, then. I’m sure I can get a room somewhere, even this late. I’ll leave after the shiva is over.” Theresa went to the table and rustled around in her bag for a moment, glaring. She stopped to look up at him. “Or maybe I should just go now? Since obviously I’m causing such a problem for you.”

  Now Ilya felt exactly like the giant dick she’d accused him of being. It was a stupidly familiar feeling, only this time instead of keeping up with it, he sighed. “Ah, shit. Theresa . . .”

  “What?” She stood and put her hands on her hips.

  “Sorry.” He attempted what was meant to be a charming smile, the one that usually worked on the women he’d pissed off. He’d had a lot of practice using it.

  Theresa didn’t seem charmed. “Does that usually work for you? The ‘Aw shucks’ look?”

  There didn’t seem to be much point in denying it. Ilya grinned. “Yes. Usually.”

  “You are your mother’s son, Ilya.”

  This set him back a step, a hard one. He frowned. “Harsh.”

  “Look . . .” Theresa sighed, then gathered the thickness of her hair in one hand to tie it on top of her head with the elastic band she tugged from her wrist. She gestured. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “About what?” Ilya reached for his beer, surprised to find it had somehow emptied faster than he could remember drinking it. He bent to open the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a glass, neat. Offered her the bottle just to see what she’d do.

  Theresa gave him a hard look and made no move to take the bottle. “About anything. Or maybe you’d rather let the liquor listen.”

  “Hey.” Ilya sipped, grimacing at the kick of whiskey against the back of his throat. “Now who’s being a dick?”

  She laughed, just a little. “Touché.”

  They stared at each other for a few seconds. Ilya sipped more whiskey. It was smooth going down, but he put the glass on the counter without finishing it. He didn’t have a problem drinking alone, but it looked like he had one drinking while being judged. He scrubbed a hand through his hair.

  “Shit,” he said.

  Theresa pulled out the kitchen chairs, one for him and one for her. She gestured until he sat, then went to the fridge to pull out the fixings for sandwiches. Deli meat, cheese, pickles, mustard, mayo. Rolls from the back he hadn’t noticed, along with a container of macaroni salad. She laid it all out along with a couple of plates while he watched.

  “Eat,” she said.

  “You sound like Babulya.”

  Theresa smiled. “She was a smart lady. I’m starving. If you don’t want to eat, fine, but I’m going to murder a roast beef with cheddar.”

  “You eat a lot,” Ilya said.

  Theresa snorted soft laughter and shook her head, giving him an amused glance. “Yeah? And?”

  “No and,” he said. “Just an observation.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Your grandmother spent a lot of time with me in this kitchen, making sure I was fed. It feels like the thing to do when someone needs taken care of.”

  If that was what she thought of him, she was going to be in for a sad surprise, but that she might think it of him had Ilya swallowing the smart-ass comment he’d been prepared to make. Instead, they both made towering sandwiches mostly in silence, broken only by requests to pass the mustard or hand over the pickles. He had to admit, it was the right idea. He didn’t need to be taken care of, but it felt kind of nice to let someone try.

  She took her first bite and let out a low, breathy moan that sent a shiver through him, one that Ilya cursed himself for feeling. It h
ad been weeks since the last woman he’d brought home. And he hadn’t been doing any self-maintenance in that respect, either, not with a houseful of people and feeling the way he’d been. That was all it was, he told himself, uncomfortable at the way he couldn’t stop staring at the swipe of her tongue along her bottom lip to capture the slick of mustard that had dripped from her sandwich. He was thinking with his dick, the way he usually did.

  “So good. What?” she asked, quieter this time. Less confrontational.

  “You have . . . umm . . .” He passed her a paper napkin from the basket in the middle of the table. “Something on your . . . yeah.”

  Theresa wiped her mouth. Her gaze on him was constant. Steady. Before this moment he wouldn’t have been able to say what color her eyes were, but he could see they were a deep and liquid amber. The color of the whiskey in his glass, actually. The one he’d left on the countertop, still mostly full.

  “Thanks.” She dragged a fork through the macaroni salad and ate a bite, watching him. “So. You want to talk about it, or what?”

  “I don’t have anything to say.” Ilya eyed the sloppy sandwich on his plate. His stomach rumbled, so he took a big bite, not giving one damn about how the condiments squirted out all over his face.

  Theresa handed him a napkin without a word. He used it. Set the sandwich down. Gave her a long and steady glare, challenging her to say anything more.

  “It’s okay to miss your grandma, Ilya,” she said finally. “It’s okay to have mixed feelings about your mother coming back around. And your brother . . .”

  He stabbed his fork into some macaroni salad but didn’t eat it. “What about my brother?”

  “Look, all I’m saying is that it’s okay to miss Babulya. It’s okay to feel uneasy about your mother being here, or feel a little competitive with your brother—”

  “Why would I feel competitive with him?” Ilya broke in.

  Theresa’s mouth twisted for a second, before she gave an exaggerated shrug. “He’s been gone a long time, but now he’s back. It must be strange, that’s all. But it’s not cool to let yourself get stuck in some kind of depressive lethargy. It’s not going to help you in the long run, you know? You need to get up, get back to work.”

  “I wasn’t there for her,” Ilya spit out, uncertain why he was saying it but unable to stop himself.

  Theresa nodded as though she understood what he meant, even though he hadn’t been totally clear. “Babulya?”

  “Yeah. I wasn’t there for her. I was too busy to see her. I didn’t like the home, I didn’t like seeing her that way, so I put it off. I wasn’t there for her, even though I knew . . . shit, I knew . . .” He drew in a hitching breath, horrified that tears were clogging his throat and threatening to slide out of his eyes. He covered them with his hand, fingers squeezing his temples to keep from weeping. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t break down. Not in front of her.

  The scrape of the chair alerted him to her getting up. She put a hand on his shoulder. The weight of it was more of a comfort than he’d expected. Way more than he wanted.

  “It’s okay to be upset, Ilya.”

  “I’m fine! You don’t know a damned thing about me or how I feel!” He stood, pushing against her before he could get some distance between them.

  That perfume teased him again, along with the cloud of her hair. He grabbed her wrist, turning her, not sure why. More to say, maybe, or at least that was what he thought. The motion pulled her close against him. Too close. Theresa drew in a breath, her eyes going wide. Lips parting. He let her go when she yanked her arm from his grip.

  “You might not believe that I cared for your grandmother and that I’m very, very sorry that she’s gone, but you don’t have to believe me,” Theresa said. “I don’t really care if you do or not. I don’t care what you think about me, or my reasons for coming back here or anything else.”

  “What do you care about?” Ilya shot back. “Me?”

  Theresa’s gaze searched his. “I barely know you anymore. But yes. I guess I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Why would you?” he muttered.

  “Good question. I have no idea.” She stepped back, out of his reach. “You certainly aren’t giving me any reason to.”

  He waited until she’d left the kitchen before he went to the counter where he’d left his glass of whiskey and tossed it back. Anything to get rid of the scent of her. She was his . . . well, she’d been his sister. Sort of.

  A long time ago.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alicia was never going to untangle herself. She was stuck, wrapped up, trapped in the Stern-family web. The question was, which of the Stern brothers was the spider, and how long was the venom going to take to kill her?

  She could’ve made an excuse about not going over there tonight. She no longer cared much what Galina thought or said, and she was used to dealing with Ilya. It was Nikolai causing the twisting in her stomach. Seeing him, not seeing him, pretending they hadn’t kissed in her kitchen, hoping he would look at her. Wondering what she’d do if he did not. She could have stayed home, but then she wouldn’t know, would she, whether he was going to look at her, and what he might see if he did.

  She’d had to Google what shiva meant and how to observe it. Wikipedia had said to bring food, so here she was on the front porch of the Sterns’ house with an angel-food cake and a pan of brownies she’d baked herself, realizing too late that she could neither ring the bell nor open the door without dropping something. She was saved when Theresa opened the front door.

  “Galina told me to wait for people to come, then open the door,” Theresa said as she stepped aside to let Alicia pass. “She said you’re not supposed to knock at a shiva house? I don’t know, exactly.”

  Alicia gratefully handed the other woman the heavier plate and caught sight of the mirror that had always hung in the front entry. It had been covered with a familiar sheet, pale blue with patterned pink flowers. It was part of a set she and Ilya had received as a belated wedding gift from a distant relative she’d barely known. The gift had been a surprise, but seeing the sheet hanging over the mirror was another.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Theresa looked at the covered mirror. “Yeah. It’s tradition, I guess. Ilya did it.”

  “Ilya . . . did that?” Once more, Alicia paused in surprise.

  She’d always known the Sterns were Jewish, of course. In a town this small, that had been an anomaly. She and Ilya had been married in a Vegas wedding chapel in a nondenominational ceremony. They’d put up a Christmas tree every year because she’d made the effort, and he’d never argued against it. She would never have guessed he knew the first thing about religious observances.

  Theresa looked uncomfortable for a second or so before she shrugged. “Yes. He’s . . . he’s taking this hard, I guess.”

  “He was her favorite.” Alicia waited for Theresa to move ahead of her down the hallway and into the kitchen. “Where are they?”

  “In the living room. He and Galina aren’t really talking to each other, but they’re both in there. He got drunk last night, and I guess they got into it a little bit.” Theresa gave Alicia a wry grin over her shoulder as she set the plate of brownies on the table among all the other platters and trays. She gestured at the oven. “I put in a few of the casseroles from after the service. So many came to the house after that, I don’t know how many people will be stopping by. Galina sent out a bunch of e-mails and texts, she said.”

  It looked like Theresa had wasted no time in making herself useful, Alicia thought, then cringed at her own—what was it, exactly? Jealousy at how easily the other woman seemed to have slipped into the role of hostess? A place Alicia herself had disdained and wished she didn’t have to fill, right? Theresa was family, too, after all. The other woman gave Alicia a lingering, contemplative look, but if she sensed Alicia’s stupid flare of emotion, she didn’t say anything about it.

  “Niko’s upstairs,” Theresa said. “If you wanted to know.”


  Alicia kept her focus carefully on the angel-food cake she was trying to find room for on the table, careful not to give away any hint of interest. “Oh?”

  When the other woman didn’t answer right away, Alicia looked up. Theresa couldn’t possibly know. Could she?

  Theresa said nothing after that, because a shuffle of feet and a murmur of voices came from the front hallway, and with a small shrug, she headed out of the kitchen to greet the new guests. Alicia let herself grip the back of one of the kitchen chairs for a moment, her eyes closed. Breathing in, then out.

  Kissing Nikolai had been one of the dumber things she’d ever done, but it wasn’t like they had to act like the strangers she’d told him they seemed to be. They could keep their distance from each other if they both wanted to. They didn’t have to act stupid about it. They were adults. She didn’t need any kind of reassurances from him about what had happened, she told herself as she slipped out of the kitchen before anyone could come in that she’d have to talk to. She didn’t need him to make her feel better.

  She crept up the narrow back stairs, each step only about half the width of a normal one. As kids they’d made a game of running up and down this back staircase without falling, at least until Babulya had gotten tired of the thunderous noise and the multitude of bumps and tumbles. She’d locked both the bottom and the top doors to keep them out, and the stairway itself had become more like a storage closet than anything else. She inched her way past ski boots, mop handles missing their heads, stacks of magazines. At the top she paused, certain she’d find the door locked and her attempts at stealth all for naught, but the door creaked open on cantankerous hinges, and she stepped out into the house’s upper hallway.

  She drew in a long, slow breath. Funny how it felt to be here on whisper-toed feet, sneaking. She put an unsteady hand on the plaster wall, feeling the roughness. Refusing to give in to the desire to close her eyes and lose herself in memories—she was here right now. In this moment. In this place.

  Making this choice.

  Both houses on the end of Quarry Street had been built of the same local rock, but unlike the house in which she’d grown up, with its central stairway and the rooms surrounding it, the Stern house’s layout was of a long hallway lined with doors, with a staircase and windows at each end to let in the light. At the end farthest from her, another set of stairs led to the attic. It had been volcanically hot in the summers and brutally frigid in the winters, yet the space with its slanting ceiling and tiny windows had been coveted by the brothers, who’d fought over who got to make it their room. She and Ilya had talked about finishing it into a more usable space, but as with everything else in their marriage, time, money, and ultimately a lack of desire had squelched the project.