Free Choose Me (The Me Novellas) by Liz Appel Page B
Authors: Liz Appel
had. And another portrait, a red-haired woman. I zeroed in and couldn’t hide my surprise. Loose red curls, almost shoulder-length. Green eyes set in a freckled face. A close-lipped smile that hinted at mischief.
She looked like me. An awful lot like me.
I held up the phone so he could see.
“Who is this?” I asked.
He smiled but there was something in his expression that didn’t express happiness.
“My wife.”
I waited but he said nothing more. I handed him the phone and he slipped it back in the front pocket of his pants.
“How long have you been married?”
“Two years.”
I frowned. “Haven’t you been in the U.S. for two years?”
Yuri nodded. “We married before I left.” He rubbed at his temples, his eyes closed. “I wanted to. Before I left.”
I felt a pang of sympathy. It reminded me of my grandparents’ story, of how my grandpa had hastily married my grandma in a civil ceremony the day before he left for England. Neither of them knew if he would survive the war but the last thing they’d wanted to do was wait to get married. He returned almost three years later. And they’d remained married for sixty more years.
“Have you been back?” I asked. “Back home, I mean?”
“Yes. I go back every few months. It is expensive but, obviously, I can afford it.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Katya pays you well?”
He thought for a moment before answering. “Yes. In her own way, she does.”
“I don’t understand.”
Yuri toyed with the napkin in front of him, folding the corner into a triangle. “My retainer is good. Very good. However, my reputation as an artist has grown. I am no longer dependent upon her to make connections, to find people to purchase my work.”
“So, that’s a good thing, then,” I said. I sipped my tea and winced. It had already grown lukewarm.
“I suppose.” He continued to play with the napkin.
“Something isn’t adding up,” I said. “Is she forcing you to stay here? Is that it?”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “Not at all.”
“Then what? Because I’m totally confused. You say she’s not keeping you. You say you aren’t dependent on her to sell your work anymore. But yet you need me as a … as a replacement so that you can go back to Moscow?”
“More or less,” he said. He drained his coffee and pushed the cup away.
“Explain.”
“I am free to leave at the end of every contract I sign,” he explained. “It is a solid business deal. There is nothing underhanded about what Katya does. We need to be clear on that.”
“OK,” I said, nodding my head.
“But,” he said. “When I don’t renew my contract, I must leave the United States.”
I frowned. “Well, isn’t that what you want?”
“Yes,” he said. “To a degree. But once I leave, I will not be able to return.”
“Why does that matter? Your wife and your family are in Moscow. You want to be with them, right?”
“Yes, very much so. But there is one thing that isn’t in Russia.”
“What’s that?”
“My customers.”
My head was beginning to spin. “You’re not making any sense. You just said you’re not dependent upon her for clients, that your reputation is strong enough to be able to sell stuff on your own. But then you’re saying that you won’t have customers in Russia.”
“I won’t,” he said. “Because they are all here. My client base is in the United States. Some in Europe, but the majority are here. My visibility will virtually disappear when I leave.”
“What about the Internet?” I asked. “If people love your stuff, they’ll find you, won’t they?”
“It might help,” he admitted. “But there are no guarantees. Russia is not a wealthy country. And people don’t travel to Moscow for art shows the way they might to Washington, DC.”
He wadded up the napkin, closing his fist around it. “If I leave, my income dries up. Completely. Unless I do one thing.”
“What’s that?”
He leveled his eyes
She looked like me. An awful lot like me.
I held up the phone so he could see.
“Who is this?” I asked.
He smiled but there was something in his expression that didn’t express happiness.
“My wife.”
I waited but he said nothing more. I handed him the phone and he slipped it back in the front pocket of his pants.
“How long have you been married?”
“Two years.”
I frowned. “Haven’t you been in the U.S. for two years?”
Yuri nodded. “We married before I left.” He rubbed at his temples, his eyes closed. “I wanted to. Before I left.”
I felt a pang of sympathy. It reminded me of my grandparents’ story, of how my grandpa had hastily married my grandma in a civil ceremony the day before he left for England. Neither of them knew if he would survive the war but the last thing they’d wanted to do was wait to get married. He returned almost three years later. And they’d remained married for sixty more years.
“Have you been back?” I asked. “Back home, I mean?”
“Yes. I go back every few months. It is expensive but, obviously, I can afford it.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Katya pays you well?”
He thought for a moment before answering. “Yes. In her own way, she does.”
“I don’t understand.”
Yuri toyed with the napkin in front of him, folding the corner into a triangle. “My retainer is good. Very good. However, my reputation as an artist has grown. I am no longer dependent upon her to make connections, to find people to purchase my work.”
“So, that’s a good thing, then,” I said. I sipped my tea and winced. It had already grown lukewarm.
“I suppose.” He continued to play with the napkin.
“Something isn’t adding up,” I said. “Is she forcing you to stay here? Is that it?”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “Not at all.”
“Then what? Because I’m totally confused. You say she’s not keeping you. You say you aren’t dependent on her to sell your work anymore. But yet you need me as a … as a replacement so that you can go back to Moscow?”
“More or less,” he said. He drained his coffee and pushed the cup away.
“Explain.”
“I am free to leave at the end of every contract I sign,” he explained. “It is a solid business deal. There is nothing underhanded about what Katya does. We need to be clear on that.”
“OK,” I said, nodding my head.
“But,” he said. “When I don’t renew my contract, I must leave the United States.”
I frowned. “Well, isn’t that what you want?”
“Yes,” he said. “To a degree. But once I leave, I will not be able to return.”
“Why does that matter? Your wife and your family are in Moscow. You want to be with them, right?”
“Yes, very much so. But there is one thing that isn’t in Russia.”
“What’s that?”
“My customers.”
My head was beginning to spin. “You’re not making any sense. You just said you’re not dependent upon her for clients, that your reputation is strong enough to be able to sell stuff on your own. But then you’re saying that you won’t have customers in Russia.”
“I won’t,” he said. “Because they are all here. My client base is in the United States. Some in Europe, but the majority are here. My visibility will virtually disappear when I leave.”
“What about the Internet?” I asked. “If people love your stuff, they’ll find you, won’t they?”
“It might help,” he admitted. “But there are no guarantees. Russia is not a wealthy country. And people don’t travel to Moscow for art shows the way they might to Washington, DC.”
He wadded up the napkin, closing his fist around it. “If I leave, my income dries up. Completely. Unless I do one thing.”
“What’s that?”
He leveled his eyes