Free Exposed by Lily Cahill Page A

traditional patronymic name was not something that appeared in America. They’d be suspicious of the Russian that filled the house instead of English and notice the way a portrait of Lenin hung in a place of prominence next to black and white photographs of Ivan’s grandparents and aunts and uncles—people he’d never met.
    Maybe if they ate pot roast and read “Life” and celebrated the Fourth of July with apple pie and American flags. Ivan liked those things too, but the thought of them in this house seemed wrong somehow. Like they’d all be playing pretend, carefully acting. His family—all of them born in Russia except for him—clung to the land they knew. They’d lived in America for more than twenty years, but the Motherland was always there calling to them. And Ivan—American, but not—never quite knew where he fit. If he fit anywhere at all.
    After dinner, Galina cleared the table and the three men shared tipples of vodka. Ivan stared into the fire, his eyes going blurry and his face relaxing.
    June.
    June.
    Why was she so embedded inside of him? This woman with whom he’d shared a handful of heated words. Maybe because she hadn’t balked. She hadn’t backed away from his hard glare. There was determination in her face, courage in her eyes.
    “Ivanushka,” a voice said from far away. Someone clapped him on the shoulder, and Ivan startled.
    Galina’s wry smile floated before Ivan’s eyes. “There you are. We were asking about the market. You disappeared to your cabin yesterday before we could talk. Did it go any better?”
    The question brought him crashing back. “Worse. They suspect us, Mama. Everything that goes wrong, they suspect us.” Ivan picked at a piece of bread. “Honestly, why are we still bothering with the market? We’re working for nothing, wasting money.”
    Galina leaned back in her seat with a long sigh. “In time, they’ll realize we had nothing to do with that awful sickness. How they forget one of us was sick as well,” she said, with a look toward Ivan.
    Kostya spoke up. “We’ve already talked about this, Ivan. If we leave the market now, we’d just confirm everything they suspect. It makes us seem guilty.”
    Ivan couldn’t stand it anymore. How much abuse would they take from these people before realizing nothing they could do would ever win their acceptance. It was true for the entire town—June Powell included.
    “It was another long day,” Ivan lied. He pushed away from the table. “I’d like to get some more work done on the cabin before dark.” 
    But it wasn’t quite the truth. He wanted to work to chase away those stubborn thoughts of June. She was no different from the rest of town. What he thought he saw in her was a mistake, it had to be. Just like the rest of them, she wouldn’t be able to look at his family at home around the dinner table and see any differently than the rest of them. 
    Ivan was out the kitchen door and past the greenhouses when he spit out a string of curse words in Russian. Maybe if he proved it to himself—made her belie that placid smile and show the small-mindedness he was sure was under the surface. Yes, that was it. He’d force the truth out of her by being his unabashed Soviet self. That’s how they all saw him anyway, why try to fight it?
    Ivan hiked across the property toward his cabin and slammed the door behind him. It was ridiculous to even think of June at all. Yet when he shrugged out of his jacket to toss onto the hook behind the door, that scent enveloped him. The scent of her, still lingering a day later. Sweet, but with spiciness lingering underneath.
    He stopped, froze with his arm still stretched out and ready to throw the jacket. Then in one quick motion he dragged the jacket to his face and breathed deep until she consumed him. 
    Jesus, how stupid. How irrational. How intoxicating and feminine and beguiling. Her hips in that dress, her lips pursed in anger at him. She was beautiful and feisty when she