Ring of Truth (19 page)

From afar Veronica recognized the so-called “baby home” where she had been dropped off days after her birth. She had seen its photo so many times. It didn't seem to have changed one iota in thirty-five years. It was built of red brick, three stories tall, and unremarkable in every way except that she had lived the first few months of her life there. Less fortunate children resided there for five years before being transferred to another, no doubt equally bleak location.

Staring at it from half a block away, snowflakes whipping in the relentless wind, Veronica was saddened that this structure housed children. It seemed far too grim for that cheerful purpose. Surrounded by uneven concrete, bordered by a chain-link fence, it had no trees or shrubs and too few windows, and none of those boasted the bright cutout daisies and sailboats you would see on the windows of a grade school back home.

It was only when she stood a few yards away that she heard the first signs of young life. Giggles. Shrieking. Laughter. Rolling in waves from behind the building. A child, a boy, maybe four years old, darted out front chortling with glee, his cheeks cherry red from the cold. In navy jacket and trousers, knit cap on his head, he bent, gathered snow for a ball and spun around to fling it wildly through the air where, Veronica gathered from his howl of joy, it hit its mark.

She watched as a dark-haired man whose sleek black overcoat was dusted with snow raced forward to scoop up the boy and hoist him playfully in the air. The boy unleashed a yowl of protest that instantly morphed into a cry of joy. A few swings later the man carefully returned the child to the pavement, where the little fellow scampered back toward the rear of the orphanage as fast as his legs would carry him. Then the man straightened and looked at Veronica, who stood on the opposite side of the chain-link fence.

She froze. Transfixed by the man and his gaze, she couldn't move or look away. One thought filled her mind: The Almighty certainly did the women of the world a favor when He created this particular man. He was very handsome, with broad shoulders and dark tousled hair. There was an elegance both to his wool overcoat and his bearing, and the burgundy scarf around his neck had the luxurious look of cashmere. Somehow he managed not to appear too perfect, though; there was a crookedness to his smile, a mischievous glint in his eye, and the hint of a five o'clock shadow.

He cocked his head, assumed a puzzled expression, and opened the gate in the fence to usher her inside the inner sanctum. “You're not from around here. And we don't get too many strangers.” Lo and behold, not only did he speak English, but his accent was as American as her own.

Veronica was both pleased and disappointed. She'd hoped this might be Viktor, her contact and translator, who would accompany her to her birth mother's house. But now that she had heard him speak, she knew he couldn't be, which was a real shame because she wouldn't mind spending some time in this man's company. Apart from his good looks, he had a solid, reassuring air about him, as if he were the sort of man who could take care of business.

“You're American, too,” she said as five children gathered around them, one more adorable than the next. All their little faces gazed up at her with curious, assessing eyes. The boy who'd thrown the snowball said something to the man, who replied in what sounded like fluent Russian. He then switched to English for Veronica's benefit.

“My friend Sergei here would like to know your name. I would as well.” He smiled, which was a fairly devastating thing to witness.

“Veronica.” She cleared her throat. “Veronica Ballard.”

“Nicholas Laver.” He extended his gloved hand. “And this is Sergei, Tatyana, Yulia, Aleksandr, and Marina.”

“Very pleased to meet all of you,” Veronica said. “
Oichen prijatno
,” she managed, one of the few phrases she remembered from her childhood Russian lessons, which produced a round of claps and giggles. “
Oichen prijatno
,” the children echoed, after which the little girl named Yulia sidled closer and took bashful possession of Veronica's hand.

Veronica smiled down at her sweet heart-shaped face then raised her gaze to Nicholas. “Do you work here?”

He shook his head. “I'm with the embassy. In the economic section.”

It was true that Veronica could more easily believe the dashing Nicholas Laver to be a diplomat rather than an orphanage employee. But she was supposed to buy that he toiled away in the economic section? That seemed far too dry and dusty a specialty for a male specimen like this one. Then again, maybe he was actually a spy and the whole “economic section” thing was just a cover. She wanted to believe that even though she knew the diva in her dramatized everything.

Yulia tugged at Veronica's hand to pull her toward the rear of the orphanage. Nicholas halted the forward progress. “Are they expecting you inside?”

“They should be. And my friend Viktor is supposed to meet me here.”

“All right, then,” and he waved his hand to redirect Yulia to the orphanage's front entrance. She began pulling Veronica more forcefully.

There was no stopping it now. Veronica hoped the courage the ring seemed to give her wasn't imaginary, for ready or not, she was about to enter the orphanage she'd wondered about her entire life, pushed and pulled by a mini posse of four-year-olds.

It was here in this redbrick building in a workaday corner of Moscow that her whole life had changed. It was here that her birth mother made the final decision to give her up, here that her parents made the final decision to claim her, here that the film of her life had gone from black and white to crayon-bright Technicolor.

In the orphanage's front room, she had to catch her breath. It was overwhelming to be inside this mythical location after so many years of imagining it. Fortunately, she had a moment to gather herself as Yulia let go of her hand and led the other children screeching down a corridor, presumably in search of an adult to deal with the new arrival.

Veronica shed her coat, trying to take in everything around her. It all looked remarkably the same as the photos fixed in her memory, as if time had stopped the day she'd escaped this place in her new parents' arms. There was the lumpy sofa with the striped green fabric and too-white antimacassars, evidence this room was mostly off-limits to the wee inmates. There was the pine table with the arrangement of seven brightly painted nesting dolls, the smallest the size of a thimble: the Matryoshka, perhaps the friendliest symbol of Russian culture. Hanging on the wall was the same bland landscape that had hung there decades before. Only the calendar was different, but it occupied the exact same spot it had in 1980.

She felt Nicholas's eyes on her face.

“Have you been here before?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. She couldn't speak.

He filled the silence. “I know the feeling.”

Before she could ask what he meant, a short, plump woman with thinning gray hair and old-lady eyeglasses bustled into the room, wearing what Veronica's mother would call a housedress. The same five children, now unburdened by their coats and hats, followed in her wake. The woman's hands flew to her face before they reached out to grasp Veronica's arms. “It is Miss Veronica?” Her English was heavily accented.

“Yes.” Veronica felt tears prick her eyes. Already. That was the problem with being a diva, even a pale version of one; your emotions were always so close to the surface. You could never tamp them down.

“The last time I see you, you are a little baby. And now—” The woman's voice broke off. She shook her head as if amazed by what time had wrought.

“You were here when I was here?” Veronica managed.

“I hand you to your mother. I read your name and then I remember. Mrs. Georgette.” Now the woman also had tears in her eyes.

Veronica choked on a sob. The woman grabbed her in a hug. The children were mute throughout this display, Veronica noted through her tears; they could do no more than watch in apparent wonderment. Out of the corner of her eye Veronica saw the girl named Marina silently take Nicholas's hand.

Eventually the liquid moment ended, and she and the woman pulled apart. Nicholas handed Veronica a handkerchief while the woman—whose name was Masha, she now knew—mopped her own face with a tissue she pulled from a pocket. Another older woman scurried into the room bearing a teapot, cups, and a plate of cookies. This got the children quite interested, but they were shooed away.

Nicholas was about to join them for tea when his cell phone rang. He disappeared down a corridor, to Veronica's disappointment. She was curious what could possibly tie an American diplomat, who was probably a spy, to this obscure orphanage, officially Baby Home Number 36.

And now she'd never know.

“I'm afraid duty calls,” he returned to say. He bent to shake Veronica's hand. “It was very good to meet you. I hope your visit goes well.” He and Masha exchanged a few words in Russian before he exited the orphanage.

Masha looked after Nicholas with adulation written on her face. “I hand Nicholas to his mother, too.”

Veronica was stupefied. “
He
was here?”

“Then he go to Chicago.” Masha beamed. “From baby I know he is special. But he surprise me how special.”

Veronica accepted a teacup and a cookie. “What was he doing here today?”

“He come to play with the children. In winter he play in snow with them. In summer he play with ball.”

“That's”—Veronica was so astonished that a man like that would spend his free time in this way that she suffered a momentary loss for words—“extraordinary,” she finally finished.

“You are special, too,” Masha assured her. “Famous opera singer. Viktor tell me.”

“I wouldn't say
famous
,” Veronica began.

Masha clapped her hands. “You sing for the children!”

Veronica hesitated. “If you don't mind I'd rather not today.” It wasn't that she lacked a go-to aria for these occasions, but she was getting impatient. And a trifle worried. She set down her cup. “Do you know if Viktor has arrived yet?”

That question produced dead silence. For quite a while the older woman did nothing but stir her tea and bite her lip. Finally: “Viktor cannot come today.”

“What?”

“He call me. His car have trouble.” Masha raised pleading eyes to Veronica as if she didn't want to be blamed for this snafu.

Though it registered as far more serious than that to Veronica. “But we had this all arranged!”

“Do not blame Viktor,” Masha said. “Please. His car is old.”

Veronica wasn't surprised to hear Masha make excuses for Viktor. He had ties to the orphanage. In fact, that's how Veronica had hooked up with him in the first place, when she began her search for her birth mother. “Well, can he do it tomorrow? Can he get his car fixed this afternoon?”

Masha twisted her hands in her lap. “To get car fix is not so easy—”

“So you're telling me Viktor can't do it tomorrow either.”

Masha was silent.

“Okay.” Clearly it was time to regroup. Veronica realized she should have expected some kind of hiccup. She was in Russia pretty much on a wing and a prayer. “Well, there must be
somebody
who could take me. How about somebody from here at the orphanage? Of course I would be happy to pay.”

Masha screwed up her face. “Only a few ladies here.”

“I would be happy to pay,” Veronica repeated, trying hard not to dwell on how little time she had to spare. Her flight out of Moscow left the following night. She had to be on that plane or her role as Leonora would be gone, and most likely her career along with it.

“No lady can go,” Masha said. “We here for children. Nobody have car.”

“Well, is there somebody else like Viktor?”

Masha shook her head. “Nobody like Viktor. Can you wait till end of week?”

Veronica couldn't even wait until the day after tomorrow. “Not really, no.”

Masha lay her hand on Veronica's knee, her expression regretful. “I'm sorry, Miss Veronica.”

It hit Veronica then. Here she was all alone in Russia, where she knew no one and spoke only a few words of the language, and she'd been foolish enough to rely on an oh-so-fragile plan that she should have known would fall apart. “Oh my God,” she murmured, and rose to her feet.

She turned away from Masha to stare out the nearest window. All this might have been for nothing. She might have made this entire trip for nothing, jeopardized her career for nothing. And it seemed so much worse to come so far and not meet her birth mother than never to have come at all.

She began to pace, her mind whirling. Yes, she'd been able to get to the orphanage, but she had no clue how to find her birth mother's house, which was outside Moscow. Of course she'd searched for the town on a map, and she could probably get Masha to help her figure out how to take a train there, but then what? Was it even possible to hire a taxi in a Russian town as small as that one? And even if it were, she didn't know her birth mother's address. She hadn't bothered to get it from Viktor because she'd expected him to be by her side the entire time.

She glanced at the ring, whose gemstone had lost its opalescence. Apparently it wasn't pleased with this turn of events, either. Maybe this was another one of those tests of bravery.

If so, it was a big one. Because even if Veronica did succeed in getting to her birth mother's house, she couldn't talk to her without a translator. The two of them could stare at each other and hug and hold hands, but Veronica wanted to communicate more profoundly than that.

Damn that Viktor! Why hadn't he taken the metro to the orphanage as she had? Even if his car wasn't working he could still accompany her by train. He could still be her guide and translator. And Viktor knew it was now or never. He knew Veronica's birth mother was dying. He'd translated the letter she'd written to Veronica, and he understood that was why Veronica was making this hell-bent trip.