Mistletoe and Magic (20 page)

Agata, right on his heels, switched on the lamp at Polina’s feet. “Hello,” she said in very thickly accented English, her reassuring smile aimed directly at Polina. “I am Agata, Rhys’s friend. I am going to take very good care of you. Which ankle, please?”

“My left,” she replied.

Agata pointed to the sock covering the injury. “I can remove this, yes?” At Polina’s nod, Agata slowly rolled the pink and white striped sock down. Careful as she might have been, Polina still winced and sucked in a sharp breath. Agata took one look at the bruised and swollen limb, then clucked her tongue. Polina struggled to rise, no doubt to finally see the injury for herself, but Agata was swift to press her down against the sofa again. “No. You must keep your
serce
lower than the leg.”

Polina turned to Rhys. “
Serce
?”

Agata thumped her chest, and Rhys understood what term she sought. “Your heart. Your leg has to be elevated higher than your heart.” He turned to Stefan who loitered in the corner. “I know how it looks. How bad is it really?”

Stefan and Agata spoke in rapid Polish, then Stefan translated for Rhys and Polina. “My wife says you have a very bad sprain. You won’t be going anywhere soon. You’ll need a lot of rest, a lot of ice, a compression bandage, and a lot of time with that leg elevated. You’ll probably be off your feet for quite a while.”

“How long a while?” Polina asked, alarm in each word.

He spoke to his wife, then turned to Polina with an apologetic shrug. “At least two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Polina shot up again. “Are you kidding me?”

Agata laid a hand on her shoulder. “Ssssh!” She then proceeded to pull a plastic bag of ice from a bowl on the table and lay it across Polina’s ankle.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Polina flinched, nearly leaping off the couch again. “Rhys,” she said, “tell them. I can’t stay here for two weeks.”

“Why not?” He arched a brow at her. “Are you in a rush to go back to that hostel?”

“I have stuff I have to do.” She spoke through her teeth, eyes wide. He didn’t know whether she wanted to convey some secret message to him or to knock Agata’s probing fingers away from her injury. “Remember? The list from my mother?”

“I know,” he assured her. “And from what you told me, that list included celebrating a traditional Krakow Christmas. You’ll do that here. With the Nowaks and with me. If there’s anything else on the list you need to see to, I’ll help.”

“But…you can’t…I mean…” she sputtered. “You don’t have the time.”

“We have the rest of the weekend right now. Come Monday, I’ll go into the office and rearrange my schedule so I can handle some of my work off-site. That will give me more time to be with you.”

Polina folded her arms over her chest. “No. This is ridiculous. I barely know you.” She pointed at the Nowaks. “And I don’t know them at all. I can’t stay here.”

Rhys perched on the edge of the couch and cupped her fingers inside his palm. “Polina, relax. You’re in very good hands here. Better hands than you’d be in at St. Thadeusz. It’s either this or a hospital.”

“You can’t keep me here. That’s kidnapping.”

With an impatient glance at Stefan, he rose. “No one’s keeping you here. You want to leave, go. Put on your sock and your boot and hobble yourself out of here.”

“That’s not fair. I don’t know where I am, I can’t speak Polish, and—”

“Rhys!” Cyryl raced into the room, eyes alight with excitement, an equally enthusiastic Hunter barking at his side. The dog seemed overjoyed to see Polina and bounded toward where she lay on the couch.

“Hunter.
Tu przyjść
!” Agata immediately chastised the wolfhound, grabbed his collar, and handed him off to Stefan. “Take him out of here before he scares our guest. I need to see to dinner.” She shuffled out of the living room, Stefan and Hunter right behind her.

Alone with Polina and the boy, Rhys ruffled Cyryl’s hair. “Cyryl.
Jak są wy
?” The boy replied he was well, and Rhys switched to English for Polina’s benefit. “This is my friend, Polina. She and I are staying for dinner, if that’s all right with you. She doesn’t speak Polish. Perhaps you’d like to practice your English with her?”

The child stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Hello, Polina. You are the one Mama needs to help, yes?”

She cast a curious glance at Rhys, who shrugged. “I guess so.”

“How did you hurt your foot?” the boy asked.

“I slipped on the ice while running.”

“Oh.” He looked from Polina to Rhys, and switching to Polish, remarked, “She doesn’t say English words like you do.”

“She’s American,” he explained.

“Ahem!” Polina interjected. “Care to share with those of us who know you’re talking about us, but don’t understand the language?”

“Sorry,” Rhys told her. “His English is about as decipherable as my Polish so we tend to meet in the middle. For what it’s worth, he said he thinks you’re very pretty even if your foot is currently uglier than a troll.”

Cyryl giggled, and Polina’s cheeks flushed bright pink. “He did not.”

“Enough teasing.” Agata reappeared in the living room, a tray full of steaming dishes in her hands. “You two.” She jerked her head at Rhys and Cyryl. “In the dining room. Before your dinner gets cold.”

Rhys sent a glance Polina’s way, and her panicked expression nearly broke his heart. “I’m in the next room, sweetheart. Relax.”

***

Relax. Yeah, right. While the ice on her ankle stung her foot into numbness, Polina’s pride urged her to run away. This was insane.

Before she could make a move, Agata sat beside her and placed the tray on the coffee table. “Rhys said you like
bigos
.”

“Yes. My uncle used to make it. But you don’t have to bring my meal in here. I can sit in the dining room with everyone else.”

“No, you cannot.” She tucked a napkin under Polina’s chin, then picked up the bowl of hearty stew made with several meats, root vegetables, and a thick gravy. After dipping a spoon into the bowl, the older woman gestured for Polina to open her mouth.

“Really,” she argued softly, “I can feed myself.”

“No. You too skinny for Polish girl. I make sure you eat more. Open please.”

The ridiculousness of the situation struck Polina as she did what Agata demanded, and her thoughts flew to Mom’s list.
Note to self: be sure to add (18.) Pretend you’re a baby bird
.

At first taste, Polina fell in love. Sure, Uncle Leo made
bigos
, but
never
like this. At home,
bigos
always had a greasy film on top. The older guys used to tease that Uncle Leo could use leftovers to keep the cogs spinning on some of the rides. The meat was usually stringy and tough, not tender enough to melt-in-the-mouth like Agata’s. Uncle Leo’s gravy, while thick, had lumps of flour often mistaken for bits of potato. This, though…this was heavenly. The best meal Polina had ever eaten.

“You tell me about you?” Agata said. “You American?”

“Yes.” The spoon appeared near her mouth, and she automatically took the stew, chewed the tender meat and vegetables, then swallowed.

“Your mother, she was from Krakow?”

With her mouth full of another spoon of delicious stew, she couldn’t speak, so she settled for a nod.

“How old when she left Poland?”

She swallowed and smacked her lips. “Ten.”

“Like my Cyryl.”

Unsure whether Agata compared Mom’s age or Polina’s lip-smacking to Cyryl, she nodded. “Her parents—my
babcia
and
dziadek
—died, and her godfather took Mom to live with him in America.”

“And now
she
died, so you came home, eh?”

“Not really. I mean, yes, my mother died, but I’m only here for the holiday. This isn’t home for me. Mom thought the magic of the city would refresh me.”

“It will. You’ll see. There is nothing like Krakow during Christmas. The
szopki, choinka, Wigilia
, so much fun and beauty. Your mama, she was right. It is a magic time.”

Throughout the conversation, Agata spoon fed her stew, then sopped up the last of the gravy with pieces of bread. At last, she handed her what looked like a toddler’s first cup, covered with a plastic lid and built-in straw. “Tea,” she said, “with honey and lemon.” She reached for the last item on the tray, a bottle of pills. After opening the bottle, she tapped two tablets into her palm. “This will help for your pain.” She passed the pills to Polina, then watched, eagle-eyed, until Polina swallowed the medication with sips of warm, sweet tea. “
Bardzo dobry
. Very good. I’ll check on the men now.”

While Agata bustled the tray and empty dishes back into the kitchen, Polina let her gaze travel the room. She’d never spent much time in a real house. Compared to her trailer with Mom, this place was a mansion. Despite the cold outside, the whole house felt warm and cozy. No icy drafts blew in from misaligned window frames or cracks in the glass panes.

The wallpaper, with tiny red and gold flowers dancing on an ivory background, enhanced the warm and cozy feeling. There were a lot of places for people to sit, too. Aside from the couch where she lay with her foot propped up, several other cushioned chairs clustered around the fireplace. Another pair of matching chairs gave occupants a lovely view through a very large window that overlooked the street outside, and some kind of miniature cushioned chair with no back, which might belong to Cyryl, sat between them. The living room had five tables: one on each side of the sofa, plus a long wooden oblong one in front, where Agata had set the dinner tray. Two more framed the chairs by the fireplace.

Goodness. How much did all this furniture cost?

And the plush carpet probably didn’t come cheap, either. Built-in shelves framed in dark wood housed rows of books. Polina loved that idea. When she finally found a house of her own, she would insist on a similar setup. Always forced to leave books behind due to space constraints, she would appreciate a permanent spot for all the imaginary friends of her childhood and the lessons she’d learned as an adult.

In the far corner, a magnificent Christmas tree, the
choinka
, unlit but fully decorated with silver ribbon and delicate glass ornaments, brought the holiday spirit into the house. Even the air held that magical scent of fresh pine and gingerbread.

But what struck her hardest were the framed photographs. Stefan and Agata’s wedding picture took center stage on the mantel above the stone wall fireplace. On either side sat half a dozen photos of Cyryl from red-faced bawling newborn to a more formal snapshot taken recently where he wore his dark blond hair slicked back and a striped blue and yellow shirt that made his blue eyes glow with electricity. Other photos decorated the walls and the three tables. In every shot, the subjects smiled out at the living room’s occupants: happy, loving, joyous.

Was that how a family was supposed to look? Polina’s only experience with families came from watching the various guests at the thousands of fairs she’d worked over the decades. Most of them laughed too loudly, ate too much, got dizzy on the rides, and forked over more money in one night than she and her mother made in a year. Hard to imagine such activities were “normal.” Sipping her tea, she wondered. How could she ever hope to live a normal life if she didn’t have a frame of reference? She didn’t really know what was considered normal or average.

Maybe this inconvenient ankle injury could benefit her after all. Spending two weeks here, with this happy family, could give her insight for her future that she could never gain at Saint Tadeusz.

Yes, she would stay with the Nowaks, but not as a burden. She would find ways to be useful to them. And she would learn from them. Learn how to be the same as everyone else.

Secure with her decision, she closed her eyes, imagining a home of her own. She would have a garden with flowers and fresh vegetables. She could picture herself, a large floppy hat shielding her skin from the sun, crouched among the greenery. Orange and black butterflies flitted from blossom to blossom. The scent of honeysuckle—her favorite—sweetened the air. In the background, her cozy little house, a real
home
, welcomed friends and family to come inside and spend time with her. A gray-striped tabby cat sunned himself on the porch.

The picture in her head became a dream as she drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 6

Golden sunlight warmed Polina’s face, and she opened her eyes to find herself lying on a cloud in the middle of a floral wonderland. She scrubbed a hand over her face, blinked, and looked again. A bedroom. She was in a bedroom, but the prettiest darn room she’d ever seen. Painted red roses adorned the walls, some only buds, others in full bloom. Yellow daisies and bumble bees scattered over soft linens on the bed, and she snuggled deep into the thick mattress with a contented sigh. Stretching her limbs as far as her muscles would extend, she still didn’t hit any mattress edge. This was what she wanted for her life: a comfortable place to lay her head.

But not here. She wanted something uniquely hers. All hers.

Sitting up, her gaze focused on her backpack perched on a chair in the corner of the room. Through a sleepy haze, she vaguely remembered Rhys carrying her in here after dinner, over her weak protests, and his mild teasing that she shouldn’t have fallen asleep before dessert. He promised two things before he left last night: that he’d bring her backpack inside, and he’d return here in the morning. Since he’d followed through with promise-number-one, she had no doubt he was already in the dining room, indulging in whatever Agata had made for breakfast.

On the table beside the bed sat an old-fashioned bell with a teak handle and a folded card, her name printed in block letters on the outside. Curiosity overwhelmed comfort, and she took the card, flipping it open.

Good morning, Sleeping Beauty
.

Rhys. This had to be from Rhys.

Since you barely skipped a snore when I carried you to bed last night, I assume you slept well
.