Nickolai's Noel (12 page)

“Shut up! Ignore her. I will handle this.”

“No, Deborah. I didn’t come home for Christmas because there was an ice storm and I couldn’t get here. Remember that?”

“Don’t call me Deborah. I’m your mother.”

Then act like it.
“Sorry, Mother. That was disrespectful. I apologize.”

“What language was he speaking anyway? Where does he live?” Deborah asked.

“Russian. And he lives Nashville, you know,
where he works.”

“What sort of work does he do?” Grandmama asked.

Webb had a coughing fit, which Noel figured was manufactured to cover laughter.

“He plays hockey, Grandmama,” Noel said patiently. Having no wish to discuss underwear modeling, she didn’t mention his product endorsements.

“Oh?” She looked up from her needlework. “You get money for that? Like professional football and baseball?”

“Yes,” Noel said wearily. “You get money for that.”

“How much?” Paige asked.

“Paige!” Deborah admonished. “You know it’s tacky to talk about money.”

“If Noel is going to end up with somebody who’s going to stay out drinking and running around on her all the time, she might as well be compensated for it. Noel, don’t sign a prenup.” Paige turned to her husband. “Get one ready for her, Webb.”

“Get what ready for her, honey?” Webb asked. “You told her not to sign a prenup.”

“Oh, right,” Paige said. “Well, you figure out what she needs to do.”

Calm. She would be calm. After all, she was the dependable one.

“Can we please end this discussion? There are no impending nuptials, therefore there is no need for a prenup or lack thereof.” Noel turned her attention back to the television. They were interviewing fans now, with more jumping up and down in the background.

“They certainly are excited,” Grandmama said.

“The Sound hasn’t been to the playoffs in a long time,” Noel said.

“So it’s like playoffs to go to the Super Bowl?”

“Yes, Grandmama. Just like that, except instead of the Super Bowl it’s to play for the Stanley Cup.”

“I see.” She went back to her needlepoint.

“I want to talk more about this Russia situation,” Deborah said.

“What Russia situation would that be?” Noel asked.

“What if he wants to marry you?”

That would be just dandy.

“I’m saying!”
her naughty bits piped up.
“Hitting that every night, forever. Yeah.”

“For once, I’m with you.”

“I just said that we haven’t talked about marriage, Mother.” Not directly.

“It could happen. What if he wants to marry you just to remain in the country?”

Lord love a duck, and give me strength.

“Mother, Nickolai doesn’t need to marry anyone to stay in this country. He has a
job
—a good one.”

“Well? What if he wanted you to go back to Russia with him?”

“He doesn’t want to go back to Russia.” But did he? They’d never talked about that. And would she, if he did? She hurried on. “Even if he did, he has a twelve-year contract with the team in Nashville. I don’t think you need to worry about him going back to Russia any time soon.”

“Twelve years! How would that fit in with your plans to come home and open a shop in Louisville? Oh, Noel. I don’t know about this. I don’t know about this at all!”

Noel put her hand to her head. That again.

“Now, Deborah,” Grandmama said. “You know how we’ve wanted to see Noel settled and married.”

“Yes, but with someone from
here,
where she belongs!”

“I’m sure it would work out fine,” Grandmama went on. “People can get out of contracts if they’re doing it to get married. He could move here. Don’t they have a hockey team right down the road in Lexington? Haven’t I heard that? If he really loves Noel, he can play his hockey there.”

Holy mother of a gargoyle.

Noel knew there was no way that she could possibly still be in Louisville. This had gone beyond even the surrealism that always reigned supreme in the Debutante Den. She had to be in Oz, Wonderland, or maybe the Hundred-Acre Wood. No. Not the Hundred-Acre Wood. Pooh and the gang were more in touch with reality than this. And they certainly had more walking-around sense.

“Miss Lillian?” Apparently this had gotten so good even Webb couldn’t ignore it, because he came to sit on the floor beside Paige. Now Noel was totally surrounded.

“Yes, dear?”

“Nickolai Glazov is a star in the National Hockey League, a really good player. The team in Lexington is a minor league team. That would be like a doctor taking a job as an orderly.”

“Hmm. I see.” But Noel doubted if she did.

“How good is he?” Paige asked. “Peyton Manning good? I only know football.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Webb said. “He doesn’t have that kind of experience yet. I’d say he’s more on the level with Eli Manning or Gabe Beauford. And didn’t he play in the Olympics, Noel?”

“Yes.” She begged Webb with her eyes to not bring up that he’d played for Russia. She didn’t want to go into how that worked on top of everything else.

“So, what we’re saying here,” Deborah said slowly, “is this Nickolai is a big, well-known star in his sport and an Olympic athlete? And we all saw how good-looking he is. Now he’s on his way to maybe winning the equivalent of the Super Bowl or the World Series?”

Webb nodded. “More or less. Though there’s a lot of hockey to be played before the Stanley Cup finals.”

“And he is, shall we say, reasonably well-fixed?” Deborah said.

How Webb kept a straight face, Noel did not know. But she was grateful that he was willing to respond to these questions, so she didn’t have to.

“It’s fair to say that he doesn’t have to worry about where his next meal is coming from,” Webb said.

Though Nickolai did worry. It was one of the things that made Noel want to cradle him against her and love him forever.

“And he’s dating
you,
Noel?” Deborah said. “There must be more to it.”

A tub of ice water came from nowhere and poured over Noel, washing away every bit of warmth that she’d felt when Nickolai had scored the hat trick and proclaimed on television that she had his heart.

“ …
you
, Noel?”
her mother had said.

That’s what it always came down to. Noel was good enough to work out their Internet problems, sew for them, make their Christmas party food, and purchase frivolous items that she would never be reimbursed for, but she wasn’t good enough for the Belmont education, Phi Mu membership, and debutante ball.

And she wasn’t good enough to be loved by Nickolai Glazov.

Desperate to get some of that warmth back, she turned her full attention back to the television, hoping for a glance of Nickolai. It wouldn’t be live, because by now he’d be doing his cool-down exercises, soaking in a cold tub, and getting a massage. But they might replay a clip of him scoring.

No such luck. Reporter Chuck was in a crowd of Sound fans, interviewing a man who seemed to be beside himself with joy. Though the TV was still muted, Noel let her eyes dwell there and blocked out the voices of her family. They continued to chatter, but it might as well have been Russian. No, Russian would be more welcome.

Then something caught her eye. Could it be? Noel leaned forward to get a better look. Yes. It was Tewanda, slightly behind the man being interviewed. And she wore a Nashville Sound jersey—purple, with the silver musical note on skates, holding a hockey stick. No bloodstains, though. Tewanda was laughing and waving at the camera.

Turn around, Tewanda,
Noel silently commanded her.

And, miraculously, she did. Still laughing, Tewanda looked over her shoulder and pointed to the name and number there.
Glazov. 12.

“I have never given away a sweater before,”
Nickolai had said.

And she had believed him, had believed she was good enough for Nickolai Glazov to love and, maybe, keep forever.

Then she did something she’d never done before, something that had never even occurred to her. She brought up Facebook on her phone and searched for Tewanda’s name. And there it was, all the proof she’d ever need, and she could see it all because the page had no privacy filters at all. There was picture after picture of Tewanda and Nickolai together—in formalwear, in restaurants (none of them Cracker Barrel), holding hands—and a fair number of Nickolai alone. And the pictures weren’t old, either. She’d posted a picture yesterday of Nickolai and some of the team playing street hockey with kids at the Boys and Girls Club—something Noel knew he’d done last week. Tewanda wasn’t in the picture, but the post with it said, “I caught this one of my guy being sweet. But then he always is!”

“We’re going to sleep now,”
her naughty bits said sadly.

“That’s for the best,”
Noel answered
.

“Noel!” Deborah said. “I know I taught you better than to sit in polite company with your nose stuck in your phone. I declare! Smartphones are going to single-handedly bring down civilized behavior as we have come to know it, such as it is.”

Noel had to get out of there.

“Here, Paige.” Noel handed Constance’s Easter dress to her sister. “It’s all done, but it needs to be steamed. And press the hem.” Still taking care of things, but that was about to stop.

Paige looked at her wide-eyed. “You always do that.”

“Not this time.” She gathered up her pincushion and thread and put them in her sewing basket. “I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” Deborah rose from her chair as Noel stepped around Paige. “Don’t you mean going to bed?”

“No. I’m going back to Beauford. Right now.” She walked toward the stairs.

“Noel! Come back here. This is insane! It’s almost eleven o’clock.”

“What?” Grandmama said. “Noel is leaving? She can’t go out this time of night. Deborah, stop her.”

Paige stood up. “Noel! I know you’re mad at us, but don’t do this.”

Was she? Mad at them? Yes, she supposed she was. But for what? Being right? But it wasn’t her anger that was making her leave. No. She had to get out of here because Nickolai had lied to her, her heart was breaking, and she simply could not be here anymore.

Once upstairs, she sat on the bed and put her hands over her face. She would not cry, not over this and not for herself. She brought up Tewanda’s Facebook page again. What she’d seen downstairs was just the beginning. Tewanda had posted something nearly every day about what they’d done, where they’d eaten, and who’d they’d seen. And New Jersey wasn’t the first away game she’d been to. There was no mention of her having attended home games, nor had Noel noticed her there. How had Nickolai juggled that? And why?

But really, did
why
matter? When she’d been texting Nickolai a good luck message at exactly one hour and seven minutes before the puck was dropped, Tewanda had been in the stands. Noel knew a fool when she met one, and she’d been the worst kind—one who’d known the score in the beginning and let herself forget it. Enough. She had to pack.

As Noel gathered her toiletries and folded clothes into her bag, her phone rang. Of course. He always called as soon as the press conference and the autograph signing was over—and she always answered on the first ring. She was strong enough not to answer, but not enough to ignore the text message.

There was a knock at the door. Might as well get it over with.

“Come in.”

To her surprise, it was Webb who stepped inside.

“Have you come to try to persuade me to stay?”

“No. I’ve come to take your bags down. I took your car down to the corner, gassed it up, and checked the oil.”

“Thank you.” Noel was touched. She’d checked the oil before she’d left, but she wouldn’t tell him that. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

“It’s late. I didn’t want you to have to stop,” he said.

“You’re a good man, Webb.” And she felt a little guilty for the disdain she’d felt for him for not standing up to the Phi Mu Machine. If she couldn’t do it, why should she expect him to?

He picked up her duffel and train case. “Thank you. Will you text me when you’re safely home?”

“Good idea. Then Mother won’t have an excuse to call—at least not tonight.”

Webb nodded and lifted one corner of his mouth. “Is this all your luggage?”

“I have a tote bag and my sewing basket downstairs. I’ll get them.”

“Okay.” He headed toward the door but hesitated. “They love you.

“I know. I’ll get over this. Just not tonight.”

And she would, it was just a question of when. Of course, she and Webb were talking about two very different things.

• • •

It was a just shy of 2:00
a.m.
when Noel entered the back door of Piece by Piece. At first, her thoughts had been a jumble of chaotic nonsense, but, gradually, she’d sorted everything and catalogued her thoughts in an orderly manner—like piecing a quilt.

I. Why had he done it?

Was she some kind of good luck charm, like his lucky orange Gatorade, that he, therefore, had to keep happy and endure until the season was over?

Did he just like having two women—glamorous Tewanda on the road and during the day in Nashville for excitement, and homespun Noel in Beauford for playing house with?

Was it a game for Nickolai and Tewanda, and they wanted to see how long they could fool her?

II. Why had she not considered the facts?

Men like Nickolai did not fall for mousy little quilters.

Snow globes don’t last forever. She’d thought that one time before. She wouldn’t forget it again.

III. Why had she ignored the evidence?

Tewanda’s visit at Christmas. After all, who did that unless she was very sure of the man?

He had never encouraged her to go to away games, had always said wives and girlfriends didn’t travel much unless it was playoffs, because the team spent all their time together. True, she couldn’t have gone many times because she had to work, but she might have managed one or two.