To Lemons Add Light

Summary: Calliope Winter Winthrop is stuck and out of place in her own hometown, an up-and-coming New England hamlet. Family and money concerns frustrate her desire to move on in life, all the while avoiding a disturbing ex-boyfriend. Coming to terms that she won't travel or get out in the world any time soon, she enrolls in a Russian literature continuing education course, hoping for a little academia and ersatz travel. An unlikely suitor gives her that, and much more.

Novel-length (80,645words) May-December romance, yes, with love scenes, but not horribly explicit. Just tasteful, I hope you'll find : )

Another note to readers: When I started this story some years ago, and before the current conflict, I knew very little about Russia and it's history, culture and language. I have since read a number of books and blogs on those subjects, but that merely scratches the surface, and any thoughtful commentary or correction regarding all things Russian is greatly appreciated!

Many thanks to M., for great feedback during development!

Chapter 1

On the screen, handsome husband Paul Mallen eyed his wife sidelong. He slowly pulled out his 'missing' watch from her evening clutch...

"Oh, screw him!" I said, then bit my lip and slumped back in the cold metal chair. No one turned to look...

...while she sat dressed to the nines, trying to enjoy a rare night out. His accusing eye caught her attention and sent her into hysterics before a room full of patrons.

The students up front continued laughing and chatting while watching 1940's

Gaslight

, their heads bobbing back and forth like dark lollipops against the screen. They didn't seem to notice me, sitting alone in the last row and frequently glancing at the door. I found it hard to swallow the lump in my throat after my outburst and glared at the stupid, useless collegiate women, envying their youth and carefree attitudes. Well, Youth I didn't envy, but carefree, yes. My heart beat faster in that dark auditorium as I gripped the edge of the seat, then launched into yoga breathing--deep in through the nose and out through the mouth. I had to.

Why had I come to this movie, especially alone? Maybe it was a test. I hadn't seen my ex since I broke up with him two years ago and kept telling myself it was over. But if so, why did I keep telling myself that?

The credits rolled, lights came on, and the giggling students stood, checking phones and gathering hoodies. I bent over in my seat and pretended to tighten shoelaces, waiting for the others to filter out. I wanted them to leave without noticing this 26-year-old stowaway on the campus of a college she could never afford, although they couldn't know that.

At a distance, I followed them out the door. They peeled off and headed toward the dorms in the warm and sticky night, unusual for early June in Surrey, New Hampshire. I headed for the parking lot located across campus, looking side to side and occasionally over my shoulder. Nine pm wasn't all that late and street lamps lit the sidewalks well, but I stepped up my pace and when I reached my car, checked beneath and around it before the key, firm in my grip, glided into the lock. Somewhere, the tinkle of laughing girls receded, then disappeared behind the clunk of a heavy dormitory door. Silence. I slipped into the driver's seat, locked my door, and left.

***

A June bug flew into the screen door and bounced off. I grinned, sitting at the little kitchen table at the back of my apartment, enjoying fresh morning air, hot coffee, and my landlord's litany of colorful expressions; "Ah, fuck!" he cursed from the basement garage. "Sorry, Cal!" he yelled.

"No problem!" I yelled back.

"Shouldn't cuss when there's a lady's around, but I cracked my fuckin' knuckle!"

I snorted into my coffee. I couldn't even see Geroge from where I sat. He fixed his motorcycle from the basement garage located underneath his house on a hill. The newer side addition to the house served as an apartment. George, a chef by trade, was a big, scary-looking dude and the perfect landlord for me, for with him nearby, who would bother me?

He continued to tinker and curse during that Saturday morning, my favorite part of the week; no rushing, just relaxing, possibly helping with a press-check at work in the afternoon. My boss, Mr. Garabedian, always seemed reluctant to ask me to come in and help with big projects on weekends, but I always reassured him that it was fine; I lived nearby and it wouldn't interrupt anything. He shook his head when I said that, but it's true. I had nothing else to do. People looked at me funny when they found out I was single, but what of it? It was a beautiful day, anyway.

Turns out, the print shop needed me at three o'clock for the press check, basically to unlock the front door for the client and graphic designer and act as go-between for client and pressroom. At four, I left the shop after a smooth press check and picked up groceries before heading home. Goodwill sat at the end of the shopping plaza, and on a whim, I decided to check it out. Hey, what better thing to do on a Saturday afternoon? At least at Goodwill I could splurge; Michael Kors, and even Filene's, lay a thousand miles from my wallet. Since forever. Oh well, I preferred saving my money for travel over material goods, but despite that effort, the dollar/euro ratio wasn't promising, and I had bills to pay. And sometimes my parents' bills, too.

I parked in a spot in the back where I could see everyone and their cars coming and going before I got out. Not that Laslan would come here, God forbid, but still. I didn't want him to ruin my shopping adventure, even if by merely sighting him, crazy fuck. He'd humiliate me for going to Goodwill, but so what if people needed to shop there? Life is expensive and lucky breaks few.

The body odor of softened old clothes gushed past the battered glass door and into my face. I stopped in the aisle of womens' pants and skirts and looked around. Watching a handful of folks with their heads over gently-used shirts and jackets, I wondered how to get back into life, how to quit ducking into those places I knew he wouldn't go. All the places he seemed too proud to acknowledge.

Racks of knick-knacks and used books and picture frames lined the back of the store. I shrugged, why not? Maybe I'd find a few vintage classics or travel guides. Filmy vases and chipped decorative pots cluttered the shelves. An earthy pot piqued my interest as a good toad home for my mother's wild wildflower garden. Something rattled in the pot when I picked it up, and inside, a small, brightly painted doll rolled back and forth, her smile appearing and disappearing as she rolled. I put the pot down and picked up the doll, a cute little thing, the kind that opens to reveal another doll, and so on. I couldn't remember the name, except I knew it was something Russian. I opened the doll, revealing two more dolls. The last doll, the baby, was missing. Putting the doll back together, I admired the crisp detail of the mother's dark eyes and the apron adorned with pink and yellow blossoms. Cute, but I didn't need it. I replaced her among the knick-knacks and continued a fruitless journey until my stomach grumbled and I turned to leave.

Looking at the clouds out the window as I approached the exit, the word seemed to float down and into my head.

Matryoshka

. A Russian nesting doll. I turned around and bought her.

Rosy the Matryoshka, as I named her, found a home on the living room bookshelf among sketch pads and portfolios and a collection of vintage tour books for all sorts of countries since I dreamed of visiting any place. Others' dreams, too, I guess. The bindings of some in mint condition, I wondered if anyone ever read them. Seemed a shame to buy a book and not read it. What's the point? Maybe we hoped to magically infuse the book's knowledge through our fingertips simply by caressing the cover.

I heated a can of tomato soup for dinner, read

Jane Eyre

for a while, then surfed through vinyasa flows before bed. The beige carpet and walls of the silent living room helped me relax and get in the zone. Go through the flows, the thoughts. Sometimes I mourned the end of my workout as I lay in dead man's pose, the way it took me out of myself, but before I fell asleep on the floor, I peeled up, checked the locks, then plowed under the sheets of the twin bed by nine o'clock on a Saturday night.

Chapter 2

Sunday morning. I stared at the ceiling before rolling out of bed and taking a shower. The bathroom was located at the end of the long, narrow kitchen, complete with stackable washer and dryer. A lot of stuff to stuff in a small space meant for one. George's mother had the addition built when his father passed, then moved in. That way, mother and son had privacy yet remained close. When she passed, George rented the place to pay property taxes on the home otherwise paid off by George's father. Smart. I wished my family had their act together, but no; we had a forever mortgage on a worn-out cape.

Towel drying my hair, I wandered to the back door and gazed out the window. Mist shrouded the old crab apple tree by the sandy curve in George's back yard. He had once muttered about cutting down the tree, but I pointed out its wellspring of life; insects in the apples, yellow jackets eating the insects, woodpeckers nesting in the tree. I swayed George towards live and let live, and he conceded. One point for Callie. I had no other power to save the ugly trees I loved except with strokes of my ink pen, before the ax wielded the last stroke.

My ink pen portfolio, populated with drawings of dead and dying trees and fantastical animals, rarely saw the light of day. Growing up, kids made fun of my strange worlds on paper; even my own father rebuked me, 'Calliope, why don't ya draw a vase of flowers or sumthin' like that?' Dad wasn't big on imagination, just dinner, and Sunday dinner at my parents' always went something like this:

Jordan comes in late.

"Jordie, you're late."

"Call me Jordan, not Jordie."

"Everybody calls you Jordie."

"Well, you guys ain't everybody."

This Sunday, Bad Boy Jordie corralled Mom's attention and she overcooked the chicken, then Mom and Dad argued over a crock pot lid, Dad rolling his eyes while Mom moved the lid from one cabinet to another. They constantly bickered, yet one never seemed to act as if smarter than the other. My ex, Laslan, was always right about everything, or so he made me think. And I'd fallen for it. My stomach clenched just thinking about him, so I kept busy, kept moving, grabbing knives and forks and setting the table.

Between dinner and dessert, I withdrew to my old attic bedroom for blouses to take back with me. Jordan's room was across the hall, his door shut as always. Mom always thought I should stay home, too, as a single woman; 'Too bad it didn't work out with you and that nice boy. You would have had beautiful children.' Mom always said that, sending a shudder across my shoulders. If only she understood, but she never would. Good-looking = good person in her eyes. I'd thought so at first, and hung a lot of hopes on him.

I rooted in my cramped closet for the dated solid-colored blouses that dressed up easy with a cheap scarf. Shoving aside a rack of trousers, I saw my cardboard box of childhood favorites on the floor in the corner. I pushed aside dusty boots and shoes and dragged out the box, then sat on my heels a moment, contemplating whether to open it.

I huffed, then pulled open the flaps slowly so the lint and dust slid down the sides of the box and didn't pop into the air. Ah, the first items: a pair of stuffed blue birdies from toddler days, then the sherbert orange-colored shorts that I wore every day the summer I was six, my happiest summer. That Fall, I dissolved into the public schools, where every creep and bully, male and female, protected by a cloistered New England town, took turns taking potshots at me and my funny family. Don't let Surrey's quaintness fool you.

I continued exploring the box, perusing high school reports and art awards from middle school, then came upon my favorite childhood book,

The Dead Tree

, a gift from my grandfather.

I leafed through

The Dead Tree

, reliving the story of life supported by the decaying trunk and limbs. Crooked trunks and branches had a singular beauty that I attempted to capture in my drawings, rendered in pencil, then lovingly overlaid with fluid ink strokes during hours in which nothing else existed.

I set the book aside with the blouses, repacked the box, and wrestled it back into the closet. With my book and blouses, I tiptoed around my bed and unlatched the old panelled wooden door to leave. A shiver ran down my spine. I used to love my room.

As I passed through the living room, Jordan looked at me from beneath his longish black hair, "Peek in my room, Callie?"

"No, why would I?" I sneered.

"Looking for a life, maybe?" He flopped back onto the creaky brown sofa and flung an arm over his leather jacket.

"Well, I'm not gonna find one there. Neither are you. And at least I don't still live at home, jackass."

Jordan laughed. Pure asshole, but at least he took a ribbing as good as he gave it. With a snarl, I sat on his feet, "Move, moron." Jordan withdrew his feet, then threatened to kick me. I held up a fist, then asked, "So, how's the grease shop?"

"Tire Barn, turd. Fucked up. The new guy got fired, so my douchebag boss hired another douchebag, ya know, like one of those friggin' dolls you open up and there's another one just like the first one..."

"Matyroshka."

"Yeah, right, so they're all the freakin' same. Douchebag outta pay me double and let me run the place," Jordan's feet rested against my thigh. I cocked my ear to the kitchen. Mom hassled Dad about dessert spoons, then I said, "Okay, but if you're manager, when will you have time to ply your trade, or do your customers come to you?"

"Whadda' you care?"

"Why bother selling?" I asked. "Weed's legal, no?"

"Yeah, dispensary weed is, but it's tracked and taxed and right now you gotta have a med card. Some people don't want to get into all that."

"Huh, true." See, sometimes Jordan and I saw eye-to-eye, but I still wondered what he did with all his money. He'd never tell me. Auto mechanic, weed dealer, lived at home and fixed his own car. I knew he helped out Mom and Dad with bills and groceries, but still.

"All right, kids, dessert's ready!" Mom's falsetto rang from the kitchen.

"Ew, that's too bad," Jordan snickered.

"Jordan, shut your mouth," Dad hollered. And so on. Mom pulled her threadbare red-checkered apron over her head and Dad helped her hang it on the hook in the kitchen. Yes, my mother actually wears an apron when she cooks, and if you had ever seen Jordan with his greaser looks sitting at our wobbly tin-top table, you'd swear it was 1955.

Jordan giggled again and pushed his stinky feet into my legs. "Get off me fucker," I cried, swatting his legs.

"Callie, language," Dad yelled. Again.

"Sorry." Oh well, I knew Mom didn't hear me cuss, because if she did, she'd deny that I used such language. I took my seat and sat before a chocolate pudding with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles, served in Gam's sundae glasses. Gam, my toddler nickname for our maternal grandmother, still stuck after all these years. She lived in an assisted living home not far from us, and I thought about Gam as I turned the glass, watching the light play on the facets.

Jordan sat also, then muttered, "Mm, crap in a cup."

I frowned at him, then said, "Thank you for dinner, Mom."

She pursed her lips, then shook her head, "Someday you'll have someone to cook for."

I shoved my spoon in and out of the pudding, watching the waxy sprinkles fall on the tablecloth, "Right. So, uh, talked to Gam lately?" I looked at Mom, then at Dad, who scowled. I pursued no further, but Mom replied, "She's fine." She then snapped her napkin and spread it on her lap. She did not look at me.

After we ate, Dad and Jordan cleared the table and Mom packed me leftovers, including leathery lasagna from mid-week. "Give me an extra pudding," I requested. Mom's face looked hard, but she obliged. I thanked her with a kiss on the cheek, gathered my food and pocketbook, and bid Dad good night. Jordan got the finger as he flopped onto the couch again and turned on the TV, "See ya, Callous."

"Yeah. Quiet night, Jord?" I asked while passing through the door.

"Yeah, you know all about them, don't you? At least...," He stopped.

"At least what?"

"Nuthin. Go chill," Jordan replied.

"Yep. See you next Sunday."

My old silver Honda glittered in the rays of the late afternoon sun. I looked up and down the street before getting in, but why bother? Even though I'd moved on the sly after dumping Laslan, got a new old car, and changed my phone number, he obviously knew where my parents lived. If he wanted to stalk me, how would I know, and what could I do? And really, why would he bother, since he seemed to consider me as below him in the end.

But then, a cat plays with its prey.

The warm evening breeze teased a long strand of my dark hair out the window, playing with it like a streamer. I smirked. Sometimes the non-human world touched you and played with the innocence of a child, as if you belonged with the inanimate and infinite, and were not an organism of restricted function and borrowed time. Borrowed time. That's why wasting nearly three years with Laslan hurt, thinking that maybe we'd make a life together. I took a deep, stuttering breath. I had a right to be happy, at least some of the time, no matter what anyone did to me. My biggest challenge was convincing myself of that. And how to get there.

Happy I didn't quite feel when I unlocked the back door of my apartment. Originally, George wanted me to park in front of the house since he tooled around in the backyard often. Really, I think he didn't want me to see him when he kicked back on his deck and smoked a little weed, but who can't smell that stuff from a mile away? Besides, I didn't care. I lied and told him I worried about someone hitting my car and preferred to park in the back. Truth is, I didn't want my car in plain sight, and George wanted an older, quiet, no-nonsense female for the apartment, so he acquiesced. No students, and that's why, two years ago, he had advertised mid-semester, long after the university students had secured places to live.

"Peace and quiet, that's what I want from ma' tenant. My mother lived here before she passed and I don't want no fancy-pants rich kids pukin' on her carpet or turning the place into a brothel." With a booming laugh, he had added, "Well, maybe a brothel would be okay." I liked George; intimidating if you were a dick and sweet if you weren't. One of his hands alone could crush Laslan's face, but I put that out of my mind. Be careful what you wish for.

Anyway, another weekend come and gone. I let go of memories through a flow of yoga, slipped into my old yellow pjs, and brushed my teeth. The woman looking at me in the mirror looked older, her eyes deeper, darker.

Chapter 3

Monday. The print shop hummed as I walked into work at noon, my turn to take over the office from Mrs. Garabedian. She covered mornings and filled me in on developments; which projects hit snags, which customers had billing questions, who needed proofs or revisions. My shift ended at eight pm, along with Javin, one of the afternoon/evening pressmen and my closest confidant at work. He often walked me to my car at night, if he wasn't still running a press, even though we parked in a gated back lot. Still.

After catching up with Mrs. Garabedian, I put my dinner in the refrigerator. Javin strolled into the break room with a coffee mug in his hand and smiled, "Hey, sunshine! How was your weekend?"