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Authors: Lizzie Lynn Lee
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mate.”
Rovik’s mother squealed in delight. “Why of course, my son told me he’d taken a mate. Come here, my dear, let me take a look at you.”
The matronly woman swathed in blue vintage 50’s style descended upon Emily without losing a beat. Seconds later, Emily found herself being hugged tightly to the point she had trouble breathing. Rovik’s mom was unbelievably strong. She smelled of English rose, butter, and cookie dough. Suddenly, Emily was shrouded in nostalgia of her own mother’s memory. Money was always tight, so her mom preferred to bake cookies for snacks instead of going out.
Rovik’s mother released her. The woman had blue eyes just like Rovik—it was clear where he inherited them from. She had a pert nose, wide mouth, and petulant chin. “Child,” she beamed, “you’re such a beautiful girl. How lucky my son is to have you, scruffy as he is. I hope you’re feeling peckish, yes? I’ve made roasted capon and stuffing and apple pie. We’re having a late supper tonight. Oh, where’re my manners? I bet you must be tired from travel. Come, do come in.”
Rovik’s mom herded her into the house, chirping happily about stuff. Rovik himself stalked silently after he retrieved their overnight bags from the car.
Inside, an older replica of Rovik greeted her with open arms. “You must be the girl my son’s talking about. Welcome.” The man hugged and kissed her on the cheek. “Are you tired, child? Would you like some tea?”
“Thank you. I don’t want to impose.”
“Hush, you. It’s no trouble at all.” All his warmth and friendliness vanished the moment he was face to face with Rovik. The tight expression on his face cracked into a forced joviality when he addressed his only kid, one would think he was facing his archenemy. “Son.” He nodded stiffly. “Long time no see. How’re you doing?”
Rovik behaved in the same manner. “Doing well, sir. Thank you.”
Sir? Emily lifted an eyebrow. How friggin’ formal.
“Well, your mother has slaved over the stove all day. Why don’t we all eat, shall we?” Rovik’s dad waved in the direction of the kitchen table.
The delicious smell wafted from the oven and a pang of hunger gnawed at the pit of her stomach. She took her seat after a brief dash to the bathroom to wash her hands. A steaming cup awaited her by the time she returned. Emily took a delicate sip. The fragrance of the black tea was heavenly. It was laced with a rich, luxurious scent of citrus.
“This is amazing. What kind of tea is this?” she asked.
“Earl Grey,” Rovik’s father answered. “A friend of mine sent some from England. He’s a purchasing agent for a tea company in London. Said their batch this year was particularly excellent. Don’t you agree, dear?” He turned to his wife.
“I’m rather partial to bergamot, I’m afraid. I used to add it to everything I cooked: cake, pudding, stew, so much Rovik got sick of it. He refused to eat my cooking—that son of mine. He’d rather scarf down any questionable comestible as long it was topped with melted cheese,” said Rovik’s mother as she brought the plate of gorgeously roasted plump bird to the table.
Comestible? Emily was amused. Rovik’s parents might be Texan but they seemed stuck in the Victorian Age. Come to think of it, they didn’t have an accent either, while Rovik did talk with a slight twang.
Rovik scoffed. “It’s called pizza, Mom. It’s the only food you didn’t bother to cover with citrus.”
“Hardly!” She sniffed. “If such a thing could be called food. I fail to see the allure of baked dough slathered in tomato sauce and dripping cheese. It’s revolting, I daresay.”
“It is not. Pizzas are delicious.” Rovik was being stubborn.
“Son, do not argue with your mother,” Rovik’s dad warned in a grating voice.
Rovik cast him a dark look.
Suddenly, Rovik and his dad leapt from their seats, growling dangerously, ready to tear out each other’s throats. Long,
Rovik’s mother squealed in delight. “Why of course, my son told me he’d taken a mate. Come here, my dear, let me take a look at you.”
The matronly woman swathed in blue vintage 50’s style descended upon Emily without losing a beat. Seconds later, Emily found herself being hugged tightly to the point she had trouble breathing. Rovik’s mom was unbelievably strong. She smelled of English rose, butter, and cookie dough. Suddenly, Emily was shrouded in nostalgia of her own mother’s memory. Money was always tight, so her mom preferred to bake cookies for snacks instead of going out.
Rovik’s mother released her. The woman had blue eyes just like Rovik—it was clear where he inherited them from. She had a pert nose, wide mouth, and petulant chin. “Child,” she beamed, “you’re such a beautiful girl. How lucky my son is to have you, scruffy as he is. I hope you’re feeling peckish, yes? I’ve made roasted capon and stuffing and apple pie. We’re having a late supper tonight. Oh, where’re my manners? I bet you must be tired from travel. Come, do come in.”
Rovik’s mom herded her into the house, chirping happily about stuff. Rovik himself stalked silently after he retrieved their overnight bags from the car.
Inside, an older replica of Rovik greeted her with open arms. “You must be the girl my son’s talking about. Welcome.” The man hugged and kissed her on the cheek. “Are you tired, child? Would you like some tea?”
“Thank you. I don’t want to impose.”
“Hush, you. It’s no trouble at all.” All his warmth and friendliness vanished the moment he was face to face with Rovik. The tight expression on his face cracked into a forced joviality when he addressed his only kid, one would think he was facing his archenemy. “Son.” He nodded stiffly. “Long time no see. How’re you doing?”
Rovik behaved in the same manner. “Doing well, sir. Thank you.”
Sir? Emily lifted an eyebrow. How friggin’ formal.
“Well, your mother has slaved over the stove all day. Why don’t we all eat, shall we?” Rovik’s dad waved in the direction of the kitchen table.
The delicious smell wafted from the oven and a pang of hunger gnawed at the pit of her stomach. She took her seat after a brief dash to the bathroom to wash her hands. A steaming cup awaited her by the time she returned. Emily took a delicate sip. The fragrance of the black tea was heavenly. It was laced with a rich, luxurious scent of citrus.
“This is amazing. What kind of tea is this?” she asked.
“Earl Grey,” Rovik’s father answered. “A friend of mine sent some from England. He’s a purchasing agent for a tea company in London. Said their batch this year was particularly excellent. Don’t you agree, dear?” He turned to his wife.
“I’m rather partial to bergamot, I’m afraid. I used to add it to everything I cooked: cake, pudding, stew, so much Rovik got sick of it. He refused to eat my cooking—that son of mine. He’d rather scarf down any questionable comestible as long it was topped with melted cheese,” said Rovik’s mother as she brought the plate of gorgeously roasted plump bird to the table.
Comestible? Emily was amused. Rovik’s parents might be Texan but they seemed stuck in the Victorian Age. Come to think of it, they didn’t have an accent either, while Rovik did talk with a slight twang.
Rovik scoffed. “It’s called pizza, Mom. It’s the only food you didn’t bother to cover with citrus.”
“Hardly!” She sniffed. “If such a thing could be called food. I fail to see the allure of baked dough slathered in tomato sauce and dripping cheese. It’s revolting, I daresay.”
“It is not. Pizzas are delicious.” Rovik was being stubborn.
“Son, do not argue with your mother,” Rovik’s dad warned in a grating voice.
Rovik cast him a dark look.
Suddenly, Rovik and his dad leapt from their seats, growling dangerously, ready to tear out each other’s throats. Long,
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