Simon set the long-handled spatula aside and gazed into the darkness for a few moments, lost in thoughts that left him looking inexpressibly lonely. “That’s nice,” he finally said. An emotion that Kafari eventually identified as yearning filled his voice as he added, “I’ve never belonged anywhere, that way. I study Russian history and listen to Russian music, so I’ll have some kind of connection with my ancestors, but I don’t have a family to share it with.”
Kafari hesitated, then decided to ask, anyway. “What happened to them?”
“My parents and sister were killed in the Quern War. I didn’t have any other family, nothing to tie me to any particular place. Pretty much the only thing I wanted was to go away and never come back. So I looked up the Concordiat’s recruiter and applied for training as a Bolo commander. I was eighteen, then. That was a long time ago,” he added softly, still staring into the velvety darkness beyond his patio.
“You never found anyone else?”
In the space of one heartbeat, his whole body turned to rigid steel. Kafari wanted to kick herself all the way back to Madison. Then a deep, slow-motion shudder went through him and his muscles softened again into human flesh. “Yes. I did. In a way.”
“You lost them, though, didn’t you? On Etaine?”
She thought for a long moment that he didn’t intend to answer. Then he started to speak, voice hushed in the cool springtime darkness. “Her name was Renny…” That he had loved her was obvious. That she had blamed him was incomprehensible. Kafari’s brothers lay under deep-piled rubble, where part of the cliff had come down onto the house. There was very little doubt that the Bolo’s guns had wrought much of the damage. Parts of a Yavac could be seen, jutting up through the jumbled piles of stone, very near what would have been the front porch.
But it didn’t matter whether the Yavac’s guns or the Bolo’s had wrought the actual fatal blows. Terms like friendly fire and collateral damage were — to Kafari, anyway — meaningless. If the Deng had not invaded, her brothers would still be alive. The Deng had killed them, no matter who had fired the actual shots. When she tried to tell him that, Simon Khrustinov stared into her eyes for long moments.
Then he whispered, “You are a remarkable woman, Kafari Camar.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m just a Jeffersonian.”
The touch of his fingertips on her face, tracing the shape of nose and cheek and brow, left shivers coursing through her. “I’m beginning to think there’s no such thing as ‘just a Jeffersonian.’ ” He smiled, then. “I’d better turn those steaks before they’re ruined.”
That was just as well, since Kafari didn’t think she’d have been able to say two coherent words together, in the wake of that brief but devastating touch. They were both silent for several long moments, Simon watching the steaks, Kafari watching Simon. The sizzle of dripping fat served as counterpoint to the softer rustle of wind in the meadow grasses surrounding Nineveh Base. The mouth-watering scent reminded Kafari that hours had passed since her hastily eaten lunch at the dorm kitchen. The buzz of the oven timer sent Kafari scooting back into the kitchen to test the biscuits. Her critical eye and the golden brown color, plus years of experience in a farm kitchen, told Kafari they were done.
She snagged a bowl and slid the biscuits into it, using a small towel to cover them, and rummaged until she found butter. No cane syrup or honey, but they ought to be tasty enough. Simon carried in the steaks, Kafari fished out the corn and dumped the veggies into another bowl, then they sat down. Simon poured the wine, tasting it expertly before filling Kafari’s glass.
“Ma’am, this looks and smells like some kind of wonderful.”
She smiled and passed the butter. “How’d the bake turn out?”
He broke open one fluffy biscuit, smeared butter, and tasted. Then closed his eyes and let go a sound that was more groan than sigh. “Oh… my… God…”
Kafari grinned. “I think that’s the biggest compliment I’ve ever heard a man give somebody’s cooking.”
Simon opened his eyes and said, “Miss Camar, what I do is called cooking. This,” he waved the remains of his biscuit, “is artistry.”
“Thank you, Major Khrustinov.” She smiled. “Maybe we could graduate to first names? I feel like I’m in grammar school, again.”
The smile started in his eyes and spread to the whole of his body. “You sure don’t look like a school girl, Kafari.”
At the moment, with those remarkable eyes touching places inside that she hadn’t even known existed, Kafari didn’t feel much like a school girl, either. She bent over her steak, concentrating on knife and fork to regain her composure. The first bite caused her to roll her eyes upwards. “Oh, wow…” She chewed appreciatively. “What is that sauce?”
He grinned. “It’s a secret recipe. Something I threw together out of sheer necessity, trying to make military rations palatable.”
“Huh. Bottle this stuff and sell it and your fortune’s made. I’m not kidding. This is wonderful.”
They fell silent for several minutes, applying themselves to the meal. Simon’s wine, a local vintage, was a perfect complement to the steak. Kafari hadn’t eaten this well since her last visit home from Vishnu, more than a year previously. Beautiful music washed through her awareness, soothing and lovely. She was aware of Simon, as well, with every nerve ending, every pore of her skin. She wanted more of this. Quiet evenings spent with someone special, enjoying good conversation, good food jointly prepared.
And she wanted more — much more — of Simon. More of his smiles, his remarkable eyes peering into the depths of her soul, more of the reasons for the shadows in those eyes, more of the teasing and laughter, and more — she had to gulp at the mere thought — of those incredible hands touching her.
The strength of her wanting was new to Kafari’s life, new and a little frightening. She hadn’t ever wanted anyone like this, never in her life. It scared her, made her feel shivery and strange, made her wonder if these feelings had always lain dormant inside her, hidden away until the right man came along, or if the war had somehow triggered them, changing her at a core level she didn’t want to probe too deeply.
Mostly, she wanted, hoped — prayed — that Simon would touch her again.
He produced ice cream for dessert, then they washed dishes in companionable silence. When the last plate and pan had been wiped down and put away and the last crumbs had been swept away from counter and tabletop, leaving the kitchen gleaming again, Simon refilled their wine glasses and they moved into the living room.
“Oh, that was good,” Kafari sighed, settling into the sofa.
“Yes,” he agreed softly, sitting beside her, “it was.”
Somehow, she didn’t think he was talking about the meal. After a moment’s reflection, Kafari realized she hadn’t been, either. She wasn’t sure how to proceed from here, felt abruptly awkward and shy. The Bolo saved her from tongue-tied silence.
“Simon,” it said, overriding the music, “the riot has been contained. Madison police have arrested one hundred fifty-three people. Residences and businesses have been damaged in an area encompassing ten city blocks. The alleged ringleader is a student by the name of Vittori Santorini. The rally he conducted was entirely lawful. He is not in custody and will not be charged, as he did not participate in the actual riot. I have scanned the datanet as directed. He maintains a site that advocates abolition of special aid to farmers and ranchers, stronger environmental-protection legislation, and cost-of-living subsidies for the urban poor. His chat board averages three hundred seventeen posts a day and his newsletter has ten thousand fifty-three subscribers, ninety-eight percent of whom have joined within the past three point two weeks.”