Danielle Steel - Zoya

Her grandmother went to get her hat and coat, and she took her own worn coat from a peg near the door, as the two men waited, chatting politely about the war, the weather, and the prospects for peace in the coming months. Vladimir seemed to be looking him over critically, but in spite of himself he couldn't dislike him. The American was too old for Zoya, of course, and Evgenia would be foolish if she let anything happen between them. When the war was over, he would go back to New York and forget the pretty girl he had toyed with in Paris. But Vladimir couldn't blame him for wanting her, of course. He still longed for her himself, although he had been courting one of his daughter's friends for over a month now. She was a hearty Russian girl from a good family, who had come to Paris the previous spring, like the rest of them, and was eking out a small living by taking in sewing. She and his daughter were meeting him at the church.

Clayton helped the old Countess downstairs, as Zoya watched, and Vladimir led the way to his waiting taxi. And they drove slowly through the quiet streets, as Clayton looked around him and especially at Zoya. She looked as though she needed some fun, and some good meals. She needed a new coat, too, her old one looked almost threadbare as the wind whistled past them in front of St. Alexander Nevsky.

It was a beautiful old church, and there were crowds of people already inside when they got there. They could hear the organ music from the front steps as they went in, and all around them was the soft hubbub of voices. The incense smelled sweet, and it was warm inside, and suddenly tears filled Zoya's eyes as she looked around her at the familiar faces, and heard the sounds of everyone speaking Russian. It was almost like going home again, their faces alive and warm as they each held a tall candle. Vladimir handed one to Evgenia and another to Clayton, and Zoya took one from a little boy. He looked up at her with a shy smile and wished her a Merry Christmas. And all she could think of now were other Christmases, other days … Mashka and Olga and Tatiana and Anastasia … Aunt Alix and Uncle Nicky … and tiny Alexis … they went to Easter services together each year, much like these … and as she fought back the memories, Clayton gently took her hand and held it, as though he could look into her mind and feel what she saw there. He put an arm around her as they sang the first hymn, and he was overwhelmed by the beauty of their powerful voices lifted in Russian. Tears rolled slowly down the men's cheeks, and many of the women cried, as they remembered the life they had shared in a place they would always remember. It was almost more than Zoya could bear, the smells and the sounds and the feelings were so agonizingly familiar. With her eyes closed, she could imagine Nicolai standing there, and her mother and father. It was almost like being a child again as she stood close to Clayton, and tried to pretend they were still in Russia.

And after the service, countless people they knew approached them. The men bowed and kissed Evgenia's hand, the ones who had been servants knelt briefly at her feet, and people cried openly and embraced, as Clayton watched them. Zoya introduced him to as many as she knew. There were so many faces that looked familiar to her, although she didn't know them all. But they seemed to know her and Evgenia. Grand Duke Cyril was there, and some other cousins of the Romanovs too, all wearing old clothes, worn-out shoes, and faces that scarcely concealed their troubles. It was painful just being there, and yet it was heartwarming too, like a brief trip into a past they all wanted to retrieve and would spend a lifetime reliving.

Evgenia looked exhausted as she stood beside Viadimir. She stood tall and proud and greeted everyone who came to see her, and there was a terrible moment when Grand Duke Cyril came to her and sobbed like a child. Neither of them could speak, and Evgenia touched him in silent blessing. Zoya gently took her arm then, and with a look at Vladimir, led her quietly outside to his taxi. It had been a hard night for all of them, but it meant a great deal to them just to be there. And she settled back against the seat with a tired sigh and eyes that spoke volumes.

“It was a beautiful service.” Clayton spoke quietly, moved beyond words. One could sense their love, their pride, their faith, and their sorrow. And it was almost as though, in silent unison, they had been praying for their Tsar, and his wife and children. Clayton wondered if Zoya had heard from Marie again, but he didn't want to ask her in front of Evgenia. It was all much too painful. “Thank you for letting me come.”

Clayton escorted them back upstairs when they got back to the apartment, and Vladimir poured the last of the wine. Seeing Evgenia's sad eyes and worn face, Clayton was sorry he hadn't brought them brandy. He stoked the fire again, and absentmindedly patted Sava, as Zoya quietly munched another cookie.

“You should go to bed, Grandmama.”

“I will in a minute.” She wanted to sit there for a moment and remember, and then she looked tenderly at all of them. “Merry Christmas, children. God's blessings on us all.” She took a sip of wine then and slowly stood up. “I will leave you now. I'm very tired.” Clayton saw that she could hardly walk as Zoya helped her to their room, and returned a few minutes later. Vladimir left shortly after that, with a last look of envy at Clayton. But he smiled at him. He was a lucky man to have Zoya look at him the way she did. She was so young and so alive and so pretty.

“Merry Christmas, Zoya.” His eyes were sad, still touched by the midnight service.

“Merry Christmas to you, Prince Vladimir.” He kissed her cheeks and hurried back down the stairs to his taxi. His daughter and her friend were waiting for him at home. And as the door closed, Zoya turned quietly to Clayton. It was all so bittersweet, the old and the new, the happy and the sad. The memories and the real … Konstantin, Nicolai … Vladimir … Feodor … Antoine … and now Clayton. … As she looked at him, she remembered them all, and her hair shone like gold in the light from the fire. He walked quietly to her and took her hands in his own, and without a word he took her in his arms and kissed her.

“Merry Christmas.” He said it in Russian, as he had heard again and again at St. Alexander Nevsky.

She repeated it back to him, and for a long quiet moment he stood and held her. He gently stroked her hair, and listened to the fire crackle as Sava slept beside them.

“I love you … Zoya …” He hadn't wanted to say it to her yet, he had wanted to be sure, and yet he was. He had known it since September when he left her.

“I love you too.” She whispered the words that were so easy to say to him. “Oh, Clayton … I love you …” But then what, there was the war, and eventually he would have to leave Paris and go back to New York. She wouldn't let herself think of it now. She just couldn't.

He pulled her gently onto the couch, and they sat holding hands, like two happy children. “I've worried about you so much. I wish I could have stayed here for all these months.” And now they only had four days, a tiny island of moments in a troubled sea that might drown them at any moment.

“I knew you'd come back.” She smiled. “At least I hoped so.” And she was more than ever grateful that she hadn't allowed her grandmother to force her to marry Antoine. If she had listened, she might have been married to him, or even Vladimir, by the time Clayton returned to see her.

“I tried to fight this, you know.” He sighed and stretched his long legs out on the ugly green rug. It had grown even more threadbare in the past months. Everything in the apartment looked dingy and old and shabby, except the beautiful girl at his side, with the green eyes and red hair, the sharply etched face like a perfect cameo, the face he had dreamed of for months, in spite of all the reasons he gave himself to forget her. “I'm too old for you, Zoya. You need someone young, to discover life with you, and make you happy.” But who was there? The son of some Russian prince, a boy who had as little as she did? The truth was that she needed someone to take care of her, and he wanted to be the one to do it.