Danielle Steel: Zoya

The service itself was an agony, with its unfamiliar litany and his mother's wails, as Zoya clutched Axelle's and Sasha's hands, and then they had taken her back to cry endlessly at her apartment.

“You must go back to work as soon as you can,” Axelle looked at her and said almost harshly. She knew how easy it would be to let go, to give up, she almost had when her own husband died. And Zoya couldn't allow herself that luxury now. She had three children to think of, and herself. And she had survived tragedy before. She had to do it again now, but she only shook her head, as the tears continued to stream down her face as she looked bleakly at Axelle. There seemed to be nothing left she wanted to live for.

“I can't even think about that now. I don't care about the store. I don't care about anything. Only Simon.”

“Well, you have to. You have a responsibility to your children, yourself, your clients … and to Simon. You must continue in his memory, continue to build what he helped you start. You can't give up now. The store was his gift to you, Zoya.”

It was true, but the store seemed so trivial now, so ridiculously unimportant, without Simon to share it with, what did any of it matter?

“You must be strong.” She handed the beautiful redhead a glass of brandy from the bar, and insisted that she take a sip as she watched her. “Drink it all. It will do you good.” Axelle was suddenly a martinet as Zoya smiled through her tears at her friend, and then only began to cry harder. “You didn't survive the revolution and everything that happened after that, only to give up now, Zoya Hirsch.” But the sound of his name attached to her own only made her cry more, and Axelle returned every day until she convinced Zoya to go back to the store. It seemed a miracle when she finally agreed to go back, but only for a few minutes. She wore somber black, and sheer black stockings, but at least she was back in her office. And the minutes became hours after a few days. And eventually she went and sat at her desk, for most of the day, staring into space and remembering Simon. She went there like a robot every day and Sasha had begun giving her trouble again. Zoya knew she was losing control of her, but she couldn't deal with that just then either. All she could do was survive the days, hour by hour, hiding in her office, and then go home at night to dream of Simon. Even little Matthew broke her heart, just seeing him was a constant reminder of his father.

Simon's attorneys had been calling her for weeks, and she had avoided all their attempts to see her. Simon had left two loyal employees in charge of his mills and the factory where they made his coats. She knew everything was in control there, and she was having enough trouble running her own store without facing that as well. And talking to the attorneys about his estate would mean facing the fact that he was gone and she couldn't. She had been thinking of him, remembering their weekend in Connecticut when one of her assistants gently knocked on the door of her office.

“Countess Zoya?” The woman spoke through the door as Zoya dried her eyes again. She had been sitting at her desk, staring at a photograph of Simon. She'd had another argument with Sasha the night before, but now even that seemed unimportant.

“I'll be right out.” She blew her nose again, and glanced in a mirror to patch up her makeup.

‘There's someone here to see you.”

“I don't want to see anyone,” she spoke quietly as she opened the door a crack. ‘Tell them I'm not here.” And then as an afterthought, “Who is it?”

“A Mr. Paul Kelly. He said it was important.”

“I don't know him, Christine. Just tell him I'm out” The girl looked nervous, it was so upsetting to see Zoya as devastated as she had been since her husband was killed, but it was understandable. They were all worried these days about husbands, brothers, friends, and the dreaded black-bordered telegrams, like the one that had been delivered to Zoya.

Zoya closed the door again, praying that no one important would come in that day. She couldn't bear the sympathetic looks, the kind words. It just made it worse, and then there was a knock on the door again. It was Christine, nervous and flustered.

“He says he'll wait. What should I do now?”

Zoya sighed. She couldn't imagine who he was. Perhaps the husband of a customer, someone who was afraid she'd discuss a mistress with a wife. She got visits like that sometimes, and she always reassured them with polite restraint. But she hadn't dealt with anyone since Simon's death. She walked back to the door and opened it to her assistant again, looking gaunt in her black dress and black stockings. And her eyes told a tale of grief beyond measure. “All right. Show him in.” She had nothing else to do anyway. She couldn't keep her mind on anything anymore. Not here, or at home, she was no good to anyone now. And she stood quietly, as Christine ushered in a tall, distinguished man in a dark blue suit, with white hair and blue eyes. He was struck by how beautiful she was, and how grim she looked, all dressed in black, with eyes that seemed to look right through him.

“Mrs. Hirsch?” It was unusual for people to call her that here, and she nodded unhappily, wondering who he was, but not really caring.

“Yes?”

“My name is Paul Kelly. Our firm is handling your husband's … er … ah … estate.” She looked grief-stricken as she shook his hand, and invited him to sit down on one of the chairs near her desk. “We've been very anxious to get in touch with you.” He looked at her with gentle reproach, and she noticed that he had interesting eyes. He had an Irish face and she correctly guessed that he had once had jet-black hair, now turned snowy white. “You haven't been answering our calls.” But seeing her, he now understood why. The woman was devastated by grief, and he felt deeply sorry for her.

“I know.” She looked away. And then with a sigh, she looked at him. “To tell you the truth, I didn't want to hear from you. It made it all much too real. It's …” Her voice dimmed to a whisper as she looked away again,“… it's been very difficult for me.”

There was a long silence as he nodded, watching her. It was obvious how stricken she was, and yet beyond the pain, he sensed enormous strength, strength she herself had forgotten. “I understand. But we need to know your wishes on some of these matters. We were going to suggest a formal reading of the will, but perhaps under the circumstances at the present time …” His voice drifted off, as slowly her eyes met his again. “Perhaps all you need to know right now is that he left almost everything he had in trust for you, and his son. His parents and his two uncles have been left large bequests, as have your two children, Mrs. Hirsch.” And then, sounding official, he went on, “Very generous bequests, I might add, of a million dollars each, in trust, of course. They can't touch any of the principal until they're twenty-one, and there are some other conditions in the trust, but very reasonable ones, I'm quite sure. Our trust department helped him with all that,” but he stopped as he saw Zoya staring at him. “Is something wrong?” He was suddenly sorry he had come. She was really not up to listening to what he was saying.

“A million dollars each?” It was far more than she'd ever dreamed, and they were her children, not his. She was stunned. But it was so typical of Simon. Her love for him cut through her like a knife again.

“Yes, that's correct. In addition, he wanted to offer your son a position in his firm, when he's old enough, of course. It's a large company to run, with the factory, and all six textile mills, particularly now, with the war contracts that came in after he left …” He droned on as Zoya tried to absorb it. How like Simon to provide for all of them, and even plan on taking Nicholas into business with him. How like Simon … if only he had lived to be with them, instead of leaving them a fortune.