“You talk funny, Mush,” Fern said. “Why?”
“Damn, and here I was, surrounded by liars who told me my English accent was superb,” Mikhail said, pulling a face at me.
“Damn,” Cooper agreed suddenly.
I had to slap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. “That’s not a word that kids get to say, Coop. Understand?”
“Damn?” Tristan repeated. “Why? Why can’t we say that? What does it mean?”
“Damn,” Fern whispered, just to be in on the action.
“Let’s all go to the kitchen and see what’s in the bags,” I said, acting quickly to provide a distraction from this sudden avalanche of foul language from my children. “Misha, thanks for coming.”
“No place I’d rather be,” he assured me. “Especially since it’s where you are.”
I hoped he still felt the same way after spending any sort of extended time with my three sort of feral children.
Well, they were his children too. He just didn’t know it yet.
And I didn’t know when or how to tell him.
Fern and Tristan peppered Mikhail with questions down the hall to the kitchen, but Cooper was content to accept his ride in satisfied silence. I helped Mikhail lay his bags down and started unloading their contents.
“What is all this?” I asked, puzzled. It looked like to-go containers from several different restaurants.
“Well, I realized I didn’t know what everybody liked, so I figured I’d get a variety and everyone can pick and choose.” Mikhail smiled at Cooper, who hadn’t asked to be put down yet — and thus remained in his father’s arms. Their similarities were striking at such a close proximity. Would Mikhail guess it all by himself without me having to tell him? “How does that sound? Like a buffet we can eat at home.”
One box contained a swirl of pasta that smelled divine. Another yielded fragrant wedges of artisanal pizza. Yet another was packed with sliders. The sheer amount of food — and diversity of dishes — was almost comical.
But the kids loved being put in power over what they were having for dinner. They were going to become little foodie monsters if this was any early indication — Fern carefully checking the layers of the slider she was eyeing for dreaded mustard, and Tristan trying to make off with all of the pizza.
“What are you having, Coop?” Mikhail asked.
“All of it,” Cooper replied happily, so he got a tiny serving of each box to pack on his plate.
“This is overwhelming, Misha — thank you,” I said, looking at all the food. Each dish was of the highest quality, but with kid-friendly tastes and ingredients. He could’ve just gotten a forty-count box of chicken nuggets and been the most popular guest to ever step foot in this house, but he’d actually made an effort.
“Here’s the adult dinner,” he said once we’d gotten the kids settled with their feast around the kitchen table. He opened another bag with a flourish to produce a bottle of extremely nice wine and an additional box that contained steak and seasonal vegetables.
“I would’ve happily eaten off the kids’ menu,” I said, my mouth watering at just how juicy the meat looked.
“You deserve the best,” he said, pouring me a glass of wine. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” We touched glasses, which set a dangerous example at the kitchen table, the triplets observing the action and suddenly eager to emulate it with their own cups.
“And thank you again for my mom’s spa getaway,” I said. “She was so excited.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for,” Mikhail reasoned. “I’m just doing things that need to be done.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“Sure.” He closed his eyes briefly as he bit into the steak. “Delicious. Mamachka needed pampering. Done. Bratan needed something to focus on. Done.”
“What do you have Jon doing?” I asked, curious.
“He’s working on that database of suspects he mentioned over dinner the other night,” Mikhail said. “He was actually pretty enthusiastic about it.”
“I can’t believe he actually remembered proposing it,” I said. “Or followed through, for that matter.”