“And yet here I am,” she points out bitterly.

I scowl and walk swiftly to the door. “Start packing. We leave in an hour.”

20

KOLYA

The last time I was here was a few weeks before Adrian’s funeral. Progress has been made, but there’s months’ worth of work yet to be done.

The front of the old hotel is a butter-yellow granite that melts into the landscape beyond it. The windows are framed in black wrought iron and the arched gables on the roof catch the afternoon sun. Scaffolding covers most of the eastern wing and workers in blue hard hats scurry over the building like ants.

We pull up in front of the stone fountain that looms large in the center of the circular entryway drive. There were a few things about this old, decrepit hotel I’d chosen to keep the same when I purchased it. The fountain was one.

“It’s under construction,” June observes as I help her out of the car.

“There are rooms in the west wing that are completed. We’ll be staying there.”

She throws me a puzzled look. “Is there a reason we’re staying in a renovated hotel?”

“Yes. Because I’m the renovator, and it’s been a while since I’ve been here to check on the progress.”

She turns back to the façade with fresh eyes. “You own this place?”

“As of two years ago, yes.”

She meanders over to the stone fountain and drags a finger through the shimmering surface of the water. I watch her walk. She’s wearing a flowy white dress with thin straps and a thin skirt that moves whenever she does, that dances like it’s alive in even the slightest breeze. I can see the outline of her legs through the fabric.

The center of the fountain boasts a solemn-looking man, sitting on a rock face, staring down into the surface of the pond. June gazes up at him.

“This is beautiful.”

“It was my mother’s favorite part about this place.”

I wince as soon as I say it. Why am I bringing her up again? It’s weird that I’ve gone years without mentioning her, and now all of a sudden, I can’t seem to stop.

June looks at me with an unspoken question in her eyes.

“She worked here for a few years,” I explain. “The only time she was ever happy, I think. She started off as a cabaret girl, but when the manager discovered that she could play the piano, he put her to performing in the lobby.”

“Why’d she leave?

I stiffen instantly. Telling this story was a mistake. It can only end in sadness. “She met my father. He was staying at this hotel with some friends. He saw her, and decided he had to have her. When he checked out, he took her with him.”

I leave out the nastier parts of this chapter of my mother’s life. June doesn’t need to know how the fairy tale is woven through with lies and bloodshed, same as every other story of my family.