Ivy Secrets, page 10
Professor James walked past her again. She felt his eyes burrow into her back. In another second, he was bound to approach her and ask how her paper was coming. Right now, the Apache were the last thing she wanted to discuss.
She quickly stood and picked up her things, then caught sight of a Smithie virgin standing by the card catalog, hunched over a book. She looked at the girl’s stringy hair, her baggy corduroy jeans, her lint-flecked pea coat. No wonder you’re a virgin, Marina thought. Then she thought of Viktor again. Suddenly, her anger took hold. It is not fair, she told herself. I will not be another Smithie virgin. Not when there is a man I love.
Marina left the library with only one thought: Viktor would be in his apartment; Viktor would be waiting until just before nine, at which time he would descend the stairs, walk to the library, and wait dutifully for his charge.
“Not tonight,” Marina said aloud to the crisp night air. “Tonight is going to be different.”
She marched across campus alone, exhilarated by her freedom, driven by her decision. She was going to go to Viktor’s; she was going to profess her love. She would prove to Viktor that this was a new generation, and that the provincial suffocating mores of royalty not mixing with commoners was no longer appropriate, desirable, or necessary. Once she convinced him, Marina would, at last, get laid.
Leftover snow crunched beneath her feet; her breath burst foggy puffs in the icy air. For once, Marina was going to take charge. She was, after all, the princess. She was the one who should be in control, not her servant. He would love her; she would make him love her.
She went down the slope toward Morris House, and looked up to the window of his apartment across the street. A light burned.
She stopped at the curb before crossing and leaned against a tall oak tree for support. Just then Marina spotted movement in the doorway at the street, the doorway that led up to Viktor’s, the doorway that would give her entrance to the freeing of her spirit, the coming together of her life.
A figure emerged from the doorway. It wasn’t Viktor. It was a woman.
Marina froze. She watched the figure move up the sidewalk. When it passed under a streetlight, Marina recognized her. It was Dell Brooks, the woman who owned the bookstore where Marina had been a few times with Charlie and Tess. Dell Brooks, the friend of Tess’s mother, the woman who had befriended Tess. And who had apparently also befriended Viktor. Her Viktor.
Marina kept her hiding place behind the tree. Betrayal did a slow burn into her. Betrayal and loneliness. Viktor was having an affair with Dell Brooks, a woman who was free, a woman who was not a princess, and did not have to answer to a king and a country, when she wanted to follow her heart.
She choked back her tears and plodded back to the library, in order to resume the only role to which she was entitled, and to be there when Viktor arrived.
“Why so quiet?” Viktor asked as they walked toward Morris House.
Marina hugged her coat more closely to her. “I have a headache.”
“It is cold tonight.” He raised his wool collar around his neck.
Marina said nothing.
When they reached the porch, Viktor opened the door, looked inside, then allowed Marina to go past.
“I will see you in the morning,” he said.
The ache in her heart stopped her once again from responding.
She climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and slowly went to her room. Inside, she sat on the edge of her bed and let the tears flow quietly, the way a princess had been taught. She hated the feeling that would not go away, the feeling that there was another person inside of her, wanting to spring out, wanting to be part of the world. The world where people could talk about their feelings, could share their hopes, their dreams, where their destinies were not preordained. She hated that her emotions were tangled with complications, squeezed between oppressive layers of obligation, of duty. Above it all, Marina longed for Viktor; she ached for love. She held her stomach and bent forward, trying to push the torment away, willing her tears to stop.
“Marina.”
Marina looked up. It was Charlie. And Tess.
“Marina, what’s wrong?” Charlie asked.
“Nothing.” She stood, wiped her tears. “I have a dreadful headache. And cramps.” There was no way these two girls—blue-collar Charlie and odd, artsy Tess—would ever understand her life, her pain.
Tess walked into the room and sat at Marina’s desk. “I hate cramps,” she said. “My mother calls it the curse.”
“I have a heating pad, Marina,” Charlie said.
“Do you want some Midol?” Tess asked.
“Have you started yet?”
“I got cramps so bad when I was a kid I used to throw up.”
“My mother always made me ride my bike,” Charlie went on.
“Yeah. The exercise thing. Mind over matter, and all that crap.”
Marina slouched back on the bed. She could no longer hold back her tears. “It is not my period,” she said. “It is Viktor.”
Her friends were silent.
Marina put her face in her hands and wept. It hurt, it ached, it throbbed inside her heart. She had never—ever—cried in front of anyone. But as she tried to get control of herself, the sobs grew more intense. She struggled to stop crying. She could not.
Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. A gentle hand. “Marina?” Charlie asked. “What happened?”
Marina could not take her hands from her face.
“God, Marina,” Tess said, “what did he do?”
She shook her head. “Nothing,” she sobbed. “Absolutely nothing.”
The girls were silent again.
“It’s okay,” Charlie said finally. “Whatever it is, it’s okay. You can tell us.”
“You’ll feel better,” Tess added. “Honest, you will.”
Slowly, Marina’s sobs eased. She sniffed for a moment, then set her hands on her lap. Through her watery eyes, she saw that Charlie sat beside her; Tess had moved her chair a little closer.
“He does not understand,” she said. “He does not understand how much I love him.” She stood and went to the window, not wanting to see their reactions. She yanked down the window shade. “There. I said it. I love Viktor Coe. I am in love with my damn bodyguard who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me.”
Charlie cleared her throat.
“Jesus,” Tess said. “But you have so many boyfriends.”
Marina almost laughed. “Boyfriends?” She turned back to them. “Boys, you mean. Boys. That is all they are. Stupid, juvenile boys.” She stepped forward and clenched her fist to her heart. “Viktor is a man. He holds the pride of my country. You don’t understand. You cannot possibly understand. I am supposed to rule Novokia one day. I will be the queen. I need a man who is strong. Viktor is strong.” She barely heard her words. For the first time in her life, Marina was speaking her mind. And her mind was racing too quickly for her to stop the sounds from coming out. “I love him,” she said. “And it is impossible. He is a bodyguard. I am a princess. Neither of you has any idea how that feels. You can fall in love with any boy you meet. It does not matter. The future of a country does not matter.” She flopped back on the bed. Her limbs ached, her eyes ached, her heart felt as though it had been shattered, and scattered, into thousands of pieces.
“Does he know you love him?” Tess asked. “Have you told him?”
“There is no point. It would only cause more problems. Besides,” she added as she hung her head. “He has someone else now. I have waited too long.”
“He has someone else?” Charlie asked. “Here?”
“Yes,” Marina said and cast a sharp glance at Tess. “Your friend, Tess. That woman. Dell Brooks.”
Tess blinked. “Dell? God, she’s my mother’s age.”
“Viktor is not much younger. He is in his thirties.”
Tess blew out a puff of air. “Are you sure, Marina? I can’t believe that Dell—”
“Believe it. I saw it with my own two eyes.”
“Maybe they’re just friends,” Charlie said.
Marina laughed. “Americans are so naive.”
“I think you should tell him,” Tess said.
“I cannot.”
“Yes, you can. The problem is you won’t.”
Marina studied Tess. What could this teenage misfit possibly know? Or Charlie—the Goody Two-shoes who thought angora sweaters were the key to happiness?
“You won’t tell him because you’re afraid,” Tess continued. “You’re afraid he doesn’t feel the same way about you, and then you’ll be hurt.”
“You sound like you know what you’re talking about,” Charlie said.
Tess shrugged. “It only makes sense. We may be naive Americans, but we know that hurt’s part of life. Maybe Novokia-ites—or whatever you call yourselves—don’t realize that.”
Marina laughed. “I believe we are called Novokians.”
“Novokians, schmovokian. I think you should tell the man. Get it over with.”
“You might be surprised at his reaction,” Charlie agreed.
Marina looked at her closed shade. Viktor thought she was tucked in for the night, he thought she was safe. He had no idea that he was the one inflicting her pain, not the strangers that he anticipated were lurking behind every bush.
She turned to Charlie and Tess—her friends. This was, she reminded herself, part of why she had come to America. She had wanted friends. She had wanted to feel like a normal girl. Maybe Charlie and Tess were more “normal” than she thought. And maybe, just maybe, they were right.
“Will you help me?” Marina asked. “Will you help me figure out a plan?”
They decided Marina should wait until Sunday. Her paper for government was due on Monday: she would cram to get it done but lie to Viktor and say she needed to go to the library at UMass. “Smith is very limited on its research of the Apache,” she would say. They hoped he wouldn’t suggest she go to Dell’s.
He didn’t. Marina spent an hour in the tower library, thumbing through books, making imaginary notes. It wasn’t easy: Viktor insisted on staying close behind her. UMass, after all, wasn’t Smith, and Viktor sensed increased danger around so many people.
When Marina announced that she was finished, they strolled to the car in the late-afternoon sun. Instead of climbing in the backseat, she told him she wanted to ride up front with him.
Viktor frowned.
“I am tired of viewing the world through black glass,” Marina pleaded. He opened the front passenger door without comment and Marina got in.
They followed the road out onto Route 9 in silence. As Viktor turned right toward Northampton, Marina began to cry. She was surprised at how easily the tears came.
“I miss Novokia, Viktor,” she said. “I miss the mountains.”
Viktor hesitated, then slowly nodded. “It is natural to be homesick. We’ve been gone a long time.”
Marina said nothing, but let the tears fall. The car rolled quietly past the parking lots and strip malls, past nurseries and farmstands, and white-steepled churches. Then, Marina spoke again. “I would like you to take a left onto Route 47,” she said.
Viktor stared ahead. “This is the right road for Northampton.”
“I know. But I want to see the mountains.”
He glanced at her, then looked back at the road. He was not as handsome as many boys she’d been out with, he was not as clean-cut, not at all American. But he was Viktor, and he was finally going to be hers.
“The girls told me about a place where I can see the mountains. It is called the Summit House. At Skinner Park.” She paused, then added, “Please take me there.”
As they approached the intersection, Marina held her breath. She could not be certain Viktor would comply: it was entirely possible that he sensed her trap. She did not breathe again until he put on the signal, then turned left onto Route 47.
It was a short ride along a winding road, and it seemed to take forever. Acres of tilled ground spanned the land around them, dotted by tobacco sheds, barns, and an occasional winter-abandoned sign that boasted Strawberries or Native Corn. Off to the right, Marina saw the Connecticut River bend and stretch its sleepy path; straight ahead she saw the rim of the mountains scallop across the early spring sky. Concentrating on the landscape seemed easier than thinking about what lay ahead.
Finally Marina saw a small sign, pointing left toward Skinner Mountain, the Summit House.
Viktor turned the car.
Up the mountain they went. The road was icy in parts, made even more narrow by snowplows that had plundered the pavement, leaving crumbled edges and ominous holes.
“The Summit House is at the top,” Marina said.
Viktor kept an obedient silence.
They passed a sign that read Halfway Point. Marina felt her heart beat a little faster, and an eager quiver shiver in her stomach.
Viktor slowed for a steep, sharp turn. The wheels of the Mercedes spun on ice, then grasped the road again. Still he did not speak.
And Marina’s heart beat even faster.
Finally, they reached the top.
“Some of the girls came here on Mountain Day,” Marina said. “Will you come with me to see the view?”
Viktor turned off the engine, got out of the car, and walked around to open Marina’s door. As she stepped from the car, she let her hand brush against him. Then she walked toward the building—a large, white house perched atop the mountain like a nesting bird, a watchful sentry. Marina turned to look at Viktor. Suddenly, over his shoulder, beyond his back, the view was there. She gasped.
Viktor turned and followed her gaze.
“Wow,” he said.
They stood, unmoving, yet moved. The Pioneer Valley loomed below, the snaking Connecticut wove itself through the barren farmlands, past tiny strings of roads and houses that resembled Monopoly board pieces—children’s toys, in miniature. The orange sun tried to sink behind the distant charcoal mountains; a small plane hovered, lower than their place above it all.
“It is magnificent,” Viktor said.
Marina closed her eyes and tried to calm her heart. She opened them again and moved close to Viktor. She slid her arm through his. “So are you,” she said quietly.
He turned his head; his eyes met hers. The flutter inside her quickened; she stood on her toes; she kissed him once, lightly, then again.
“Viktor,” she whispered, “do you have any idea how I feel about you?”
He looked into her eyes. He did not smile. He did not frown. “Princess …”
She placed a finger at his lips. “Hush,” she said. “Do not say it. I want you to love me. I want you to make love to me.”
She put her arms around him and parted her lips. She kissed him again. His breath was warm, wet.
“Princesca. What are you doing?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I am making love to the man I love.” She slipped her tongue inside his mouth; she touched the tip of his. She moved her hands down his back; she thought she heard him moan.
She led him back to the car, moving swiftly, keeping the dream intact. It was going just as they had planned, as Charlie and Tess and she had planned. They reached the car and Marina opened the door—the back door. She pulled him in; he closed the door behind them.
“Princess …” he said again, but Marina had her hand on the buckle of his pants, his faded denim, now bulging pants. She unzipped his fly so quickly it surprised her. And, suddenly, he was in her hand. This time, she knew she heard him moan.
He reached for her. She slid from her jacket; he pulled her sweater over her head. If Viktor was surprised to see her braless breasts, he did not say. Instead, he bent and licked her nipple—first one side, then the other. The ache inside her mounted; the need inside her grew.
He tugged at her pants; she let them slide. He guided his hand between her legs; a finger moved inside her, she felt a quick, sharp pain.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“And I love you,” he said, in a low, tender voice Marina had never heard, “I love you so much, my princesca.” He moved on top of her and pushed his hardness inside. Sharp pain pierced her again. She cried out.
He touched her face, her cheeks. “Princesca, I am hurting you.”
She shook her head. “No. No. Don’t stop. Please.”
He stopped. “I have hurt you. I did not mean to.”
She grabbed his back and pulled him closer. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded.
He moved again inside her. This time, there was no pain.
“I love you,” she said again.
He raised his head and cried out. “Princesca!”
She lay still, then felt the hot wetness ooze inside her. His breaths were quick, short. He collapsed on top of her. She held him close; she stroked his hair. And Marina smiled. She had made Viktor happy. She had given him herself. She had given him a princess. And that was one thing Dell Brooks—or any other common female—never could. At last, Viktor Coe was hers.
It was after dark when Marina returned to Morris House. She wanted to go to her room and lie in bed, quietly alone. She wanted to savor the lingering warmth of Viktor’s touch, and his sticky, sweet wetness inside her. But when she opened the door to her room, Charlie and Tess were there.
“Oh, God,” Tess cried when she saw Marina’s face. She turned to Charlie. “She did it. They did it.”
Marina smiled.
“Are you okay?” Charlie asked.
“Never better,” Marina answered. “But I am tired. Would you mind leaving?”
“Shit,” Tess said. “We want to hear the juicy details.”
Marina shook her head.
“Come on, Tess,” Charlie said. “She wants to be alone.”
“What a rip-off,” Tess muttered, as they began to leave.
“Girls?” Marina asked. They turned and looked at her. “Thanks,” she said, and meant it with all her heart.
The next morning Viktor, as always, waited outside Morris House for Marina to go to class. She was late: she’d spent too much time fussing with her hair and trying on six different outfits before deciding on the white silk sweater and black denim skirt. She wanted to look her best for Viktor; she wanted him to know she felt good; she wanted him to feel good. She wondered if he would grow hard with longing if she touched him by “mistake.”
