Page 31 of Mayflower

Sunglasses, graying hair, buttoned-down shirt hanging loose, sleeves rolled up, jeans. He looks so relaxed, though it’s impossible to miss his confident stride.

He sees us at the edge of the airfield and starts walking. The guards in front of him part and march just a little ahead in a convoy, their guns raised. Several others spread out.

Dad’s pace quickens as he gets closer. He takes off his sunglasses, and I think my heart is about to burst when he doesn’t look at anyone but me, walks up to me, and sweeps me into a hug so tight that I forget how to breathe.

“Nu, privet, rebionak,” he murmurs. Hi, child.

That’s what he always called me. Not baby, not sweetie, not sunshine. Just child. In Russian. And as I grew older, it became rarer and rarer.

I smile. Tears start welling up in my eyes. My chest shakes with a sob as he grunts and hugs me tighter. His familiar smell envelopes me, assaulting me with memories that, until now, seemed so distant, almost like a dream.

When Dad lets go, his big hands hold my shoulders as he studies me, a smile playing on his lips. He looks a little older, with more wrinkles creasing his eyes. He takes in my dress, hair, and face, then wraps his heavy arm around my shoulders and finally turns to Archer.

“Mr. Crone, how are you?” Still holding me tight against him, he shakes hands with Archer. “Nice weather.” He turns to me again. “Nice tan.”

I know he has a lot more to say, but he says nonsense, things we already talked about. As we walk toward the side-by-sides parked nearby, one of his men, a short guy in his forties, an assistant, I suppose, starts pouring questions onto Archer.

“We have thirty-two men who need housing, close to Mr. Tsariuk.”

I notice his accent is Spanish. Probably because Dad does business in South America a lot these days.

“We need several vehicles, someone from your IT team to establish the security perimeter, the radio frequencies, and network details to set up our IT station.”

Archer asks us to wait as he sends a request for additional vehicles, because Dad won’t move unless his team is with him.

“First time here. Need to make sure it’s safe,” Dad explains to me, his eyes so piercing as if he’s trying to figure out if I’m his daughter or a doppelgänger.

I smile. “Archer got you a nice villa.”

“I cannot stay at your place?”

“Dad!” I blush. “I have a studio bungalow.”

“Right. Only Mr. Levi is allowed there.”

I blush even more.

He tilts his head and rubs my shoulder with his palm. “It is all right. I will survive.”

“But I made you your favorite food.”

He smiles, his eyes roaming my face. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

“That means you are happy to see me?” There’s that need for praise.

“Very. I missed you.”

“All two years?”

“Dad,” I scold him for constantly reminding me.

He pulls me against him. “Eh, rebionak, I gde ty etamu nauchilas’?” He asks me where I learned that. Hiding, I assume?

“You, Dad. I was a good student.”

He chuckles, still barely having said a word to Archer or his team standing a little ways from us in awkward silence.

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