Page 68 of Eyes in the Shadows

Eleanor

Am I the only one who deserves to live in spite of what I stumbled into?

Wesley told me to go wild when I placed the auxiliary grocery order and wouldn’t let me pay him back. But going wild is exactly what I don’t want to be accused of when spending someone else’s money. And not having to count pennies feels like a luxury I can’t trust. So, I tried to be reasonable—only add what we needed. Butter, white wine vinegar, shallots, that kind of thing.

Only to find that Wesley must have added one of every kind of junk food in the store after I left the office.

“You don’t know how hard it’s been,” he says at the look I give him as he gathers all his contraband into his arms. “I’m a growing boy and Dimitri won’t let me have crisps!”

I snort at that. A growing boy? That, there, is a man grown. “Want me to try to make, like, a gourmet nacho cheese corn chip?”

With a gentle shake of his head, he tears open the bag of the real thing. “As much as I appreciate the offer, just let me have my refined sugar and preservatives.”

“Fine, but if he finds out and he thinks it’s my fault because I’m the one that wanted to place the order, I’m going to rat you out so fast…”

He squints, then hands me a Dorito with a grave expression, “For your silence.”

I take it with a laugh. Nothing crunches or turns your fingers orange quite like the real thing.

Once the groceries are put away, I check the time on the oven’s clock and decide to start on my surprise for Dimitri. I’d noticed for the past couple of days that he’s been leaving the house to relieve Mac’s watch duty at about 6 PM, and I know Ineed to give myself extra time when trying something for the first time. So, I get started.

The recipe preamble states that pelmeni are a classic Russian comfort dish. There’s not much subtlety to the ingredients—ground meat, grated onion, salt, flour, butter—they’re just simple things that taste good together. It feels wrong not to add a little something that I know will elevate it, though. So, I tweak a few things—I sauté the onions first, add nutmeg for depth, and grate in some lemon zest.

Assembling the Russian dumplings is easy, if time-consuming. It’s a lot like when I was on pasta duty, that year Chef Robert decided to serve house-made tortellini for restaurant week. The afternoon’s hours fly by with the repetitive work and I make a shit ton of pelmeni—they fill several bags that go straight into the freezer with a little prayer that he likes them.

I prepare a few servings’ worth and pack them into containers, finishing just before he comes into the kitchen. He’s in all black, even his beanie that covers his buzz cut. He has a black duffel that he sets on the island while he reaches into the fridge.

“Hey Dimitri,” I greet him, trying to be cool from my position at the stove. It’s stew for dinner tonight and it really doesn’t need constant stirring, but I’m nervous.

He nods at me; what I know now to be his version of a greeting.

“So, Mac told me that you took the night shift so we can have time together in the evenings. That was really sweet,” I say.

He grunts, more an acknowledgment that I spoke than a response to it.

I swallow. Time to go in for the kill… “Well, to show you my thanks, I made you something to bring with you tonight, in case you get hungry.” I turn and grab one of the containers from the counter. I hold out the Tupperware for him, trying not to let my face show the mixture of pride—they turned out good, for a first attempt—and anxious curiosity because he’s Russian and he actually knows what it should taste like.

“What is it?” he asks, somehow managing to be both dismissive and suspicious.

“Pelmeni. Am I saying that right?”

“Pelmeni?” he repeats, blinking. He takes the rectangular container and peels back the lid to give it a good sniff.

My breath is literally baited. “You’ll have to let me know if they’re right, or what I can do better next time. I’ve never tried to make them before, but I thought that you might like a taste of home—if you even like pelmeni, that is… oh, damn, I probably should have asked—”

He’s not even listening. He picks up a dumpling in his fingers, turns it around to examine it, and pops the whole thing into his mouth. Then, his eyes widen.

“Are they okay?”

“Where did you learn to make pelmeni?” he asks.

My breath whooshes out in relief. He didn’t exactly say he likes them, but his tone is one of pleasant surprise. “The internet. The recipe I found swore they were authentic.”

“Mybabushkamade the best,” he says vehemently. Then, he looks down and selects another and takes a bite. “These are… different. Not bad. For an American, you did well.”

I warm with the praise, however slight it is. It feels like a lot, though, considering the most I’ve gotten out of him so far is a weird appreciation for how sharp I keep my knives. “I know, fat girl who can cook. What a revelation, huh?”

Dimitri chews thoughtfully. “I understand this is a thing you say to criticize yourself. But in my family, we say that large women make good food and good lovers.” He looks down at the half-eaten dumpling. “These are good pelmeni.”

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