Page 23 of Nurse for the Russian Mafia

We park and then take over a large portion of the beach, the sun gleaming down magnificently. “Prima, start handing out some suntan lotion, okay?” I tell my oldest daughter. “I know what some of these little ones are like. They’ll run around all day and not even realize how hot it is, and then complain to us when they’re burnt to a crisp!”

My daughter snaps off a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am!” she laughs.

I roll my eyes. “And Max,” I say, addressing my youngest son, who’s twenty-four.

He glances over to me with his father’s green eyes. He’s a tall, strong man. “Yeah, Mom?”

“I’m giving you the task of trying to persuade your father not to swim out where the current is too strong.”

“Pfft,” Max says, shaking his head. “Are you kidding me? The last time we went swimming in the ocean, Dad was outpacing everyone. He even gave me a run for my money.”

Alexander swaggers over in his swim trunks, his chest lined with muscles that his wrinkles and chest-hairs only make seem all the more impressive. He ruffles Max’s hair and then winks at me. “See, my queen, I know how much our little prince here hates when I do that.” He ruffles it again.

“What a cruel man you are,” I laugh.

But it’s all in good fun.

Soon, Max and Alexander are play-fighting in the sand, and three of our grandchildren pile on. I start laying out beach towels and umbrellas. My oldest son, Edgar, carries over five deckchairs on his shoulders.

I sit down in one and look over the beach, the glittering sea where a few more of my grandchildren are wading into the water. With all our spouses and friends, there must be at least a hundred of us here.

“Mom, are you okay?” Katy, my daughter, asks as she sits down next to me. She’s plus-size, like me, and looks wonderful in her curvy swimsuit.

“Yes,” I mutter. “It’s just, your father bought me this swimsuit, and I’m wearing it. But …” I gesture at the kaftan I have over it. “Who wants to see a wrinkled old prune like me on the beach?”

“You’ve got that right!” somebody laughs, as they stroll past.

I glance over to see a group of five young men. They look like jocks, shot up on steroids, the biggest of them more than six feet with bloated muscles. I can tell he’s had some chemical help, but that doesn’t change the fact that as he glares, intimidation pricks me. His friends snigger behind him.

“Leave the modeling to younger women, why don’t you?”

I stare at him, climbing to my feet. I’m about to give him a piece of my mind when Alexander comes striding over. A small smile plays at his lips. As my husband has gotten older, none of his fire has waned, but he has matured into a calm sophistication that lets him choose when and where to display his wrath. Unfortunately for these jock douche-nozzles, I think he’s just made his choice.

“Gentleman,” Alexander says, regarding them one by one. “Are you bothering my queen?”

“Your … what?” the ringleader laughs. He has cruel eyes. He reminds me of that boy, Dirk, who used to bully me in high school. “Have you looked at her lately, old man? She’s hardly a queen.”

Alexander sighs. “Apologize.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Tell my queen how sorry you are, now.”

“You know what?” the ass-hat snaps. “I think I’d rather kick your ass Grandpa.”

He swings wildly at Alexander, two of his friends leaping forward as well. They’re all wide-eyed and look manic, as though they’re on something. Their expressions warp with shock when Alexander slides easily away, spinning around them and delivering swift hooks to their bodies. He moves with the power of age and certainty, and with the speed of a life well-lived.

“What about you?” Alexander snarls, turning to the two who haven’t engaged yet. “Want to get in on the action?” They shake their heads. Alexander waves at the other end of the beach. “Get lost, then.”

He turns back to the other men, who are all wheezing and choking from the force of my husband’s punches. “What do you think, my queen? Shall we let them go?”

“They’re just silly, pathetic little boys,” I say airily, as Alexander and I share an intimate look. Age really is just a number. “They’ll learn to be good men, one day. I’m sure by their, oh, forty-second birthday they might even be men worth noticing.”

Alexander laughs and steps back, glaring at the men. “You heard the lady. Scram.”

They run away, clutching their sides. “Jesus, I’ve never been hit like that,” one of them wheezes.

Alexander walks over to me, a smile playing on his lips. “Now tell me, beautiful, why aren’t you wearing that swimsuit I bought for you?”

I bite my lip, shaking my head. “It’s just, I’m so old and-”

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