He stood and walked over to the box his driver had carried in, bringing out objects. A big silver thermos, a brightly colored ceramic teapot, a silver flask, a jar of something that looked like jam, and two glasses with silver handles.

His movements were awkward and slow, but he was in no hurry. She marveled at how well he had learned to deal with the disability of his hands.

“I wanted to bring you a samovar, my dear.” His voice was calm as he worked. “I have a perfect one for you. Solid sterling, late nineteenth century. They say it was used by Tolstoy himself, though there is no documentation. I didn’t bring it this time, but I will. It will be my gift to you.”

Charity sat passively, tears drying on her face, watching Vassily. She loved listening to him, to his low calm voice with its faint trace of a Russian accent. His English was careful, precise. She’d heard that he spoke perfect French and German, as well.

Vassily opened a big thermos bottle with a special loop that allowed his shattered hands to unscrew the top. He shook dark loose tea leaves from a special paper packet into the teapot and poured boiling water from the thermos over it.

Instantly, the room was filled with the scent of fragrant tea steeping.

“In Russia, we often use several teapots at once, stacked one above the other. Like samovars, they keep the tea warm for a very long time. But the tea becomes very strong.” He slanted her a glance. Charity knew he was seeing a pale, shaky woman, barely able to stand upright. “Perhaps too strong for you, right now.” He took out the two glasses with silver holders. They had an elegant look, with some intricate design etched into the glass. “Believe it or not, these podstakanniki, these tea glasses, once belonged to Czar Nicholas. They are part of a set he had commissioned for himself and his wife. I find it amusing to drink out of the czar’s glasses and reflect upon destiny.”

A faint smile creased his thin lips as he spooned what looked like a red berry jam into the glasses. “Russians rarely sugar their tea. They use either honey or berry jam. This was made by my housekeeper. Vermont jam, to go with Russian tea.” He slanted her a cool glance. “A fusion of our two worlds, my dear.”

Charity sat up straight, trying to stiffen her spine, drying her eyes with the heels of her hands, depleted and wishing she were alone.

How awful, how ungrateful to wish Vassily were gone, when he was being so kind. All winter, Charity had cherished every moment she’d spent with the great man, afterward reliving their conversations over and over again in her head.

She dutifully read every book he ever recommended to her or even mentioned. She bought the CD of every piece of music ever played at his musical soirées. She’d read everything he’d ever written, time and again. She’d steeped herself in Russian literature and the tragic history of the Gulag.

Vassily had appeared in their remote little hamlet like a shooting star, sending sparklers of heat and light into her life, illuminating all the dark corners of their provincial corner of the world. No one knew why he’d chosen Parker’s Ridge. Charity herself had no idea, nor had Vassily ever spoken of it. He’d just appeared one day, having purchased by means of an intermediary the old McMurton mansion.

By the same token, Vassily could suddenly decide to pull up stakes and move to a more accessible and sophisticated part of the world at any moment, once he got bored with Parker’s Ridge’s limited offerings. So Charity knew that her time with Vassily was of necessity limited. He was being very kind to her. She must put her grief aside and be polite back.

But oh, how she longed for her solitude right now. To be alone with her grief, not have to struggle for composure or make polite conversation.

He poured a clear liquid into their tea glasses. A generous portion each. Charity could smell the alcohol from across the room and her empty stomach clenched tightly in protest. “Vodka,” he murmured, the word pure Russian. Vuodkya. “Sometimes a man’s only solace. A true friend that never betrays you.”

“Vassily,” she murmured. “Not quite so much in my tea, please.” Like many Russians, Vassily drank on an industrial scale. However much he imbibed, though, she’d never seen him drunk.

“My dear,” he replied, his voice amused. “Just the merest few drops. Normally, I drink tea that is one-third vodka. We call it ‘sailor’s tea’ and it has gotten me through many a dark night. Here.” He held out one beautiful glass by its silver handle. “And I don’t want to hear any nonsense about not being able to drink it. You need warm liquids, alcohol, and some food. In that order. My cook prepared you some dishes and you’ll find them at the bottom of the box. They’re still warm. I want you to promise me you’ll eat them.”

The idea of food made her whole body seize up, squeezing her insides upward. She was motionless for a moment, willing her stomach to make the journey back down her throat.

“Charity, my dear, come.” Vassily sat down next to her, close enough for his arms and thighs to press against hers. He tapped her glass, which she still hadn’t touched. “Step number one. Drink your tea.” A finger under her glass, lifting. She had to bring the glass to her mouth or risk spilling it all over her lap. “That’s it,” Vassily crooned. “Very good.”

Charity drank half of it, slowly, trying to ignore the strong smells carried up by the steam. The hot liquid and alcohol burned their way down to her stomach.

Vassily had already emptied his glass and poured himself straight vodka now. “I listened to Vivaldi’s Opus 11 last night, all the way through. So touching, so heartfelt. I was thinking that perhaps I would choose that for another one of my soirées. Perhaps I could call in the De Clercq Quartet. I met their manager in Paris, a highly intelligent and cosmopolitan man. He said the quartet would be in the New England area before Christmas, so they might be free for an evening. I imagine you’d enjoy that.”

“I imagine I would,” she murmured. He lifted his hand to tuck a curl behind her ear and she cringed inwardly. She hadn’t combed her hair this morning. Hadn’t even thought of it.

“Excellent. If it pleases you, I’ll speak with their manager tomorrow. I’ll make it worth their while.”

This was amazing. The De Clercq Quartet was world famous. They commanded top prices and could fill concert halls. Vassily had casually said he would hire them for a concert for only thirty people, just to please her.

“Finish your tea now, my dear.” She did, hoping her stomach would behave. He was watching her closely, with almost a feverish look in his eyes.

She sat still, consulting her insides, hoping she could keep everything down.

She could. Actually, it was the first time she felt warm since the terrible news. She’d forgotten about even the concept of warmth.

Vassily laid a hand on her knee and tightened his poor, scarred fingers. He was hurting her, just a little, his grip was so tight. But Charity didn’t have the nerve to say anything. It wasn’t his fault—he couldn’t gauge the strength of his grasp. God only knew how much feeling he had left in his hands.

Charity looked up and met Vassily’s eyes. Such a clear, pale blue, like a chilly spring sky. He was watching her unblinkingly, intently. “Well?” he asked again. “Feeling better?”

She drummed up a smile. She actually had to remind herself how to do it. Lift muscles around edges of mouth, show teeth.

She had another quick consult with her stomach. Yes, everything was going to remain safely inside her and not decorate Vassily’s coat, at least not any time soon. So she wasn’t going to humiliate herself. Not in the next ten minutes, anyway. Upchucking all over one of the world’s greatest writers was not something she wanted to do.