Russian Winter by Daphne Kalotay

responding to her own mother in English. And so in these past years not only Grandma Riitta but an entire language had been lost to Drew.
    Looking up from the garnet ring, Drew again read to herself. “Backdrop: History and Circumstance behind the Jewels.” That at least had a nice ring to it.
    The way Nina Revskaya had denied, so vehemently, that the amber pendant might be hers, not to mention the fact that she and Grigori Solodin apparently did not speak to each other. Or acted as if they did not. Drew wondered what the connection between them might be—or rather, between those three amber pieces. With enough research, and some luck, she supposed, she might be able to figure it out.
    Buoyed by the thought, Drew placed her fingers on the keyboard and began to type. “Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend, but in the case of Nina Revskaya”
    Drew paused, waiting for inspiration…and pressed delete.
     
    I T HAD SNOWED again, five more inches. That morning’s radio played a clip of Mayor Menino saying that though it was not yet February, Boston’s entire annual snow-removal budget had already been spent. As for today’s weather—the newscaster announced oddly gleefully—the high would be just two degrees, with a wind-chill factor of ten below.
    Americans, always needing to know the exact temperature before deciding how hot or cold to feel. Grigori would have said it aloud;entering the kitchen he felt—ridiculously, embarrassingly—the familiar disappointment of not finding Christine there sipping her decaffeinated coffee, simultaneously grading a batch of ESL exams and eating a portion of yogurt. She had been one of those people who woke easily and immediately, never needed time to warm to morning, to rub sleep from her eyes.
    He poured himself a glass of tomato juice, took a cold gulp, and went to fetch the paper from the front step. Atop a narrow sidebar on the front page was a headline: “Intrigue at Auction House,” and in smaller print, “Mystery Donor Brings Rare Gem, Increased Interest.”
    In his mind he heard Christine, so clearly: I can’t help but dislike her .
    “Well, now,” Grigori had always said, whenever the topic of Nina Revskaya came up, “let’s not be too hard on her.” His instinct was always one of defense. He knew it took restraint for Christine not to simply do something about it herself. That was the main reason he had hesitated, all those years ago, when he first chose to confide in her about Nina Revskaya. Not lack of trust, or shyness, or embarrassment, so much as the knowledge that a woman like Christine would never be able to sit back and let things continue unresolved. A can-do, glass-half-full optimist, she had majored in education—that most idealistic of professions—and was considering a master’s in social work. At first Grigori told Christine only the substantiated facts, about his parents, about being an only child, adopted, growing up in Russia, then Norway, then France, and the final leap, in his late teens, to America. When he finally told her, back when he was twenty-five, after they had been together for a full six months, about the ballerina Revskaya, he first made Christine swear to him that she would not intervene, would not take any action, would let Grigori deal with things on his own, in his own way.
    Not to mention the fact that you’re the only person who evertook the time to translate Elsin’s poems into English. And got them published. I don’t see how she could be so apathetic about her own husband’s legacy .
    Ah, Chrissie—my advocate, I miss you.
    Not so much as a thank-you …
    That his curiosity about Nina Revskaya’s life with her husband had transmutated into Grigori’s topic of scholarly expertise—the poetry of Viktor Elsin—was one of those rare happy outcomes born of personal obsession. Whenever the topic of Nina Revskaya’s reticence arose (not just with Christine, who knew the full story, but with anyone who inquired about