For The One(36)

A flash of a memory invaded my thoughts. The night I’d met her it had been the homecoming dance of my freshman year in high school. My third date with Brock. He’d brought me over to the house to take photos and meet his parents, and they’d been so thrilled that he was dating a girl from “the old country.”

I reflected on that night as I spent twice the amount of time that I normally did on my hair and make-up. I pulled my hair back into a French braid and tied it with an embroidered ribbon that Caitlyn had given me at the last regional market. She’d been so happy to hear that I’d agreed to travel with the Ren Faire as their fortune card reader that she’d given me the ribbon to celebrate.

Helena arrived on time, and I was waiting at the curb for her…in the exact same spot where William had picked me up the night before. He’d probably be both shocked and thrilled at my punctuality. I smiled at the thought.

Helena, as always, looked perfect. A forty-nine-year-old woman who looked at least a decade—possibly two—younger than her actual age, she had dark hair and olive skin, and she always reminded me of a sophisticated movie actress from the eighties.

She had high cheekbones and an elegantly constructed face, with a neck like a swan and a beautiful figure. The clothes she wore were expensive but understated, and she attracted admiring looks wherever she went.

There was no doubt she’d passed her beauty on to her son. With his dark curly hair and deep blue eyes, he’d been the most handsome boy at our high school. And he’d picked me. Or rather, he’d listened when the Fates had picked us out for each other.

“Janja!” As always, Helena greeted me by kissing me on both cheeks, keeping alive old country traditions. Like me, Helena had been born in the former Yugoslavia. Unlike me, Helena was ethnically a Serb, while I was Bosnian-Croatian. But we’d met here, in California, and now she and her husband were like family.

Neither of us had found a Balkan-style restaurant in the area that satisfied our cravings for our native homeland, so this afternoon she took me to one of the trendy bistros in downtown Fullerton.

“How is Vuk?” I asked as we were handed our menus and served ice water. “Is he feeling better?”

“This last scare has really changed him,” she said, speaking of her husband’s recent diabetes diagnosis. “We exercise together every day, and he’s finally watching what he eats. Did I tell you we are going to Belgrade in June to see his mom? He wants to lose weight before she sees him.”

“Oh, I’m so happy for you. I just found out that Maja is getting married in June.”

Her fork paused on the way to her mouth and she looked up, brows raised. “Where? In Sarajevo?”

I nodded.

“When? Maybe we can fly out together. Vuk and I don’t have our plane tickets yet.”

I poked around my salad for a while and cleared my throat as I tried to figure out how to change the subject. I had no desire to go there with her, yet it was my fault for bringing it up in the first place.

“Early June, I think.”

“Are you going out early?”

More silence and salad picking from me.

“Janja…”

I sighed and looked away. “I don’t really have the money to buy a ticket right now. I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to do it.”

“It’s simple. You come with Vuk and me to Belgrade, and then take the bus to Sarajevo to be with your family.”

I suppressed a smile. “Thanks. I’ll see what I can do.”

“No, there is no seeing. Vuk has loads of air miles from all the business traveling he does. It will cost us nothing to get another ticket.”

I was almost speechless with gratitude. This was so generous of her to offer, but it was in no way out of character. I only ached at the thought of sitting next to her on that plane with no tiara on my lap.

I had to get it back. There was no way I could show up to the wedding empty-handed. Disappointing Maja would be just like the time I’d disappointed Mama all those years ago.

We finished our meal, and I was using a piece of my roll to sop up the gravy from the plate. Helena teased me about my old world manners and I laughed, blaming her son for the habit.

Our smiles faded just a little bit at the mention of the ghost between us. Without looking at her, I reached for my goblet of ice water. “I can’t believe that next week it’ll be seven years…”

Helena’s elegant dark brows were untroubled, but I could read the pain in the back of her blue eyes. That unique, sharp pain that, I imagined, could only be truly understood by other parents cursed with the most horrible of fates—to have outlived their child. But Helena was no mythical Queen Niobe, who wept unceasingly for her lost children. Helena, in fact, was the picture of dignified strength. I admired her greatly for that—among other things.