Dim, can you believe what happened at the restaurant today?» Elena burst into the apartment, kicking off her shoes as she moved. «A French critic showed up unannounced. I thought my heart would stop when the manager ran into the kitchen with the news.»
«And how did it go?» Dmitry looked up from his tablet, setting aside his stylus. An unfinished sketch of a children’s illustration—a ginger kitten with an incomplete tail—remained on the screen.
«Wonderfully!» Lena flopped down next to her husband on the couch, tucking her legs under her. «He ordered our signature salmon with wild garlic and celeriac puree. You know, I made a point of coming out to the dining room when he was finishing. Dim, he asked for seconds! Can you believe it? A French critic asked for seconds!»
Dmitry laughed, looking at his wife’s flushed face. Her eyes sparkled, and her hands gestured so animatedly that she nearly knocked over a cup of unfinished coffee on the coffee table.
«Lena, I’m so proud of you,» he pulled her close, kissing her on the crown of her head. «You’re the best chef in the world.»
«That’s an exaggeration,» she playfully nudged him. «But today, I really outdid myself. The restaurant owner said that if the critic writes a good review, I might get a promotion. Can you imagine?»
«Of course, I can. My wife is a true talent,» Dmitry reached for his tablet again. «By the way, what do you think of the kitten for the new book? The publisher is rushing me for the illustrations.»
Elena peered at the screen.
«I think the tail should be a bit longer. And maybe add some stripes? Kids love striped kittens.»
«Exactly!» Dmitry picked up the stylus again. «I knew something was missing.»
They spent the evening that way—Lena talking about her restaurant days, Dmitry showing her new sketches. Outside, it slowly darkened; the tea brewed an hour ago in the kitchen cooled, and they kept talking, just like in the early days of their acquaintance.
A week later, Elena decided to surprise her husband. The day turned out to be unexpectedly calm—no sudden critics, no finicky customers, or burnt sauces. She finished her shift early and, leaving the restaurant, headed straight to Dmitry’s favorite sushi bar.
«Hello! I’d like the ‘Emperor’ set and a bottle of sake, please,» she smiled at the familiar seller.
«Oh, Elena Andreevna! We haven’t seen you for a while,» the elderly Japanese man bowed. «How is your husband? Still drawing?»
«Yes, Hiro-san, he doesn’t stop for a minute. I want to make him happy.»
«We’ll prepare it right away. Just a moment.»
As the order was being packed, Lena imagined how Dmitry would be delighted. He had been somewhat pensive lately, spending long periods at the computer, probably searching for a new order. When he was engrossed in work, he could forget to eat.
The sun warmed unusually for autumn. It was a rare October, as if summer had returned to say goodbye. Yellow maples danced along the way, and Lena involuntarily smiled, remembering that day at the gallery. Three years had passed, but she still remembered every detail of their first kiss in the old park after Dmitry’s exhibition. The weather had been just like today—nature itself seemed to bless their meeting.
Lena smiled at the memory. Then he had accidentally stained her white blouse with watercolor, so embarrassed and apologetic that she couldn’t resist and kissed him herself—just to make him stop worrying. And six months later, they were married.
Approaching the house, she heard her husband’s voice. He was talking on the phone, standing at the entrance:
«Yes, yes, at seven o’clock,» his voice carried barely contained excitement. «I just can’t wait for the meeting! You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.»
Elena froze around the corner of the house. Her heart raced.
«No, no, the wife has no clue,» Dmitry continued.
Lena felt the sushi bag grow unbearably heavy. Who was he arranging to meet? Why keep it from her?
«Great. See you then!» Dmitry finished the call and disappeared into the entrance.
Elena stood around the corner for a few more minutes, trying to gather her thoughts. Fragments of the phone conversation swirled in her head. «Can’t wait for the meeting,» «wife has no clue»… What did all this mean?
Slowly ascending to her floor, Elena stopped in front of the apartment door. Her hand with the keys froze in mid-air. Maybe she misunderstood everything? Dmitry couldn’t… No, not him.
When she entered the apartment, her husband was at the computer, hastily closing some tabs.
«Lena! You’re early today,» he stood up to meet her. «What’s that?»
«Sushi. I wanted to surprise you,» her voice sounded hollow.
«What’s wrong? Did something happen at the restaurant?»
Elena placed the bags on the kitchen table. Dozens of questions swirled in her head, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask them. She looked at her husband—so familiar, so beloved—and couldn’t believe what was happening.
«Dim,» she finally managed. «I heard your conversation near the entrance.»
Dmitry froze halfway to the fridge.
«What conversation?»
«On the phone. About the meeting at seven o’clock.»
He slowly turned to her. Something akin to fear flickered across his face.
«Oh, that… Lena, you misunderstood.»
«How was I supposed to understand?» her voice trembled. «‘Can’t wait for the meeting,’ ‘wife has no clue’… Dim, what’s going on?»
He stepped toward her, but she stepped back.
«Lena, listen…»
«Who are you meeting with?» she interrupted. «Don’t tell me it’s a work meeting. I heard your voice. You were… happy.»
Dmitry ran his hand through his hair—a gesture that appeared in moments of anxiety. Elena remembered how he had ruffled his hair on the day they first met, trying to rub the paint off her blouse.
«Yes, I did arrange a meeting,» he began. «But it’s not what you think.»
«What am I supposed to think?» she sat down, feeling an odd emptiness inside. «Remember how we met? You said you stained my blouse because you were distracted and forgot you had a brush in your hand. And I believed you. I always believed you.»
«And you can believe now!» he knelt before her, trying to meet her eyes. «Lena, dear, I would never…»
A phone call interrupted him. Dmitry cursed, looking at the screen.
«I have to answer this.»
«Of course,» she bitterly smiled. «I won’t interfere.»
He stepped into another room, but his voice was still audible:
«Hello? Yes, I remember the meeting… No, not a good time right now… What? Only today? But…»
Elena sat, mechanically fiddling with the sushi sticks. Memories of their life together flashed through her mind—like someone flipping through a photo album. Here was Dmitry giving her a bouquet of sunflowers on her birthday. Here they were walking through the evening city, sharing one umbrella. Here he was bringing her coffee in bed after a night shift at the restaurant…
Could she have been wrong all these years? Maybe she was doing something wrong? She had indeed been working a lot lately, often coming home late, tired… But it was all for their future together! After the promotion, they could afford more—perhaps even their own pastry shop, which they had dreamed of so much.
Dmitry’s voice came from the room again:
«Okay, I’ll come. Yes, in half an hour. Thanks for waiting.»
Elena stood up. Her legs felt wobbly.
«Lena,» Dmitry returned to the kitchen. «I need to leave. It’s very important.»
«More important than our conversation?»
«You don’t understand…»
«Where are you going?» she looked him in the eyes. «Tell me the truth, I have the right to know.»
He hesitated, shifting from foot to foot.
«I… I can’t tell you. Not yet. But I swear, it’s not what you think.»
«You know what?» she began to pack her bag. «Go ahead. And I think I’ll go to my mother’s. I need to think.»
«Lena, wait!» he grabbed her hand. «Come with me.»
«What?»
«Come with us. You’ll see for yourself.»
They rode in silence. The taxi driver confidently navigated the city streets. The streets in the twilight seemed unfamiliar, blurred by raindrops. Lena leaned her forehead against the cold glass, peering at the passing signs, trying to understand the route. Dmitry fidgeted in the adjacent seat, clearly nervous—she felt his anxious glances but stubbornly remained silent. A thick silence hung in the cabin, broken only by the rustle of the wipers across the wet glass.
The taxi stopped near an old house in the city center. Here were small antique shops and second-hand bookstores—Lena often passed by but never entered.
«We’re here,» Dmitry paid the taxi driver. «Let’s go.»
He led her to an inconspicuous door with a faded sign reading «Mikhail Petrovich’s Bookshop.» Inside, it smelled of old books and wood. High shelves reached to the ceiling, and dim lamps burned between them, creating an atmosphere of mystery.
«Good evening!» A gray-haired man in glasses rose from behind the counter. «Ah, Dmitry! You’re on time. And your wife is with you?»
«Yes, Mikhail Petrovich. Meet Lena.»
«Very nice to meet you!» The old man beamed. «Dmitry has told me so much about you. Wait a moment.»
He disappeared into a back room, and Elena looked at her husband puzzled:
«Dim, what’s happening?»
«You’ll see.»
Mikhail Petrovich returned, carefully carrying something wrapped in velvet fabric.
«Here it is,» he placed the bundle on the counter and carefully unwrapped the fabric.
On the counter lay a book—large, in dark leather, worn by time. Lena froze, examining the antique letters on the cover. Each swirl, each bend of the font formed such familiar words: «The Cookbook of Countess M.A. Tolstoy, 1891.»
She wanted to say something, but her voice wouldn’t obey. Her fingers involuntarily reached for the binding.
«Recognize it?» Dim looked at her with shining eyes. «Remember your stories? About your great-grandmother who worked for the Tolstoys? How she remembered this book—the personal, cherished cookbook of the countess herself, where she collected recipes from all over Russia?»
«I remember,» Lena whispered. «Great-grandmother said it contained unique recipes. But during the revolution, the book disappeared.»
«Not quite,» the old man winked. «It was kept in a private collection. And a month ago, I saw an ad for its sale. Dmitry has been coming here for several weeks, negotiating…»
«I stumbled upon the ad by chance,» Dmitry interrupted. «I wanted to surprise you. I know how much family stories mean to you.»
Lena cautiously ran her fingers over the ancient binding. She opened the book—the yellowed pages were filled with elegant handwriting, with notes in the margins.
«I’ve been looking for a similar book for almost a year,» Dmitry continued. «And then suddenly, this very one… I couldn’t miss such a chance.»
«So you arranged the meeting for this?» she asked quietly. «That’s why you were so excited?»
«Of course! Mikhail Petrovich said if we didn’t pick it up today, another buyer would come tomorrow. And I wanted to give it to you for the anniversary of our first meeting. Remember, it’s in two weeks?»
Lena felt tears welling up.
«You fool, Dim,» she buried her face in his shoulder. «And I made up all these things…»
«What did you make up?» he hugged her. «Did you really think I…»
«Sorry. Just that phone conversation…»
«Ah, you silly,» he kissed her on the crown of her head. «How could you think? I can’t be without you.»
Mikhail Petrovich discreetly coughed:
«I’ll put on some tea. Let’s celebrate such an occasion?»
They stayed in the bookstore until closing. The old bookseller told amazing stories about rare books, Elena flipped through the cookbook, exclaiming, «Oh, I know this recipe! Great-grandma passed it to grandma, and she – to mom…»
They walked home despite the rain. Dmitry carried the book under his jacket to keep it from getting wet. Lena held his arm, pressing her cheek to his shoulder.
«You know,» she said as they climbed the stairs to their apartment, «the sushi probably got completely cold.»
«That’s alright,» he smiled. «Now we have vintage recipes. Will you cook from them?»
«Definitely!» she took out the keys. «Imagine, there’s even a recipe for a pie that was specially made for Leo Tolstoy. And also…»
Dmitry listened as his wife excitedly talked about the treasures found in the book, thinking he had never found a better use for his savings. For such joy in her eyes, he could sell even his beloved graphic tablet.
«How about we cook something right now?» Lena suddenly suggested, turning on the light in the apartment. «Right from this book?»
«Now?» he glanced at the clock. «It’s already ten o’clock!»
«So what? It’ll be our first recipe from it. Do you think we can replicate something that was cooked over a hundred years ago?»
«With you – anything is possible,» he pulled her close. «You’re my magician.»
And so they stood in the hallway—she with the recipe book, he, hugging her shoulders, and the cooled sushi in the kitchen. And outside, a warm autumn rain fell, just like that day three years ago when a clumsy artist accidentally stained the blouse of the future chef with watercolor.
The next morning, Elena woke up to the smell of coffee. In the kitchen, breakfast awaited her, and next to the cup lay a note written in a familiar hand: «I love you. And I will always love you. And tonight, I’m waiting for a special dinner according to an old recipe. Your clumsy artist