Becoming Rain: A Novel

The bell over the door rings as Rain disappears around the corner.

“Beautiful girl,” Dmitri notes, his brows arching in question.

“She is.”

“That thing,” he nods at Stanley, still tucked under my arm, his bulging eyes somehow bigger, “is not.”

I chuckle, giving Stanley’s head a rub and earning a snort in return. “He’s not so bad.”

“You always were a sucker for the ugly dogs,” he murmurs, moving to wash his hands. “Thank God you don’t pick your girls like you pick your dogs.” A long pause. “She’s not our people, Luka.”

She’s not Russian. My deda always told me to stick with “our people.” Old-school thinking. It obviously made an impact on Rust, given the vast majority of people he does business with are Russian. I suspect the people he does the illegal kind with are all Russian.

Me . . . I’m much more open-minded. “I just met her, Dmitri.”

“And yet you’re shopping for meat with her.”

I can’t help the chuckle. “It’s not a ring.” Not that Dmitri ever would have bought his wife an engagement ring.

“Well, hopefully you will be settling down with someone and soon. Don’t be like that uncle of yours,” he mutters. “Sometimes I wonder about him . . .”

All these guys wonder about Rust. Why doesn’t he settle down and get himself a wife? They’ve all got one—women to parade around, cook their meals, and wash their clothes. Basically, to mother them.

“Tell me what this business with Nikolai is about.” No more time for relationship talk. It’s Saturday. We have a small window of time before the next customer comes in. Perhaps only minutes.

Dmitri pauses, eyeing me. I’m sure he still sees me as the fat little kid who came in here every Saturday, stealing pieces of ham and shoveling them into my cheeks when no one was looking. “We need to sell a car. Stefan . . .” His voice drifts off with a sigh, the displeasure in his face evident.

I don’t have to ask what he means. His grandson, Stefan, a fucking pothead and disgrace to Dmitri’s family, must have gone out and stolen a car. He’s a few years younger than me. I knew early on that he was short half a deck of cards. He has a penchant for theft and has caused Dmitri and his son, Nikolai, problems in the past.

“Hard to sell?”

A severe gaze levels me. “Likely impossible in America. Too risky. I was hoping Rust could help us get rid of it.”

I ask what Rust is going to ask. “You can’t just wipe it clean and ditch it?”

“What is that saying? When you are given lemons, you make lemonade.” Dmitri shrugs. “I could use some lemonade.”

“Right.” Too much money to just ditch, I gather. The bell announces an elderly couple and the end to our conversation. “I’ll talk to Rust. We’ll sort this out for you, I promise.”

He places his hand over his chest and then holds it outward. A sign of respect and love. Something my deda and he used to do when saying goodbye. My heart instantly warms.

“Talk to you soon.” I wave the package of meat at him on my way out the door.

And walk right into Rain.