“Dima, can you imagine what happened at the restaurant today!”
Elena burst into the apartment, kicking off her shoes as she went.
“A French critic showed up—without warning. I thought I was going to have a heart attack 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 remained on the screen—a ginger kitten with an incomplete tail.
“Magnificently!” Lena flopped onto the couch next to her husband, curling her legs beneath her.
“He ordered the signature salmon with wild garlic and celery root purée. You know, I made sure to go out into the dining room while he was finishing. Dima, he asked for seconds! Can you believe that? A French critic asked for seconds!”
Dmitry laughed, watching his wife’s flushed face.
Her eyes sparkled, and she gestured so animatedly that she nearly knocked over a half-finished cup of coffee on the table.
“Lena, I’m so proud of you,” he pulled her into a hug and kissed the top of her head. “You’re the best chef in the world.”
“Oh, stop it,” she playfully nudged him. “But I really did outdo myself today. The restaurant owner said that if the critic writes a good review, I might get promoted. Can you imagine?”
“Of course I can. My wife’s a real talent,” Dmitry reached for his tablet again. “Here, by the way, what do you think of this kitten for the new book? The publisher’s pushing for the illustrations.”
Elena studied the screen carefully.
“I think the tail should be longer. And maybe add stripes? Kids love striped kittens.”
“Exactly!” Dmitry picked up the stylus again. “I knew something was missing.”
They stayed like that until evening—Lena sharing stories from her restaurant shifts, Dmitry showing his latest sketches.
Outside, it slowly grew dark, the tea brewed an hour earlier sat cooling in the kitchen, and they kept talking and talking, just like in the early days of their relationship.
A week later, Elena decided to surprise her husband.
The day had been surprisingly calm—no unexpected critics, picky customers, or burned sauces.
She finished her shift earlier than usual and, upon leaving the restaurant, headed straight to Dima’s favorite sushi bar.
“Hello! I’d like the ‘Emperor’ set and a bottle of sake, please,” she smiled at the familiar vendor.
“Oh, Elena Andreevna! Long time no see,” the elderly Japanese man bowed. “How is your husband? Still drawing?”
“Yes, Hiro-san, nonstop. I want to make him happy.”
“We’ll prepare it right away. Please wait a moment.”
While the order was being packed, Lena imagined how delighted Dima would be.
Lately, he had seemed distracted, spending long hours on the computer, searching for something.
Probably a new project. When he got deep into his work, he often forgot to eat.
The sun was surprisingly warm for autumn. This kind of October was rare—it felt like summer had returned to say goodbye.
Golden maples danced along the sidewalk, and Lena smiled to herself, remembering that day at the gallery.
Three years had passed, but she still recalled every detail of their first kiss in the old park after Dima’s exhibition.
The weather had been the same—as if nature itself had blessed their meeting.
Lena smiled at the memory.
That day, he had accidentally stained her white blouse with watercolor, and was so embarrassed and apologetic that she kissed him just to make him stop worrying.
Six months later, they were married.
As she neared their building, she heard her husband’s voice. He was on the phone, standing by the entrance.
“Yes, yes, seven o’clock,” his voice held barely concealed excitement. “I just can’t wait to see you! You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.”
Elena froze around the corner. Her heart began to race.
“No, no, my wife doesn’t suspect a thing,” Dmitry continued.
The sushi bag in her hand suddenly felt unbearably heavy. Who was he meeting? Why was he hiding it?
“Great. See you soon!” Dmitry ended the call and went inside.
Elena stood there for a few more minutes, trying to collect her thoughts.
His words kept echoing in her head. “Can’t wait to see you,” “my wife doesn’t suspect a thing”… What did it all mean?
She climbed the stairs slowly and stopped outside their apartment door.
Her hand hovered in the air, clutching the keys. Maybe she misunderstood? Dima couldn’t… No, not him.
When she walked in, her husband was at the computer, quickly closing tabs in his browser.
“Lena! You’re home early today,” he got up to greet her. “What’s that?”
“Sushi. I wanted to surprise you,” her voice came out flat.
“Why do you look like that? Did something happen at work?”
Elena set the bags on the kitchen table. Her mind was spinning with questions, but she couldn’t find the words to ask them.
She looked at her husband—so familiar, so beloved—and couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.
“Dima,” she finally said, “I heard your phone call by the entrance.”
Dmitry froze mid-step toward the fridge.
“What call?”
“On the phone. About a meeting at seven o’clock.”
He turned to her slowly. For a brief moment, fear flashed across his face.
“Oh, that… Lena, you’ve misunderstood.”
“How should I understand it?” Her voice trembled. “‘Can’t wait to see you,’ ‘my wife doesn’t suspect’… Dima, what’s going on?”
He stepped toward her, but she backed away.
“Lena, listen—”
“Who are you meeting?” she cut him off. “And don’t tell me it’s work-related. I heard your voice. You were… happy.”
Dmitry ran a hand through his hair—a gesture he always made when nervous.
Elena remembered him doing the same thing when they first met, trying to wipe watercolor off her blouse.
“Yes, I did schedule a meeting,” he began, “but it’s not what you think.”
“Then what should I think?” She sank into a chair, feeling hollow inside. “Remember how we met? You said you spilled paint on me because you were staring and forgot you had a brush in your hand. And I believed you. I always believed you.”
“You still can! I swear!” he dropped to his knees in front of her, trying to meet her eyes. “Lena, sweetheart, I would never—”
A phone call cut him off mid-sentence. He cursed softly, glancing at the screen.
“I have to answer this.”
“Of course,” she said bitterly. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt.”
He went into another room, but she could still hear his voice.
“Hello? Yes, yes, I remember. No, it’s not the best time… What? Only today? But…”
Elena sat there, mindlessly fidgeting with the chopsticks.
Memories of their life together floated through her mind like pages in a photo album.
Dima giving her sunflowers for her birthday.
Walking through the city under one umbrella.
Bringing her coffee in bed after a late-night shift at the restaurant…
Could she have been wrong all these years? Had she done something wrong?
Lately, she had been working a lot, coming home tired…
But it was all for their future! With the promotion, they could afford more—maybe even open the bakery they dreamed of.
Dima’s voice echoed again from the other room:
“Okay, I’ll come. Yes, I’ll be there in half an hour. Thanks for waiting.”
Elena stood up. Her legs felt like jelly.
“Lena,” Dmitry returned to the kitchen, “I have to go. It’s very important.”
“More important than our conversation?”
“You don’t understand—”
“Where are you going?” She looked him straight in the eye. “Tell me the truth. I have a right to know.”
He hesitated, shifting nervously.
“I… I can’t say. Not yet. But I swear, it’s not what you think.”
“You know what?” She began packing her bag. “Go. I think I’ll head to my mom’s. I need to think.”
“Lena, wait!” he grabbed her hand. “Come with me.”
“What?”
— Let’s go together. You’ll see for yourself.
They drove in silence. The taxi driver navigated the city streets with confidence.
In the twilight, the rain-speckled streets looked unfamiliar, blurred by the droplets.
Lena leaned her forehead against the cold window, watching the passing signs and trying to figure out the route.
Dima shifted in his seat, clearly nervous — she could feel his uneasy glances, but she stubbornly remained silent.
A heavy silence hung in the car, broken only by the swish of the windshield wipers across the wet glass.
The taxi stopped in front of an old building in the city center.
There were small antique shops and second-hand bookstores here — Lena often passed by but never went inside.
— We’re here, — Dmitry paid the driver. — Let’s go.
He led her to a modest door with a faded sign: “Mikhail Petrovich’s Bookshop.”
Inside, it smelled of old books and wood.
Tall bookshelves stretched up to the ceiling, dim lamps glowed between them, creating an air of mystery.
— Good evening! — a gray-haired man with glasses rose from behind the counter to greet them.
— Ah, Dmitry! Right on time. And your wife is with you?
— Yes, Mikhail Petrovich. Meet Lena.
— A pleasure! — the old man beamed. — Dmitry has told me so much about you. Just a moment.
He disappeared into the back room, and Elena gave her husband a puzzled look:
— Dima, what’s going on?
— You’ll see.
Mikhail Petrovich returned, carefully carrying something wrapped in velvet cloth.
— Here it is, — he placed the bundle on the counter and gently unwrapped it.
A book lay before them — massive, bound in dark leather, worn by time. Lena froze, examining the old-fashioned letters on the cover.
Every flourish, every curve of the font came together to form familiar words: “The Cookbook of Countess M.A. Tolstaya, 1891.”
She wanted to say something, but her voice wouldn’t come. Only her fingers instinctively reached for the binding.
— Do you recognize it? — Dima was watching her with shining eyes. — Remember your stories?
About your great-grandmother who worked for the Tolstoys? How she remembered this book — the personal, treasured cookbook of the countess herself, where she collected recipes from all over Russia?
— I remember, — Lena whispered. — Great-grandma 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 it listed for sale. Dmitry has been coming here for weeks, bargaining…
— I stumbled upon the ad by accident, — Dmitry interrupted.
— I wanted to surprise you. I know how much family history means to you.
Elena gently ran her fingers over the antique cover.
She opened the book — the yellowed pages were filled with elegant handwriting, with occasional notes in the margins.
— I’ve been searching for a book like this for almost a year, — Dima continued. — And then suddenly, it was the one… I couldn’t miss the chance.
— So that’s why you arranged this meeting? — she asked softly. — That’s why you were so anxious?
— Of course! Mikhail Petrovich said that if we didn’t pick it up today, someone else would come for it tomorrow. And I wanted to give it to you for the anniversary of our first date. Remember? It’s in two weeks.
Tears welled up in Lena’s eyes.
— You idiot, Dima, — she buried her face in his shoulder. — And I imagined the worst…
— What did you imagine? — he wrapped his arms around her. — Did you really think I…
— I’m sorry. It was just that phone call…
— Oh, you silly girl, — he kissed the top of her head. — How could you think that? I can’t be without you.
Mikhail Petrovich cleared his throat delicately:
— I think I’ll put the kettle on. We should celebrate this.
They stayed in the bookshop until closing. The old bookseller shared fascinating stories about rare books, and Elena flipped through the cookbook, exclaiming now and then, “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 dry. Lena held his arm, resting her cheek against his shoulder.
— You know, — she said as they climbed the stairs to their apartment, — the sushi is probably completely cold by now.
— That’s okay, — he smiled. — Now we have old recipes. Will you cook from them?
— Absolutely! — she took out the keys. — Can you believe it, there’s even a recipe for a pie they made especially for Lev Nikolaevich. And also…
Dmitry listened as his wife excitedly talked about the treasures she’d found in the book, and thought that he had never made a better use of his savings.
For joy like that in her eyes, he could’ve sold his favorite graphic tablet without a second thought.
— How about we cook something right now? — Lena suddenly suggested, turning on the lights in their apartment. — From this book?
— Now? — he glanced at the clock. — It’s already ten!
— So what? It’ll be our first recipe from it.
Think we can recreate something made more than a hundred years ago?
— With you — we can do anything, — he pulled her close. — You’re my magician.
And so they stood in the hallway — she with the recipe book, he with his arm around her shoulders, and the cold sushi waiting in the kitchen.
Outside, a warm autumn rain fell, just like it had three years ago when a clumsy artist accidentally spilled watercolor on the blouse of a future chef.
The next morning, Elena woke up to the smell of coffee.
In the kitchen, breakfast was waiting for her, and next to the cup was a note written in a familiar hand:
“I love you. And I always will.
Tonight I’m waiting for a special dinner — from an old recipe.
Yours, your clumsy artist.”
