Kicking the Can by Scott C. Glennie

housemaids.”
    The cobblestone pathway was lighted. It cut through lush greenery—orchids, palm trees, and other vegetation.The multistory, multi-winged structure could pass as a boutique hotel.
    “Welcome to our humble abode, Isle Airy,” Mohammad said. “There are six suites on the third floor—two to each wing. We have you staying on the fourth floor in the presidential suite. The second floor is kitchen, great room, and library. Conference rooms, a spa, and adjoining gymnasium, fitness room, and tennis courts are on the ground floor. We have both salt and freshwater pools.”
    It felt good to walk and stretch his legs.
    “I image you’re jet-lagged. Shall I wake Cala to prepare a meal, or do you wish to lie down?”
    “A shower and rest is what I need.”
    Mohammad led him through double doors. Drummond was embarrassed by the size and opulence of his accommodations.
    “Who owns this place?”
    “I’m not at liberty to say. He is a rich and powerful person. Good night, Mr. Drummond.”
    “Call me Chris.”
    “Very well, Mr. Drummond.”

34
    N atalya Baturina held out her hands, wrapping Drummond’s in a handshake, squeezing twice. She was of medium height and trim, with brown hair cut short at the neckline, longer wisps pulled forward in front of her ears framing her heart-shaped face. Her dark brown eyes were welcoming.
    “Hello. My name is Natalya Baturina.”
    “Chris Drummond…Pleased to meet you.”
    “Hungry? I’ve made a traditional Russian dinner for us this evening. Talking with Cala, they’ve thought of everything, right down to stocking the larder with foods from our homelands. It’ll give us a chance to visit before the rest of the team arrives. Besides, I find cooking is great therapy.”
    “Anything I can help with,” Drummond asked, as he sat down on a barstool behind a long, narrow counter overlooking the kitchen.
    Baturina turned and smiled. “No thanks, it’s my treat.” She was wearing a long linen dress that hugged her body, with slits cut to the top of her calves. Her shoulders were exposed, but the dress was not revealing.
    “I love to cook; it’s a hobby—but it’s always a chore to learn a new kitchen. This setup is amazing.”
    Drummond was glad he packed the clothing he had accumulated from Tommy Bahama. For dinner he chose a blue silk shirt, linen slacks, and his leather sandals.
    “On second thought, you can make me a gin and tonic. I already cut the lime—it’s on top of the counter next to the bar. Cala prepared iced tea if you’d prefer nonalcoholic.”
    Drummond squeezed a lime and dropped it into the tonic water. He filled another glass with ice and set both on coasters. She pulled the pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator and poured his glass.
    “Dinner’s in five minutes,” Baturina announced, turning spits of skewered meat and vegetables on the gas grill.
    “Cala set a table for us near the slider leading onto the deck so we can enjoy the panoramic views of the ocean and sunset.” Drummond walked to the table and sat down. Baturina finished arranging the serving dishes on the table.
    “This is called
Borshch
—beet soup,” Baturina said, pointing to the dish. “The reddish color is a symbol of Russia. I’ve prepared it with vegetables, and for this climate, a dollop of sour cream will be refreshing.
    “These crepe-looking things are called
Blini
—Russian pancakes. You roll them up. We have a variety of fillings: cheese, jam, onions, and my favorite,
Ikra
, which is caviar.
    “Russian kebabs are called
Shashlyk
. For dessert
Morozhenoe
—vanilla ice cream with chopped nuts.”
    Baturina sat down, putting her cloth napkin in her lap.
    “Bon appetite.”
    “This looks delicious.”
    Drummond spooned apricot jam onto a crepe and rolled it up. It felt good to be in conversation with another human. Lonesome during the airplane journey to the island, he missed Sarah and Barbara. When the contest was over and Drummond was back in Seattle