I nodded, and together we headed toward the door painted a deep, inviting blue. Through the inset of transparent glass, I could make out a charming rectangular sign, suspended by rough cotton threads, its edges adorned with delicately painted watercolor fish in whimsical shapes, shades of turquoise and cool green blending into one another. In the center, a careful hand had scripted the word Open in a fanciful, almost dancing calligraphy. Beneath it, in tiny letters, it read Push, which I did.
Inside, the shop was a miniature world of its own. Every corner teemed with pots of greenery whose names I could only guess. Polished wooden cabinets ran along the walls, while rows of fishing rods and neatly arranged clothing for anglers occupied the center. My eyes swept the room in search of the coveted door to the backyard, but it remained elusive. I scanned the faces of the few customers wandering among the displays—none seemed to be employees.
The girls followed silently, their eyes catching on every intricate detail of the shop. Tanya began recounting memories of her first—and as I gathered, only—fishing trip with her father, but my mind was elsewhere, fixated on the search.
Ahead, a man stood on the far side of a fishing rod display, speaking to someone I could not see. I followed his gaze downward and realized his companion must be hidden behind the stand. Moving past the display with a sense of purpose, I approached the counter. The moment I crossed the threshold, the salesman appeared.
Uncle Dima sat in his usual wheelchair, a black fleece jacket zipped snugly to his chin, and a dark hat with broad brims shadowing his face. When he spotted me, a warm smile lit up his features.
"Asya! Here for your dad's order?" he called, leaning forward slightly in his chair, arms outstretched.
Surprised, I stepped closer and hugged him.
"Hello, Uncle Dima. Actually, no. But if the box isn't too big, I can take it with me."
"It's nothing big—just a couple of hooks and some tackle. I'll have Slava get it ready; you won't even need the box. Can you wait by the checkout?" He gestured vaguely toward the back of the shop, where I glimpsed the counter.
Curiosity getting the better of me, I asked, "Can we see your backyard for a bit? I heard the garden is beautiful."
Uncle Dima's cheeks tinged with pink, but the corners of his mouth lifted in a quiet, pleased smile.
"Of course. It's not spring anymore, so it's a bit late in the season, but I'll show you if you ask nicely," he said, leaning over his armrest and calling loudly, "Denis! Come here!"
I turned, expecting a gawky, awkward boy, perhaps someone still awkwardly caught in puberty. Instead, Denis appeared transformed. He had grown taller, shoulders broader, muscles well-defined beneath the snug fabric of his T-shirt. His once long, unruly hair was cropped short, revealing a clean, sun-kissed face. In a few months, the boy had become unrecognizably striking.
"Wow," whispered Tatiana behind me. "What a handsome man."
"Had you not seen him two months ago?" I murmured, barely audible, unsure if Rostova had heard me. She made no comment, her attention fixed elsewhere.
Denis's eyes met mine for a brief moment, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features before he regained his composure and offered a reserved greeting. Dasha, meanwhile, was absorbed in the display of fishing flies, apparently far more interested than in the handsome young man before her.
I, too, was captivated—but not by vanity or infatuation—by the sheer transformation, and a curious question hovered in my mind: had he seen a dermatologist, or was it some hormonal change that cleared his skin so dramatically?
"Denis," Uncle Dima said, breaking my reverie, "take the girls to the backyard. Asya wants to see the garden."
"But Dad—" Denis started, hesitant, "we're taking inventory—"
"You can finish later. We're not in a hurry," his father interrupted, a subtle glance at the girls underscoring his authority.
Denis's forehead creased, brows rising in an arch of confusion.
"But you said—"
"Now," Uncle Dima said sharply, and Denis mumbled something resembling assent, cheeks tinged with pink.
I couldn't help but smile. Sixteen-year-old boys: handsome, aware of attention, yet still awkwardly modest. He would soon grow bolder, perhaps a touch arrogant, sending cryptic signals to any girl who dared notice him—just like Stanislav.
A fleeting thought of Smirnov, however, dampened my mood. Anger flared, directed at him or myself; my mind refused to release him from its grip. He could manipulate Tatiana, but I needed to reclaim my thoughts.
Lost in these musings, I followed Denis down a narrow, dimly lit corridor, the glow of a single overhead lamp guiding our steps. Tanya and Dasha flanked him, peering eagerly over his shoulders, unwilling to miss a word. Drozdov Jr. spoke hesitantly, yet with evident affection, describing the garden his mother had once tended so lovingly.