The Summer Garden (The Bronze Horseman, #3)

by Paullina Simons

Berlin, and the room at the U.S. Embassy where they had spent what they both were certain was their last night on earth, when she stitched together his shredded pectoral and wept, and he sat like a stone and looked through her— much like now. He said to her then, “We never had a future.”

Frozen in time they remained on the bed in a November Leningrad embrace.

Alexander was looking down at her with his I’ll-get-on-the-busfor-you-anytime face.

“That’s not how Mommy tells it,” Anthony said teasingly. “She says you got on the bus for her and stalked her practically to Finland.”

“We’ll meet again in Lvov, my love and I ...” Tatiana hums, eating her ice cream, in our Leningrad, in jasmine June, near Fontanka, the Neva, the Summer Garden, where we are forever young.