Anastasia Forever (25 page)

“Vats of coffee,” Tess says. “Do you think they serve it in a bucket? I mean seriously, I need a caffeine IV. Who watches crap like that? Unhappy blond people yapping in Swedish. Plus, the subtitles. I can't watch and read at the same time. Was anyone else getting dizzy?”

Because of a certain set of events a little over a month ago, the Art Institute has postponed its Swedish Film Festival until today.

The Swedish Film Festival, let me add, should be renamed the Narcolepsy Film Festival. Tess is right. Ten minutes into the first movie, the subtitles had lulled me into a semiconscious state. Somehow we'd managed to sit there—me and Tess sandwiched between Ben on Tess's left and Ethan on my right—for two films in a row: the first about some guy who lives on a farm in rural Sweden and falls in love with his next-door neighbor's wife. They spend most of the movie casting longing looks at each other until finally she ends up moving to Stockholm to run a pastry shop and he throws himself into his thresher and dies.

The second one seemed happier—something about a street musician and his dog. Honestly? By then I was focused on Ethan's lips and how his hand was resting on my knee.

We leave the museum and head out to Michigan Avenue. It's the first time I've been back since what we all have decided to call “the incident.” So far we're all in one piece. The Swedes can jump into their threshers. Ethan and I and Tess and Ben are going for coffee. Maybe pastries too. Those pastries looked good in the movie.

“Do you know any place that makes cream puffs?” I ask the group. We're at the stoplight, waiting to cross. There's a place that makes great lattes a couple blocks away.

The light turns and we start to walk, and that's when we see her. A girl about ten years old, walking with her mother. She's slim and pretty, and she's got eyes as blue as cornflowers and light brown hair. Her nose is straight and so is her posture, and I notice that she looks an awful lot like her mother. She says something to her mom that makes them both laugh.

In her hand is a little wooden doll with a painted face.

“Anne,” Tess says. “Do you see that?”

“Yup,” I say. “I do. Ethan, do
you
see that?”

He turns so he can look with his good eye. “Oh,” he says. “Hmm.”

“Not again,” Ben humphs.

“Is it possible?” Tess asks.

Is what possible?
I think. Did Anastasia really take my warning when we visited the past and somehow escape the massacre and live happily ever after, and these people are her descendants? My fingers give a suspicious little tingle.

“Nah,” Ethan and I say in unison. We hurry across the street. On the other side, I tilt my face and encourage him to kiss me. Ethan kisses very, very well.

The girl and her mother go somewhere I don't see.

I hook my arms around Ethan's neck. His strong arms lift me, twirl me in a circle. A happy dance.

“I think Anne just told destiny to suck it,” Tess tells Ben.

“You've got that right,” I say against Ethan's lips.

And then I kiss him again.

As usual, this cannot be done alone.

Jen Rofe, my wise and wonderful cowgirl—chai lattes for life.

The Sourcebooks team: intrepid editor Leah Hultenschmidt, Kelly Barrales-Saylor, Kristin Zelazko, Kay Mitchell, and Derry Wilkens—a million zillion cupcakes. And even more thank-yous.

Critique partners Dede, Kim, Bob, Suz—red boas all around.

My tribe of fellow writers and artists: agent sisters, 2k9ers, Houston YA crew, Austin gang, and more—my life is fuller, my writing stronger, my heart happy.

My readers for everything else. It is always about you and telling you a story. Without that, there is nothing.

Rick, Jake, Kellie—for cheering me on always and always and always.

Joy Preble
grew up in Chicago where—possibly because she was raised by an accountant and a bookkeeper—she dreamed of being a backup singer, but instead earned an English degree from Northwestern. Eventually, she began to write books so she could get paid for making up stuff. She now lives in Texas with her family, including a basset-boxer named Lyla who never met a shoe she didn't want to eat. Visit Joy at
joypreble.com
.