Illya luxuriated in a rare moment alone. Years before there had been too many alone moments, so much so that he had gotten into the habit of never stopping. He would roll out of bed and hit the ground running, literally. He thought if he moved fast enough, the memories wouldn't catch up, but they always did and usually late at night. They would plague his dreams, torturing him.
Then, apparently, whoever was in charge of such things decided he'd had enough and delivered him salvation by way a five-foot, ten-inch partner. He and Napoleon reconnected and this time Illya wasn't letting go. Sure there had been some bumps along the way, but Illya was pretty content with life at the moment.
He let the book on his lap drop and he stared into the fireplace. It had been hard to let go of Taste. For too long the restaurant had been his life and his only reason for being. Sadly, even Napoleon had taken a backseat to it for a time. Now he stepped back, letting Matt take over the reins more and more. It felt good.
Of course, that time had allowed Napoleon the opportunity to discover the Foothills for himself and soon he was immersed in the rich wine culture of the region. And Vinea was born. They'd taken a nearby storage shed, converted it into a tasting room and now it rivalled Taste as 'the place' to check out in Jackson.
Illya smiled and stretched. The movement brought him to a glass of wine and he picked it up, sipping and considering the expanding flavors of the liquid. It always amazed him how much a wine could change, good or bad, when exposed to the right conditions.
A bit like him, he decided. He glanced over at the clock. He had about an hour left to himself before Napoleon would be home from rehearsal. The local group was doing a comedy this time and Illya enjoyed the mood the rehearsals left Napoleon in.
There was fresh pumpkin pie cooling on racks in the kitchen and Illya had even made a spiced whipped cream to go with it. When he thought of the plans he had for the leftover whipped cream, his smile widened even more. He was older, but he was far from dead.
When the knock came at the front door, he was inclined to ignore it, but the only people who would knock at this time of night were either friends or his employees. Neither he felt he could nor should ignore.
He was about to get up from the chair when the door opened and one of Taste's waiters rushed in. Illya thought his name was Ben, but he wasn't sure.
"Sorry to bother you on your night off, Chef, but there's a woman… she's… She's made Matt cry."
"What?" Illya was off the chair and halfway to the closet. He stepped into his shoes and hurriedly pulled on a chef's jacket. While it was still technically late fall in the Foothills, the nights were cold.
"She came in and ate, then asked for the chef. Matt came out and he got really upset." The waiter was going on ahead of him.
Was I ever that young? He wondered as he made his way through the parking lot. It was satisfying to see it well packed, even for a Wednesday night in November. People were ready to celebrate the holidays with the coming of Halloween and what right did Illya or Taste have to stand in their way. He'd been booking holiday parties for three months.
He pulled open the main dining room door, its latch a beautifully carved fork to match the spoon latch of the other door, and stepped in. He paused for a moment as he got his bearings. In the far corner of the dining room, a patron was seated and Matt stood before her, his face a palette of emotions. He saw Illya and the tears started again.
"What the hell is going on?" Illya demanded as he approached and the woman turned to face him.
"Where have I heard that before?" She turned and there was an intensity in her eyes that took his breath away. Then he gasped, "Helen?"
Illya slit the letter open carefully with an old work knife. It had a cracked handle held together by tape and that made it unusable in the kitchen. However, never had any place made more sense of the 'make it do or do without' philosophy as a restaurant did. Their patrons had no idea the infrastructure of Taste was held together with masking tape and bubble gum. They didn't know that Illya made do with scraps from the kitchen or store brand soup while they dined on pate and choice cuts of meat.
He pulled the bill out, because, let's be real, in his world, they were always bills and he glanced at it, then gasped. He was on his feet and stomping his way to the doorway of what passed as his office.
"MATT! RAND! HENRY! Get in here!" That done, he went back to his desk and fumed.
When he used that tone, he knew the response would be immediate and it was. The three men, plus a handful of others scurried from various parts of the restaurant.
"You bellowed, cara?" Matt asked while the others took refuge behind him.
"What is this?" Illya waved the sheet in from of them.
"Carta?" Matt's head swiveled as he tried to read it.
"Of course it's paper. It's a bill from the city, fining us for our garbage."
"What?" Now his partner was confused. "How is that possible? I always check the safety bar when I leave the restaurant."
"Well, apparently you forgot and the trash guys found our garbage scattered all over hell and gone… twice. Apparently, that's enough for a hefty fine from Jackson. Where am I supposed to come up with an extra $200 this month?"
"If we are careful, we can probably trim the meat a bit closer and reduce the portion size… that is a bad idea even as I say it," Rand said. "We could hold a car wash."
"Just when I think we're going to get ahead a little…" Illya tossed the bill aside. "Please, please, everyone. Make sure the trash bins have their locking bar on them before you leave."
Jesus picked up the bill and scanned it. "I'll take care of it, Chef."
"No, I won't have you personally paying our bills."
"Pay? No way, but this is my cousin. I will talk with him. Okay?"
Illya nodded. "Yes, Jesus, thank you. That would be very okay."
Everyone else walked away except Matt. He moved to Illya's side and settled a hand upon a weary shoulder. "Cara, I think you need to sleep a bit."
"Matt, we can't keep doing this. We are bleeding money." He leaned back into Matt's hand as it kneaded the tight muscles. A second hand joined in and Illya shut his eyes.
"I know, but we are doing well. We are full nearly every night and the word is spreading. Taste is becoming a well-known name here."
Illya sighed heavily and gestured to the paper-covered desk. "I just want to be sure that we're still in business by the time everyone's heard of us. Seven out of ten restaurants fail in their first five years. It would be nice to stay open long enough to fail."
"You are exhausted, Chef. Go get some rest. I will take the shift tonight." Matt leaned forward to embrace Illya.
"You're as tired as I am," Illya protested, albeit weakly.
"Si, but I am also fifteen years younger. Just for tonight, let me run the race, Cara."
Without conscious effort, Illya nodded. He was to a point beyond exhausted. He'd never felt like this, even during his worst days of UNCLE. However, as Matt pointed out, he was younger then.
He waited for one last squeeze from Matt's arms and then stood. He took off his chef's coat and hung it on the back of the door. Without it, he shivered slightly, but that was only momentary. By the time he'd walked through the busy kitchen, sweat flecked his brow.
He stepped out the backdoor of the kitchen and started towards the house. The stars were out and the night was crystal clear. It was beautiful, but it would also be freezing by the morning. He was about to turn back towards Taste, to remind Matt to leave a trickle of water running when he heard the noise.
Something was in their dumpster. The top was flung back and Illya could barely make out a shape moving around the exterior. Saying a silent prayer that it wasn't a hungry black bear, he shouted, "What the hell is going on here?"
There was a squeal and Illya realized it was not an animal in his dumpster, but a person. A step closer proved it was a young woman, her clothes tattered and dirty, her face gaunt.
"Don't hurt me! I'll clean it up."
Immediately, Illya stepped down. "I won't. I'm sorry. You just startled me."
"What are you doing?" Illya realized the piles of garbage were food that they had tossed from the day before. "You can't eat that? You'll get sick."
"Better than going hungry."
"Who are you?"
"Helen."
"Helen, I'm Illya and this is my restaurant." He gestured over his shoulder. "Why are you doing this?"
"We're hungry."
"We?" Illya realized there were two smaller shapes huddled against a nearby bush. "No, this won't do. Come with me."
"Are you arresting us?" The woman's voice was fearful.
"Not exactly."
"Cara? Cara, wake up." Illya felt his shoulder being shaken and he tried to push away the hand.
"Go away. I'm sleeping." He buried himself deeper in the blankets. It was warm and welcoming.
"No, Cara. Not until you tell me why there are people in our bed." He recognized Matt's voice now, not that there had been any question before. No one else called him Cara.
"They needed it more than we did." Illya pushed the blankets away, sat up and rubbed his eyes. It was then that he realized that daylight was streaming through the windows. "Are you just getting in?" He tried to remember if Matt had mentioned a date beforehand. While they still shared a bed, they weren't exclusive.
"No." Matt smiled and pointed to an overstuffed chair overflowing with a large comforter. "I slept there last night when I found the bed occupato. Who are they?"
"They were in our dumpster last night. She escaped an abusive husband with her two children and ran until the money gave out."
"So you brought them here and fed them and let them sleep in our bed." Matt laughed. "If people only knew the soft side of you."
"I'd never get any work out of them." Illya stretched. "Today I will get them into a shelter. I know a couple of people in Sacramento."
Matt nodded and his hand went to his chest. Matt had had his own encounters with abuse. "Good, good. What can I do?"
"Is there any food in the kitchen?"
"Ours or Taste's?"
"Either."
"Yes."
"No, we can't take anymore from you." Helen said from the stairs. She was dressed in one of Illya's tee shirts and a pair of jogging pants, too big, but clean and in good condition. Even so, the remains of bruising, brown and orange, around her neck were too visible against her pale skin. "The children didn't want to get out of your tub."
"It's a good one," Matt said and Helen retreated one step back up.
"We have enough." Illya stood and stretched again. He'd slept better last night than he had in months. We always have enough. My grandmother taught me that. Helen, this is my partner, Matt. He owns Taste with me."
"We've already taken too much from you. Your food, your bed." She gestured behind her and then down at her attire. "Your clothes. This is the safest I've felt since leaving."
"I'm glad, Helen." Illya pointed to a spot behind her. "I washed your clothes. They aren't in very good shape, but they will hold together until we get to the Goodwill Store."
Matt held up a finger. "Un momento." He went to the phone dialed a number and spoke in quick Spanish. "Your children's ages, signora?" When Helen said nothing, Illya made a guess. Matt repeated the information and then hung up. "Jesus, he has many children. He will bring some to us."
Helen slowly crumbled to the stairs and started crying. Illya moved to her as quickly as his sleep-stiffened body permitted. The children appeared, concerned but scared.
"Are you all right? Are you in pain? Do you need a doctor?"
"What did I do to deserve this?"
Matt beat Illya to her and gathered her into a hug. "You survived, tesora. You survived."
The morning was a blur of activity. After breakfast, he took them to the Goodwill store and let them pick out new clothes. He paid for them with a couple of comps from the restaurant. This was one of the nice parts about Jackson. People still believed in the bartering system and people were always ready to exchange food for services.
After that, he fired up the truck and they headed to Sacramento to a women's shelter. The owner was a friend from cooking school and she was very willing to take in the young woman and her family. Illya went with them as they got settled into a room.
The children were playing with some of their new purchases, secondhand toys, but new to them, and Helen embraced Illya. "Thank you so much, Illya, and please thank Matt and Jesus, too. You have saved us."
"No, you saved you. I'm just a helping hand along the way. Here." He held a slip of paper out to her.
"What's this?" She looked at the paper and the smile slid from her mouth. "A check?"
"Use it for whatever you need. It's not much, but I hope it helps."
Helen started crying and turned away from him. Immediately the children were there, hugging her legs.
"Mommy, don't cry. Please?" The girl, Sophie, stroked her mother's back tenderly.
"I can't help it, Soph. We've met an angel, a kind and generous angel."
Illya grinned at that and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, not exactly. My halo is a little tarnished."
After that, he would send her a check monthly. It was never very much, just what he could scrape together after everything was said and done. It was always something, though, and the thought of it made him happy. When they moved from the shelter, it went towards some furnishings, clothes, or food. Never once did Helen and Sophie, and later, Josh forget to send him a letter back, thanking him for his generosity and catching him up on their adventures. He lived for those letters.
Then, as if the Universe decided he deserved a reward, Napoleon arrived and with that, a sense of security Illya hadn't previously known. He was able to send Helen a bit more. He never forgot and Napoleon never questioned.
Until…
"Illya, you've got a returned letter." Napoleon had put the mail on the corner of the desk they shared. Now that they had an accountant to handle the accounts, it was possible to see the bottom of the desk. Indeed, Napoleon had worked hard to organize it. In their early days, it had been Illya who was fastidious about his desk. Now it was the kitchen. Rarely did it spill out from there and it gave Napoleon a sense of being needed. Illya couldn't find a pen without his help or so it seemed.
"Returned?" Illya frowned. "Did I put the bill in backwards again?" He was known to do that. He was fairly absentminded with anything note directly related to cooking. He could rattle off two dozen sauces and their ingredients without blinking, but in other aspects of life, not as competent these days. He didn't need to be. That's what Napoleon was for.
"No, it just says Return to Sender. No forwarding address."
Illya glanced at the name and his stomach sank. Immediately he reached for the phone, but the number had been disconnected.
"No luck?" Napoleon was flipping through a wine magazine seemingly disinterested, although Illya knew better. Napoleon had to be part cat; everything piqued his curiosity. "Hmm, they say clarets are making a comeback."
"Clarets? Is that a new wine?" Illya continued to stare at the envelope, as if it would reveal its secrets to him. He knew this day was coming. Helen had a good job now and had even met someone. She was a little shy on details and Illya didn't press. Well, he didn't press Helen. Sophie was his inside track. Both she and Josh liked the man and said he treated their mother well.
Illya wasn't content at that and the minute he had the man's name, he ran a check on him. Satisfied that he was exactly what he claimed, Illya relented and gave his blessings to the relationship, not that Helen ever knew.
"Actually, it's a very old term that that British used to apply to all red wines. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention to me." He closed the magazine. "Want to talk about it?"
"She was a… good friend."
"Whom you sent money on a regular basis. I've seen the entries in your checkbook. She must have been pretty special because there were times when money was pretty scarce and I know you had to choose between some pretty basic needs and that check. You never failed. Should I be jealous?"
"Please. I met Helen and her children in our dumpster one November night. They were homeless, starving and winter was coming. So, I did what any ex-UNCLE agent would do. I took care of the innocents."
Napoleon grinned at that. "That's one of the things I love you about, Kuryakin. You have a big heart."
"Just a big heart?" Illya's smile was shy and one Napoleon welcomed for it always signaled just one thing.
"Well, there are one or two other things." Napoleon stood and crossed the gap between them in two strides. Illya was in his arms and they collapsed to the sofa, as their tongues fought for control of the kiss they shared.
Hands were busy pulling, pushing, and dispensing with clothes, although their lips never parted.
"Door locked?" Illya managed to mumble.
"Who cares?" Napoleon was busy sliding Illya's jeans off and positioning himself.
Illya could think of a dozen people he'd prefer not to walk in on them, but suddenly his penis was enveloped with a hot tightness and rational thought flew out the window.
Things got a bit steamy after that. Thankfully, they weren't interrupted, or perhaps they were and neither of them noticed. Such was their lovemaking.
Still, the returned letter preyed on his mind. The first chance he had, he went to Sacramento to the neat little apartment Helen and her children had kept. It was empty and the landlord didn't have a clue about where they'd gone. Helen had paid him the month's rent and then left. The place was cleaner than the day she moved in and the landlord was concerned about what to do with the cleaning deposit.
Illya took it and when even more investigating resulted in nothing, he gave it to the women's shelter in Helen's name. It felt good that it went to help others in her situation.
He meant to keep looking, but then the holidays were upon them and one thing after another. Eventually, the letter, sans check, got moved to the back of a drawer and then eventually, like so many other things, it was tossed when they remodeled.
He hadn't thought about Helen in years and now…
The young woman laughed. "Not Helen. I'm Sophie! You remember Josh." The man stood and shook Illya's hand with a firm grip.
"Look at you two! All grown up. But, Matt-?"
"I cry from happiness, Cara." He gave Illya a hug. "I know what these people mean to you. I will leave you."
Illya waved at his back. "Your mother? Is she all right? When my letter came back, I was so worried."
"Me, too." A voice came over his shoulder and he looked back, then laughed and hugged the woman standing there. She'd obviously just come back from the restroom. There was the scent of grapefruit hand lotion around her as they hugged. "It's good to see you again, my angel with the tarnished halo."
"What are you doing here?" He held a chair for her and then sat down across from her. The few remaining patrons in Taste watched, then returned to their own conversations. Tomorrow it would be all over Jackson and possible Sutter Creek, too, about this meeting, but for tonight, they let Illya have some privacy.
"I… we thought it was time." She reached into her purse and took out a folded bit of paper. "This is for you."
"What's this?" Illya took it and then shook his head at the check and offered it back. "No, not in a million years. I gave you that money with no strings attached." Still, he looked at the amount. "That can't be right."
"It is," Josh said, sipping the last of his wine. "She kept very careful records. We all did."
"Illya, your check often meant the difference between eating or going hungry. Because of your help, I was able to get a job and eventually send both of my kids to college. We were able to move out of the shelter and into an apartment and then a home of our own. I finished school and got my degree. All because of your monthly checks."
He looked down at her hand. There was a lovely diamond ring and a matching wedding band on her left hand. "He treats you well?"
"He treats me like a queen." She reached out and touched his hand and his own ring. "And you."
"Much the same." Illya let the comment drop, then asked, "Why didn't you write?"
"I needed to stand on my own. I knew if I gave you our address, the checks would continue, no matter what I said, so it was the only way I knew. Richard was very supportive. I was devastated by it."
"She cried for a week. Richard ended up buying her a kitten to cheer her up." Sophie smiled. "Now we have three."
Illya nodded. "I… I understand." He put the check back on the table and pushed it towards her. "But I can't take this."
"I won't take it back."
"Then use it the way I did. Find a family that needs help or donate this to a local shelter of your choosing. Give someone the strength to stand and shake their fist at the sky." Helen stared at him for a moment.
"But you have no money."
"It's okay. I'm good now. The restaurant is doing well and let's just say I married money."
Suddenly he was being hugged by two women and he laughed even as Napoleon approached.
"When I didn't find you at home, I figured you'd be here… although not necessarily in the arms of two beautiful women." Napoleon flashed his smile, the one that made Illya's knees weak, even after all this time. "I think introductions are in order, Amante."
"Of course, Napoleon, this is Helen… of the letters. And her children, Sophie and Josh." Napoleon greeted them politely. "Helen, this is Napoleon, my partner."
She took his pre-offered hand. "Your partner? I'm glad. You deserve all the happiness in the world and then some."
"And now I have it." Illya waved to Celeste, who nodded. She got his unspoken request – champagne and the good stuff, too. It was going to be a night of celebration, of laughter and of love.