Rebecca Solo finished her chapter for the day and pressed print.
Sitting back, she moved her head in a small circle to loosen the tight
muscles.  As always, she mused about the changes that occurred when she
went from pen to computer.  Her first draft was hand written on paper,
using every other line so she could go back to correct/add/delete after
she finished.  Then she would type it slowly into the computer and
that's when her mind saw the need for rewriting.

      She thought about the way technology had moved into her life.  From the
microwave that Hannah had wanted to the technology filled box that sat
behind her on the computer table.  Napoleon had gotten it for her for
Christmas the year before and she'd resisted it for weeks before sitting
down to try.  And now, she couldn't imagine ever having done without it.

      The microwave had turned out to be quite useful as well.

      I guess you're never too old to learn new tricks.

      She gathered the pages from the printer and tore off the last page at
the perforations.  Tearing the pages apart, she spread them out before
her on the gleaming cherry wood desktop.  Now was when she could see her
mistakes and make the changes that would go into the 'saved file'.  Such
language idioms, she shook her head.  Learning a new language at her age
. . . who'd have thought it.

      The next hour was spent finding spelling mistakes, dangling participles
and non-sentences.  After making the corrections in the file and saving,
she sat back and finally looked at the clock.  11:30.  Not too bad for a
day's work, she thought.  I wonder what Hannah has for lunch.

      A gentle knock on the door interrupted her train of thought.  "Come in,
I'm done."

      "Oh good, we were hoping that you would be."  Napoleon's smiling face
appeared, followed closely by Illya's shy smile.  "Are you really,
really done?  Can you come out and play now?"

      "What do you two have in mind?"  Rebecca smiled at the eager look on
their faces.

      "A picnic at the lake."  Napoleon said excitedly.  "Hannah made all our
favorites and we want you to come with us."

      Rebecca's eyes met Illya's and saw his quiet acquiescence.  "Well, how
could I turn down just a lovely invitation.  I'll just go change my
shoes for something a little bit more robust then I'll join you in the
rose garden."

      "Oh good."  Napoleon's eyes sparkled and he rubbed his hands together
gleefully.  "This is going to be so much fun."  He ushered Illya out
ahead of him and she could hear his voice telling him of the boats and
the wildlife that both used the lake.

      She changed into her sturdy walking shoes and made sure that she had
three handkerchiefs in the various pockets of her cardigan.  Using the
bathroom before going back down stairs, she looked for her sunglasses
and finally found them in the pocket of her rain jacket.  Taking one of
the purple silk scarves from the scarf hanger, she wrapped her hair in
it before heading for the kitchen.

      Illya turned at her entrance and offered her his good arm.  She took it
happily and let him lead her from the kitchen with Hannah calling good
bye to them.  Napoleon followed with a heavily laden picnic basket, mock
grousing about Illya running off with his grandmother.  She laughed at
that and while they walked down the wide gravel path, she answered
Illya's question about the lake.  They soon left behind the garden and
took to the trail worn by the Solo family over the last fifty years.

That led to stories of Napoleon's summers with her and she took great
care to mention all his favorite excursions.  Napoleon groaned pitifully
at her stories but Illya just egged her on to expand on some of her
grandson's more . . . decorative exploits.  She enjoyed the sound of the
young blonde's laughter and the look of gratitude in her grandson's eyes
told her that the relaxed young man didn't often let go.  He had a sense
of humor but seemed to be hesitant about releasing it.

      Of course, she'd heard several outbreaks of laughter from their bedroom
and that had won her acceptance faster than any words would have done.
She'd always known her grandson was a brave man but his courage in
telling her of their relationship had been exceptional.  She was not so
divorced from the 'real world' that she didn't realize that being
bisexual was frowned upon in the government circles in which Napoleon
and Illya moved.

      That sweet Mr. Waverly had to know about them, she had too much respect
for him to think otherwise.  And this sudden move to give Napoleon the
directorship of Section Five looked like a ploy to get him off the
streets and into a safer job.  Now, that was something she would
willingly work towards.  From what they'd let fall about Illya's double
masters degrees and his Ph.D. in chemistry, the young man would be a
real asset in their research labs.

      She listened to them banter back and forth with a smile.  They were
well matched in intellect if not in education.  She rather approved of
their strengths not being the same; it betokened a much better
relationship.  They'd be able to lean on each other when the going got
rough and at some point, it always got rough.  She and Salvatore had had
their share of rocky patches in their thirty-five year marriage but
they'd bolstered each other during the hard times just as Napoleon and
Illya seemed to have done.

      "We're almost there, Illya."  Napoleon said excitedly.  "Has it changed
much, Nana?"

      "Not a bit, sweetheart.  The old canoe is still there if you'd like to
take it out."  She felt Illya shiver against her arm.  "Don't you like
boating, Illya?"

      "It is the deep water that I seem to fear."

      "Here it is, Illya.  You're right, Nana, it doesn't seem to change at
all."

      The deep blue of the placid lake was almost purple in the early
afternoon sun and Rebecca sighed contentedly.  Long lazy days on the
water had been one of their favorite ways to spend the summer when
Napoleon was a child.  Salvatore had been a sleek seal in the water and
his grandson had learned early to imitate him.

      "You never did finish your story about the psychic at the party during
your University days."  Napoleon swung the basket up onto the wooden
picnic table and raised an eyebrow at his partner while Rebecca looked
on.

      Illya looked a little uncomfortable but nodded.  "It will sound silly."

      "Sillier than ghosts?"  Her grandson smiled sweetly at him and pulled
out the red and white checked tablecloth, spreading it out on the table.

      Blue eyes glared at him but Rebecca could tell that he was only
hesitating because he was probably ashamed of his youthful self.  "She
had styled herself Madame Zola and most of her pronouncements were the
usual predictions of money, travel and weddings.  I was discussing
quantum physics on the balcony with one of the professors who had come
to the gathering when she came out to get some fresh air."

      Rebecca helped set out the contents of the basket while she listened.
Hannah had outdone herself with a three-course meal and a tin of cookies
that had scented the entire house that morning.  She thought that Illya
would enjoy them since the recipe came from him and Hannah loved trying
new recipes.

      "What did she look like, Illya?"  She asked while handing Napoleon the
bottle of chilled Zinfandel.

      "She was about your height with dark hair in a chignon on her neck and
deep set brown eyes that seemed to look straight through you and into
another dimension.  I did not believe in her pronouncements but I
thought perhaps she was genuinely open to paranormal phenomena."  Illya
shrugged and took the wineglass that she handed him.

      "And what was your position on the paranormal?"  Napoleon popped the
cork and began to fill the glasses.

      Illya looked out over the lake, his eyes unfocused.  "I am a scientist
and I believe in physical laws that govern the world we see around us.
But I am also a child of peasant Russia and the belief in a power
greater than myself was fed to me with my mother's milk."  He shrugged
and seemed to be trying to hide a blush.

      Rebecca laid a gentle hand on his arm.  "You explain it very well,
Illya.  I have come to the realization that the Power is called by many
names and described in a myriad of different ways.  But it exists, no
matter what it is labeled."

      The blue eyes looked shyly into hers and he nodded.  "Yes.  The
professor to whom I'd been speaking nodded coldly to her and left the
balcony.  He was a little more rigid in his beliefs but I stayed,
wondering what she might say.  She leaned against the parapet wall,
looking out over the city and clasping her hands in front of her like a
little girl at her first catechism.  She spoke with an educated accent
and I will never forget what she said."

      "You do not seek your fortune, young sir?"

      "No, I believe I will make my way on my own."

      "Ah, but the past is always with us.  And your past has many holds upon
you."

      "Really?"

      "You do not like to swim in deep water because of an old fear.  Not of
this life but of one many centuries ago."

      "Reincarnation?"

      "Of course, so much of our past we must relive again and again."

      "Does a person ever get it right?"

      "Sometimes . . . sometimes we learn our lesson and move on to another."

      "And what lesson was it that I did not learn?"

      "Three thousand years ago - give or take a century or two, you were a
fisherman off the coast of . . . America.  The boats were made of
hollowed trees and you were dark complected with shiny black hair.  A
great storm blew up out of nowhere and swamped your fishing party.  All
of you drowned and to this day, that fear of water holds you fast."

      Illya shrugged.  "That's all she would say and ever since then I have
wondered if she saw true or simply made it up."

      "Well, since she didn't know you and you'd never met before, how could
she have made it up?"  Napoleon set the picnic basket on the ground and
made sure the benches were clean before sitting Rebecca down with a
flourish.

      "Gossip.  I'd turned down a boating party on the Thames one weekend and
some of the others might have speculated in her hearing.  Con artists
are notorious for making inspired guesses."

      "But how did you feel at the moment she said it, Illyusha?"  Napoleon
sat down across from Rebecca and Illya.

      The young man blushed.  "It was one of those 'aha!' experiences we have
spoken of before.  When you took me to the ocean, it felt as if I were
coming . . . home."

      Napoleon's eyes melted and his hand reached across the table to his
lover.  "You are home, Illya."

      "Home is where ever you are, Pasha."  He met the hand and squeezed it
gently.

      "Gentlemen, I propose a toast."  Rebecca hid a sniff at their endearing
sentiment.  "May this always be your home and may you have many more
happy years here."

      They clinked their glasses above the table and took a sip of the golden
wine.  The next few moments were spent in apportioning out the food onto
their paper plates.  Rebecca was beguiled into telling more stories
about Napoleon's youth while Illya listened and chuckled.  He was in
turn teased into telling some of his memories of the same age although
his were more somber recollections.

      Rebecca ached at the thought of the beautiful pale child he must have
been, fighting for survival in the bleak gulag and learning the harsh
lessons that Napoleon had only learned in a war zone.  Silently, she
said a prayer for them both, that they might always be there for each
other in good times and bad.  She was glad that she'd taken the steps
she had at the beginning of their visit.

      They were squabbling about some point in a story they were telling her
about one of their missions when she tapped her fork on her glass and
cleared her throat.  Two pairs of eyes met hers curiously and an almost
identical eyebrow raised on each brow.  She smiled at them tenderly and
reached out a hand to them both, which they immediately took.

      "When you first came, I knew almost immediately that you were in love.
It warmed my heart to hear you laugh freely, Napoleon.  For too many
years, that laugh was silent and I prayed that you would find the spark
that would re-ignite your soul."  She squeezed his hand and felt it
returned.  "And Illya, you were everything he'd told me and more.  Kind,
intelligent and so much in love with my grandson that it shone from
you."

      He nodded slowly, returning her grip.

      "So, I took a step that I'd been planning for some time.  Napoleon, you
know that I hold title to five properties in various places, including
this acreage and the island off the Windward Islands in the
Caribbean."   She waited for his nod.  "Well, no longer do I hold title
to this land.  You do."

      "What?"  His eyes couldn't get any wider.  "But this is your home."

      "Yes, it is.  And I hold a life interest in it which will last as long
as I do."  She smiled again and held onto their hands.  "But the others
don't care for this place the way that you do.  And now I see that Illya
feels the same way.  In a very real sense, boys, you have both come
home.  When the spy business gets to be too much, you can come here to
recharge your batteries.  And if you retire in the distant future, your
home will be waiting here for you."

      "Nana, I . . . I don't know what to say."  Napoleon fumbled, unable to
put together a coherent sentence.  "It's too much."

      "No, it's not.  People up here tend to mind their own business.  This
can be a safe haven for you when tolerance is hard to come by.  You
haven't chosen an easy path in loving each other but here you can rest
and be yourselves."  Rebecca watched Illya's eyes fill with tears that
never fell.  She ached for the young man who'd learned so early how to
control his emotions.

      "Thank you, Nana.  For this," Napoleon waved an arm in a full circle
that included the forest and lake.  "But most of all for accepting us.
And still loving me."

      "Oh, sweetheart.  You are so very welcome.  Especially for bringing
home such a sweet young man like your Illya."  She smiled at them both.

      "Thank you."  Illya leaned over and kissed her cheek.

      She could see all the things he couldn't say and she returned the
kiss.  "Which would you like to call me, Illya . . . Nana or Rebecca?"

      His eyes darted to Napoleon and whatever he saw there must have
reassured him because they came right back to her.  "I called my
grandmother, Baba.  Would you mind if I called you that?"

      "Short for babushka?"  Rebecca rolled the word on her tongue and
watched him nod shyly.  "I would be honored to be your Baba, Illya."
And leaning over, she kissed his cheek, meeting his hug with one of her
own.  They sat in the early afternoon sunlight, at peace with each other
and their world.  Rebecca could feel them relax, content and replete
with the wonderful meal.  "Napoleon, open the cookies.  Hannah made them
especially for Illya."

      The blonde reached the cookie tin first and opened the lid to expose
the small cookies layered in wax paper.  "They are just like Mama made
for Christmas.  Are these preserves that Hannah put up this summer?"

      "Yes, except for the walnuts which we collected last fall and the
yellow quince which is from the Petersons.  The raspberries are from the
original canes that Salvatore planted when we first moved here.  The
deep purple filling is from our blackberry bushes.  We have a short
growing season but we're protected from the north wind by our pines so
there's enough time to bring them all to ripeness."  She accepted one of
the quince filled cookies and bit into the sweet-tart treat with
enjoyment.

      Illya was savoring one of the walnut filled cookies and Napoleon was
licking away some of the raspberry filling that smeared on his upper
lip.  The silence was a contented one and each one they tried was
declared the best one of all.  Until they tried another, finally giving
up the judging and enjoying them.

      Leaving their picnic things on the table, Rebecca walked the broad path
arm in arm with both her grandsons.  This time she spoke of Salvatore
and their early married years when they were struggling to establish his
small business and start a family.  She reminisced with the familiar old
stories that Napoleon already knew and a few new ones that he'd never
heard before.

      He was old enough now to know about the first son who died of polio in
the 1954 epidemic.  Little Reuben was named for her father and only six
years old when the high fever and paralyzed lungs spiked and took him
before they could get him to the doctor.  She still grieved for the
bright light taken from her much too soon.  But young James had been
spared and grown up to have Napoleon and his sisters.

      Napoleon asked questions about those early years while Illya wanted to
know when she started writing.  The journal she'd kept through good
times and bad had led her to try her hand at magazine articles when
every little bit of extra cash was welcome.  Modest success had just
fueled the fire of her ambition and she'd begun setting aside time for
writing and the freedom it gave her.

      Illya understood the need and admitted that he'd begun to sketch again
for the sheer joy of creating.  Napoleon teased him about his bird
watching and his partner teased him right back with the quiet comment
that he'd taken to drawing Emperors.  For some reason that made her
grandson blush bright red and go silent.

      Rebecca was looking forward to finding out what that code word meant.
In fact, she was looking forward period.  Perhaps a trip to New York was
in the near future.  She had to thank that sweet Alexander Waverly for
helping to bring her two boys together.  She smiled to herself and mused
over the fact that he was a widower.  And she was a widow.

      The future was looking up.

***************************
The end of Life's a Picnic Affair
***************************
Russian Tea Cakes (from Mrs. Fields Cookie Book, page 63)

Cookies:                                                     Topping:
1 cup salted butter                                      ½ cup fruit
preserves or
½ cup confectioners' sugar                         ½ cup (2 oz.) chopped
walnuts
2 tsp. pure vanilla extract                            ¼ cup
confectioners' sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
¼ tsp. salt                                  Yield: 2 dozen

Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.
      In a large bowl cream butter and sugar using an electric mixer.  Add
vanilla, scraping down bowl as needed.  Blend in flour and salt, mixing
until thoroughly combined.
      Roll tablespoonfuls of dough into small balls about 1 inch apart.
Press down the center of each ball with a spoon, forming a depression.
Fill each with a teaspoonful of preserves or nuts.
      Bake 15-20 minutes or until golden brown.  Transfer cookies immediately
to a cool, flat surface.  When cookies are completely cool, dust them
lightly with confectioners' sugar.
(Absolutely yummy and I have to admit to liking the quince preserves the
best.)

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