Tears of Heaven - A Love Story

Tears -

Two
Riding the bus through downtown Stockholm was an interesting experience. I found myself casually glancing at the faces of various passengers seated around me. Just as in America, the people here were all so different. Since I've always been a people watcher, I found myself trying to read a few expressions, but none of them were discernible.
I looked toward the front of the bus and noticed a man who appeared to be staring at me. Maybe he was staring through me, I don't know. But it unnerved me. I can't say for certain why it did. I had an idea, though, and that bothered me as well.
Looking back, I could see that Ross had taken more from me than I realized, and I had no clue how to get it back, or even if I wanted it back. The wall I managed to build around me kept me safe, and I knew that safety mechanism would probably forever be ingrained in me. For now, I was okay with that.
I sighed. Truthfully, I think a part of me was missing from the moment I drew my first breath at birth, and I was never allowed to find that part. As I grew, I became too busy looking out for myself to truly know there was more to life than what I saw in the little world I was being brought up in.
Glimpsing into the worlds of other children my age, I had witnessed love, laughter, respect, and family. I honestly couldn't remember experiencing one moment of love or anything closely resembling it from my mother. I learned early that I could never depend on her for anything, not even love.
It was true, what people used to say. What a sad beginning I had in life.
Pulling my thoughts forward, I glanced down at the pant leg of a teenage boy sitting next to me. There was a small rip in the knee of his jeans. I knew some considered this a fashion statement, but for me, it brought back memories of a time when a rip in my clothes was a detriment.
I was only six when my mother began to harp about how much it was costing her to keep me clothed. At that age, rips and tears were supposed to be normal. It was also supposed to be normal for a parent to try and repair their children's clothing, but I could never use the word normal to describe my mother in any way.
She determined that since I was the one who had ripped my clothes, I should be responsible for fixing them. So, at six and a half years old, I taught myself how to repair my clothes.
I sighed, slightly shaking my head at the memory. At least I learned to take care of myself early. I learned a lot of things early. Thank goodness the Copeland family came into my life and taught me to love, but now that even scared me, and it made me more determined than ever to guard my heart.
Keeping my thoughts in the present, I looked toward the head of the bus once more. Still finding the man's eyes on me, I turned my attention to the passing scenery and kept it there until I  reached my stop.
 * * *
Following the directions my grandmother had given me, I found Mr. Petrenko's home with little difficulty. I knocked on the large double doors, both marveling at and dreading the size of the beautiful home.
The house was a large, country French design with sunset yellow stucco, white shutters and trim, and a red tiled roof. Taking in the large, granite water fountain out front, as well as the rest of the amazing landscaping, I could definitely picture the house featured in an issue of Better Homes and Gardens. Everything about it was grand.
I knocked once more, a little harder this time. After another moment, the door opened and I found myself staring up into the light brown eyes of Sergei Petrenko. I was a little startled but recovered quickly. I hadn't expected him to answer the door himself. With a house this extravagant, I expected him to have a butler. I cleared my throat nervously and introduced myself.
“I'm Heaven Gunderson,” I said, extending my hand.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Heaven,” he said with a smile, the gentle, deep tone of his voice softening his thick Russian accent. He squeezed my hand gently. “Come in, please,” he added, moving aside.
“Thank you.”
After letting my eyes roam around the foyer for a moment, I was suddenly ready to jump right into my duties. Now that the official moment of meeting him was over, I felt slightly more relaxed, grateful that he seemed friendly enough.
He showed me where I could store my purse and sweater, then he gave me a quick tour of the house. It truly was beautiful, even more so than I imagined. On the main floor, there was the formal living and dining room, a library, family room, and a huge kitchen. On the second level, there were four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a laundry room. The top floor consisted of two more bedrooms, including an enormous master suite, each with its own private bath. There was an exercise room and a theater room as well.
Taking everything in, I knew I would have my work cut out for me. But then again I figured that since he lived there alone, it wouldn't be too hard to keep on top of everything.
While I was pondering this, Mr. Petrenko asked, “Do you think you can handle the job or is it going to be too much?”
I was slightly annoyed, both at him and myself. At myself for allowing my thoughts to show on my face, and at him for assuming I couldn't handle a house this size. But not wanting to jump to conclusions and judge him too harshly, I swallowed my pride and said in what I hoped was an assuring voice, “I can handle the job just fine, Mr. Pertrenko.” When he again smiled and nodded, I was grateful that I had swallowed my pride. “Would you like me to start anywhere specific?” I asked.
“No,” he said softly, staring into my eyes and unnerving me. “You can start anywhere you want and make up your own routine, but I do have one request for you, though.”
“Yes?” I questioned warily.
“I know I am your employer, but no more Mr. Petrenko, all right? My name is Sergei.”
I stood quietly for a moment, staring up into his eyes, not knowing what to say. He continued to look at me expectantly and I soon found my voice. “Fine,” I said, finally pulling my eyes away from his. “I will get started, then.”
He smiled again and started away from me, calling over his shoulder, “I have to step out for a few moments. I will not be gone long.”
“All right,” I said softly, still glued to the same spot. I watched his tall retreating form until he turned the corner and was no longer in sight. I stood for another moment and silently wondered what I had gotten myself into. My new employer wasn't at all what I had expected. With his tall, lean-muscled physique, dark tousled hair, and warm brown eyes, he was too handsome, too beautiful, and too perfect for words.
And he was a danger to be avoided.
After another moment, I finally got my feet moving and started my duties. I had never been a housekeeper before, but I found myself enjoying the job. I figured that as long as my employer didn't have any riotous parties or suddenly have more people running in and out of his house, it would be pretty easy to keep up with everything. If that changed in the future, it would be harder, but I would still do my job.
I found that each room I entered and every item I lifted to clean or dust brought questions to my mind about my employer. I couldn't help wondering why Mr. Pet . . . why Sergei picked that particular thing and what kind of sentimental value he placed on it.
Like the porcelain figurine sitting on the dresser in his bedroom. It was of an angel with her hands resting on the shoulders of a young boy. Or the small painting that hung on a wall in the theater room. It was a picture of a family picnicking beneath a large tree. These aren't the kinds of things I expected to find in the home of a single, retired sports jock. Pictures and figurines of immodestly dressed women or sports photos, maybe, but not these things.
I finally brushed the questions aside, reminding myself it was none of my business why he picked these things, and that I was only there to do a job.
I kept my mind in that mode of thinking throughout the day and it helped to keep the mental questions at bay. But when I finally hauled the vacuum cleaner into the family room, the last room I needed to clean, my eyes did a double-take as they landed on the large, framed photo of the Stockholm LDS Temple, which was hanging on the wall to the left. I had only given the room a brief glance earlier, otherwise I would have noticed it.
I absently dropped the cleaning rag as I slowly approached the picture. I hadn't had the chance to actually see the beautiful temple yet, but I did recognize it. A woman in my ward back in Knoxville had given me a book of temples around the world, and for some reason I had always favored the Stockholm, Sweden Temple. Maybe it was the Swedish blood in me, an internal feeling of kinship with any and all things Swedish.
Still, it was a beautiful temple. I had read somewhere that the land on which the temple is built was originally the site of an ancient Viking temple. There was even supposed to be a Viking burial ground about a mile away from the temple site. I found that information incredible.
But why would he have a photo of a temple? I wondered. My eyes took in the picture of the Savior hanging just to the right of it. Suddenly aware of my heartbeat speeding up, I pressed a hand to my chest.
He couldn't be!
Hearing a quiet movement behind me, I turned around and was briefly startled as I again found myself looking up into the hypnotic gaze of Sergei.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” he asked softly.
At the moment I could only nod. Finally finding my voice once more, I asked, “Are you LDS?”
His eyes showed pleasant surprise. “I am,” he answered.
“So am I,” I said softly.
He smiled at me then, as if he had suddenly discovered an old friend. “Small world, is it not?”
“It is,” I said back, giving him a timid smile in return. When he continued to stand there looking at me with those searching brown eyes, I began to be nervous, and I didn't like that feeling at all. “Excuse me,” I said, moving around him and picking up the rag I had dropped.
“I just need to do this room and I will be done for the day.” I bravely looked at him again. “Unless you need me to do something else.”
“No,” he said softly. “Everything looks great. Thank you.”
I heaved a small sigh of relief, having worried that he wouldn't find my work satisfactory. “You're welcome. And thank you for giving me this job. I appreciate it very much.”
“It was my pleasure. Your grandparents speak very highly of you.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled again, suddenly wondering how much Grandma and Grandpa really told him about me. When I said nothing else, he smiled once more and left me to finish, which I did as quickly as possible. The last thing I wanted to do was become more familiar with Sergei. I didn't want to know anything about him that wasn't related to my job, and I didn't want him to know my private business, either.
After I finished, I put the vacuum and the cleaning supplies away. I walked through the massive house a final time to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. Satisfied that I hadn't, I went in search of my employer.
I found Sergei standing in kitchen with a glass of lemonade in his hand, gazing out the large window down into the backyard. Having had to pull my own eyes away from the view earlier, I understood why he was so captivated. It was absolutely breathtaking.
The grass was lush and green, and there were gloriously colored pansies and poppies lining a cobblestone walkway leading out to a beautiful, white iron gazebo. A  half a mile in the distance lay the harbor, filled with various sizes and types of boats. The sunlight shimmered against the water like glittering jewels, and waves gently rolled inward. I sighed, thinking it had to be one of the most lovely and romantic views I had ever seen.
My eyes moved to Sergei again. His stance was relaxed, as if he didn't have a care in the world. He even radiated peace.
What would that be like . . .
Reining in my thoughts, I approached my employer. He turned as I neared.
“Would you like a glass of lemonade?” he asked.
“ No, thank you. I'm all done if you want to check everything once more.”
He smiled. “I do not need to check. I am sure it is fine. Thank you for everything.” He picked up an envelope lying on the counter and handed it to me.
I thanked him and said, “I'll see you next week.” Then I turned to go.
“Let me walk you to the door.” He set his glass on the counter.
“You really don't have to,” I insisted.
“I know,” he said softly.
Saying nothing more, he moved behind me and followed me to the door. Hearing his footsteps on the tile floor behind mine, I wondered why it was suddenly harder for me to breathe. He moved forward and opened the door. I turned to him.
“Thank you again for the job.”
“You are very welcome. I am glad to have you here. And if anything should ever come up and you need to switch days, just call me.”
“I will.”
Walking away, I listened for the closing of the door but didn't hear it, and I knew he was watching me. I could feel his gaze and it was unsettling. I had also felt it during the times I was working in the same room he occupied, but I chose to ignore him. Once or twice when I did glance at him, he looked at me intently and smiled. Then he turned his attention to other things. His presence definitely did things to my nerves.
I shook my head slightly, putting Sergei out of my thoughts and pressed for home.