12Thirty months, Anya reflected as she read the paper. A lot could happen in thirty months.
It had been nearly thirty months from her illness and nearly thirty-two months since she had begun her project, and she had to admit it was nearly everything that she had hoped for. She had nearly half of the building done, and planned to finish it in the next couple years.
There had been some talk, talk that Jason had nearly confirmed, that her ideas might be difficult to accomplish. Something, according to the paper, happened, and someone had shot someone else. She tried her best to ignore these mad guesses and ideas, but she couldn't help but feel that a war could interrupt her progress, and that was the last thing she wanted.
The late summer weather had turned muggy and hot, and she began to perspire from under her layers of layers of prohibitive clothing. Anya opened the door to her home and walked through the dozens of hallways and into the kitchen, then into the kitchen. She reached into the icebox and pulled out a large glass of iced tea.
She sat and read the paper, waiting for something, anything to happen. And something did. The telephone rang in its high, shrill tones. She ran out of the kitchen and into the library where the phone was.
"Look, Anya," Jason called through the phone. "I've got us tickets back to new York."
"Why in the world? I've got to stay here and work; I can't..."
Jason cut off her reply. "Anya, listen to me. War's been declared, troops are moving into France, and we can't stay her and shot up. We've got to go back to New York."
"No, you can't make me. I'm not going."
"Anya, I'm going to make you, whether you want to or not."
"I'm not going and I don't want to and you can't and won;' make me. I'm not leaving."
"You are leaving and I'm going with you. I can't leave my home."
"Anya. I'm having some people pack all of your stuff at the hotel, and you also need to pack your belongings there. Alright?"
"No! You can't." She told him, before he hung up.
She didn't pack anything from her home. She sat waiting in her ballroom for Jason to come. She wasn't sure what she was going to do, but there was no way he was going to force her to leave her house.
Jason walked right in, briefcase in hand.
"Come on."
"Not going."She kept sitting in her chair.
"Anya, please." He stopped in front of her.
"No, Jason. I can't come with you. I'm sorry."
He sat down beside her with his head in his hands. He sighed. "I can't make you, can I?"
"No." Anya shook her head.
"This is goodbye then, isn't it?" he said quietly.
"For now." She said her voice breaking. She turned around and hugged him, crying into his shoulder.
The old, Italian cook in the New York Horton house sat down one morning, nearly a year later, a cup of black coffee in one hand and the New York Times in another. She gazed over the front page, and flipped over to the society columns, and then finding them empty and boring, she flipped over to the obituary columns. She found them void of family members and important people , she turned over to the civilian casualty columns. She looked under Merdici, she had family back in Europe. But the only new name starting with an M was Moskieve, Anya Moskieve. The cook nearly choked on her coffee. She got up and rushed out of the kitchen. She had to find Mrs. Horton.
Be nice and review. I have a poll up and I need people to vote. Please be nice and do that also. This story is nearly finished, I only have an epilogue to write. BE NICE AND REVIEW. Sorry it is short.