Simple Riches (23 page)

“We do know,” Stella said, taking a step forward and holding out her arms. “We know everything.”

There was a second’s hesitation, then Alex crumbled into Stella’s arms, sobbing with grief and remorse. “I… I… sorry… so sorry.”

“Shhhhh.” Stella stroked her hair, held her close. “It’ll be okay.”

Alex didn’t know how long they stood there, with her clutching the woman who’d become like a mother to her, or exactly how they made it to the couch, or when Tracy stuffed a handful of Kleenex in her hand and smiled at her through wet eyes and said, “Hey, Alex.”

“We’ve heard some other versions of what’s happened,” Stella said, “but we’d like to hear yours.”

The whole story poured out then, beginning with Alex’s intrigue over the specs on a little town in Restalline, Pennsylvania, and ending with her meeting at Norman Kraziak’s house tonight.

“Damn it, Alex, why didn’t you tell me? I thought we were friends.” This from Gracie, who sat across the room, one foot pushing off on the rocker, her mouth stretched in a straight line.

“We were… we are,” Alex said. “But I couldn’t tell you. I… I didn’t understand it all myself, and once I did, I thought I could just go back to my uncle and tell him it wouldn’t work, that Restalline wouldn’t be a good location to build on.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I never dreamed he’d take on the project himself. I… I’m so sorry, Gracie.”

Gracie stared at her, said nothing. There was hurt in her eyes, hurt and betrayal.

“I wish you would’ve talked to us, but we probably wouldn’t have listened.” Edna Lubovich reached for her hand, squeezed it. “I know Chuck wouldn’t have.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “Oh, no, not my Chuck. He would have called you ten kinds of a traitor, made you leave.”

“But you fell in love with the town, didn’t you, Alex?” Tracy sat beside her mother, sounding so much older than she had a few weeks ago. “And the people. The way you talked to me, like you really cared. That wasn’t fake, I know it wasn’t. I don’t care how or why you came to Restalline, what matters to me is that you came and you cared, cared about us.”

“You became one of us,” Stella said.

“And you fell in love with one of ours,” Gracie whispered.

“And he fell in love with you.” Elise Pentani spoke. She’d said nothing since Alex arrived, but now the power of her words filled the room.

“No,” Alex shook her head. “He… he doesn’t love me… he… can’t even look at me.”

“Time. Time heals all.” Stella put her arm around Alex, pulled her close. “You’ll see.”

***

In the whole town of Restalline, Michael Androvich was the last person Alex would have called on to help her. She’d only seen him a handful of times, only spoken with him once, when he’d come to Nick’s and found her in his bed and given her a warning that she’d better not hurt his brother. Well, she’d done that, and quite openly, not only hurt him, but in his eyes, made a fool of him, too. But Stella had insisted, as had the rest of the women last night, that Michael might just be the only person, as odd as it sounded, to get Nick to listen, get him to help Alex in her attempt to thwart her uncle.

After hours of talking, two pots of coffee and a pot of chamomile tea, they’d decided on a plan to “save” the town. It could be done, Stella insisted, with stick-to-it drive, prayer, and a little luck. Alex knew her uncle and Eric would launch an all-out campaign on the townspeople, try to win them over, force Nick and Androvich Lumber out. They’d plan a forum, call a town meeting, but if Nick were there, backing her, she could get the people to listen to the other side, make them see that fancy words and vague promises didn’t build dreams or raise families or foster goodwill in communities. Maybe she could make them understand what she had not—that small towns have an intangible value and it’s the people caring about, and for, one another that make the difference, instills the hope, creates the faith, builds the trust for the future.

But she needed Nick’s help. The people wouldn’t listen to her without his backing. And why should they? She’d lied to them once already, taken their trust and abused it. They would only expect her to do the same a second time. It was senseless to even try to approach Nick. He wouldn’t talk to her, wouldn’t trust her enough to help her even if it helped the town. Unless someone he
did
trust convinced him.

That someone was Michael. Stella insisted that for all of their differences, for all of Michael’s sullenness, his short temper, and escapades, and for all of Nick’s critical demeanor toward his younger brother, they were still close. Michael could make him listen.

Alex headed down the grassy path behind Michael’s house. There was a large shed a few hundred feet from the two-story log cabin. He was in there, she could tell by the loud humming sound coming from the shed that reminded her of some type of saw. No one had ever mentioned he had an interest in making or repairing anything. Her curiosity drove her to peek in the window of the shed, see what Michael Androvich did in his off-hours besides carouse around and drink beer.

He was bent over some type of machine, wearing goggles, his muscles bulging under a dark T-shirt as he steadied a long instrument against a block of wood that turned around on the machine. Alex watched, mesmerized, as the wood hollowed out in the middle and took the shape of a bowl. After a few more minutes, he cut the power and the bowl stopped spinning. He lifted it off of the machine, held it up.

“Nice. Very nice, Michael.” An old man with a long white-and-gray beard moved into Alex’s line of vision. He was shorter than Michael by two or three inches, solid, still well-muscled. When he turned his head, Alex bit the inside of her cheek. There was a scar slashing half of his face, a pocket of skin where his left eye should be, stretched and pulled to just below the left nostril.

Uncle Frank.

Michael turned his head, just a fraction; spotted her staring at them through the window. His expression turned mean, dark. “Get the hell out of here!” he yelled at her.

The older man, Uncle Frank, turned, looked at her with his good eye. Alex held his gaze, unable to look away.

“I’ll get rid of her,” Michael said.

Uncle Frank stopped him. “No. Bring her here.”

Alex turned away from the window, worked her way to the door.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hello, Michael, nice to see you, too.”

“Cut the bullshit. Why are you spying on us?”

“I wasn’t spying. I needed to talk to you.”

“Talk? To me? Haven’t you done enough damage in this town already? They should’ve booted you out of here last night.”

“I…” Why did he make her so uneasy? Maybe because he did nothing to hide his contempt for her. “I need your help.”

That made him laugh. “You need my help?” He laughed again, stopped abruptly. “I’ll give you my help, Alex Chamberlain, vice president of WEC Management. Leave town now and I won’t let them drag you out by your hair.”

“Michael.” It was Uncle Frank. “Forgive my nephew, Alexandra. He forgets his manners.”

Alex tried to focus on his good eye, a piercing brown-black, tried not to look at the jagged ugly flesh that stretched over the left half of his face. “You must be Uncle Frank.”

He smiled. “I am. Come.” He held out his hand, she took it and followed him into the shed. There were two chairs tucked in the corner of the room. “Sit.”

“She shouldn’t be here.” Michael followed them inside, his longish hair plastered to his neck and the sides of his face.

“It’s all right, Michael. I’ve been looking forward to meeting Alexandra.” He turned to her, patted her hand. “Stella has told me much about you. Thank you for coming to my birthday party.”

“You’re welcome,” she managed, wondering if he ever attended any of his parties.

“I understand”—he drew in a deep breath and stroked his beard—“that you are having a difficulty, a problem—”

“She’s a liar and she got caught.” It was Michael, staring at her, with eyes so like his brother’s… eyes filled with hate…

“This is true?”

Alex dropped her head, nodded. “I thought I was doing the right thing, just doing my job, what I’d been trained to do, but it was wrong, all wrong and when I tried to fix it,” her voice dipped to a whisper, “it was too late.”

“Hmm.”

“And my uncle”—she shrugged—“he wouldn’t let me fix it. He insisted we go through with it, but I couldn’t, so I left.”

“Left? What did you leave, Alexandra?”

His voice was so soft, his words so soothing, that her shoulders started to shake, the last remains of her resolve to crumble. “I left my job and… and my uncle. I left them both. He wouldn’t understand, didn’t want to… he only cared about… about getting this place. That’s all he’s ever cared about…the winning…not me. He’s never cared about me… not unless I brought him a prize… or became the prize.”

“Now what will you do?” Uncle Frank asked. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know where I’ll go yet, but I know I have to make things right before I leave.” She lifted her head, sought out Michael. “That’s why I came here, Michael. I need your help. I… I need you to talk to him.”

“You lied to the whole town.” He glared at her. “Why should anybody care about what you have to say? You’re a liar and you lied to my brother… probably about
everything
.”

He meant her relationship with Nick, her love for him…”No.” She shook her head. “Not everything.”

“Michael, listen to yourself. Think of what you are saying. Have we not lied to the whole town these past years? Have we not deceived our friends, even our family?”

“No, Uncle Frank. That’s different.”

“Is it?” The old man stroked his full beard, held his nephew’s gaze. “I don’t think so. We did what we thought was right, me to protect a tradition, and you, well, you to protect an old man’s pride.”

“But—”

“Did you know, Alex, that I once made bowls and boxes carved from the most beautiful wood in Pennsylvania? Cherry, oak, red maple. And did you know that men traveled from all over the country, trying to get me to sell my things, but I refused? Nothing was for sale. They could only be given as gifts.”

“I’ve seen your work. It’s magnificent.”

“And did you also know that since the accident that took half my face off, I have not been able to make one box or bowl?”

“Uncle Frank—”

“But Stella told me—”

“Yes, she did. Stella still believes I make all of these beautiful things. But I don’t. It’s all a lie, no different than yours, maybe worse.” He patted her hand. “Michael, he’s the one.”

“Michael?” She wouldn’t have thought him capable of creating a bowl made of Popsicle sticks let alone such fine wood.

“He makes the bowls, the boxes, I only observe. So, you see, a lie. Michael lets people think he runs around, acts like a hoodlum, when much of the time, he’s right here, in this shed with me, working.”

“But why?” This addressed to Michael.

He shrugged, looked away.

“For Michael, it is easy to have people think this way of him. That way they will never be disappointed. But one day he must learn that in the end, he will be the one who is most disappointed. I think,” he said, tilting his head to get a better look at his nephew, “that it is time for honesty, time to let the town know that Michael Androvich is the creator of such beauty and also a man of honor, and integrity.”

Michael shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, said nothing.

“Now, Alexandra, how can my nephew help you?”

Michael let himself into the house, headed for the refrigerator. Miller, Brisk Iced tea. Miller, Brisk Iced Tea.
Ah, what the hell
. He grabbed the can of iced tea and popped the top.

Nick should be home any minute now, and then they could have their
talk
. He’d had to bullshit him a little, tell him something was up with Uncle Frank that needed discussing right away. Hell, if he’d have so much breathed
her
name, Nick would have clammed up, told him to go to hell. At least that’s what Elise told him last night when she’d called his house to beg him to talk to Nick. What the hell, they must have all held a big pow-wow, decided to gang up on the men, get them to work on Nick. First it had been Alex, then his mother, then Elise.

Elise.
Shit.
He was thinking about her too much lately. Last night when she’d called him, he’d been lying in bed, and just for a split second, he’d thought, hoped, she’d just wanted to talk to him, Michael, but the first words out of her mouth had been Nick. She still didn’t get it, did she? Nick was off-limits to her, he loved Alex, even though right now he might hate her, and if things didn’t work out between them, he’d be through with women for a while. Caroline had done that to Nick, too, purged his heart of feeling for a long time. And then, Alex Chamberlain had driven into town in her black Saab with her fifty-dollar haircut and fancy pearls and he was a goner.

Until she fed him the big lie. But the bitch of it was, and he hated to admit it, she really did seem to love him. He almost felt sorry for her yesterday, crying on Uncle Frank’s shoulder, her little nose red and puffy. Almost. He was here because he’d promised his uncle he’d do this and that was the only reason. Elise Pentani had nothing to do with it, either. So what if she was disappointed in him?
So what?

He took a gulp of iced tea, sank into the recliner and fished around for the remote. He’d just found an old rerun of
Gunsmoke
when the screen door banged open.

“Michael. Is that you?”

“In here.”

Nick walked into the living room carrying a beer. “What’s up with Uncle Frank?” He sat down on the couch, kicked up his feet on the oak coffee table.

“He wanted me to tell you… Shit, I don’t know how to say this.”

“Then just say it.”

Michael flipped his cap up, scratched his forehead. “You know those bowls and boxes he makes?”

“The ones everybody begs for? The ones the company from New York wanted to market last year? Yeah, I know those boxes.”

“Yeah, well, he hasn’t made a box or a bowl since his accident.”

Nick laughed, took a swig of beer. “Funny, Michael. I’m not in the mood for jokes. His accident was two years ago.”

“Right.”

“So, if Uncle Frank isn’t doing the woodwork, who the hell is, huh? Santa Claus?”

“No.” Michael fidgeted in the recliner, tried to get comfortable. “I am.”

“You?” Nick laughed again, this time louder.

“That’s right. Me.”

“Come on, that kind of work requires hours of concentration, skill, dedication…”

“And I’m not capable of anything like that, right?” He was getting pissed. “Why? Because I’m the screw up in the family? Because I could never be responsible for anything worthwhile? Right? Is that what you’re thinking?”
Shit
, now he was really pissed.

“Hey, settle down. That’s not what I meant. I guess you’re capable, I just never thought of you as doing anything like that.” He took another drink. “So what’s the real story? Why’s Uncle Frank pretending he’s not making the stuff?”

Michael gave him a surly look. “Because he’s not.”

Pause. “You’re really making the bowls? And the boxes? Even the ones carved out of cherry with the scrollwork?”

“That was my design.”

“Hell, do you realize what kind of business you could have? How much money you could make? Shit, Michael, you could name your own price!”

Michael shook his head. “They’re not for sale.”

“But—”

“Not everything’s for sale, Nick. You should know that better than anybody. I’m doing it because I love the feel of wood in my hands, love to create something with it.”

“Then at least come out of the woods, give that up.”

“How can I give up the smell of pine, the leaves, the earth? There’s nothing like it after a rain. I can’t give that up. It’s a part of me. I might as well cut my hand off.”

“I’ve been waiting, hoping you’d take over the business.”

Michael rubbed his jaw. “I might help out… but I don’t think either one of us wants to run the business. We’d suffocate. Why not turn it over to Rudy? He’s grown up with wood just like us.”

“You really don’t want it?”

“No.”

“Okay then. Rudy. Hmm.”

“Or Gracie,” Michael said. “She’s a tough-ass kind of broad. She’d keep the guys in shape.”

“Gracie,” Nick said. “I like that. Gracie Ann Androvich Romanski, CEO of Androvich Lumber.”

“Yeah, print that on her diaper bag.” Both men laughed.

“Thanks, Michael. I appreciate your help and I’m sorry if I misjudged you.”

Michael lifted his drink, saluted his brother. “It’s okay, really. I know I can be an asshole sometimes.” He cleared his throat. “That thing about Caroline… I never should have doubted you. You were my brother, I should have trusted you more.”

“It’s over. It’s been over a long time now,” Nick said. “Let it go, okay?”

Michael nodded.

“Good.” Nick tipped his head back, finished his beer. “That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. When you said you needed to talk, I had no idea what you needed to tell me.” He laughed. “This was nothing.”

Michael cleared his throat. “Actually, there is one other thing.”

“Oh?”

“Uncle Frank wanted me to talk to you about it. It’s coming straight from him.”

“Sure. Anything for the old man. What is it?”

“He wants you to talk to Alex.”

That stopped him. His eyes got real narrow and he cleared his throat—twice. “How does he know about her?”

“She came to see him, I mean me, and he was there. There was this instant connection between them, she cried on his shoulder, told him what a bad girl she was and how sorry she was for all of it and, well, you know Uncle Frank. He tried to make her feel better, told her you’d meet with her, help her persuade the town to stand firm and fight her uncle.”

“Christ.” Nick rubbed a hand over his face, “How could he do this to me?”

“The hell of it was, she seemed so damn sincere, especially the part where she told him she loved you.” He eyed his brother, saw the involuntary jerk of his shoulders. “Yeah, it was probably all a scam, but I saw her face, it looked damn sincere.”

“She’s a good actress.”

There was a ton of pain in those words. “Maybe she’s not acting.” Did Michael believe that or was he just saying it to make Nick feel better? No, he believed it.

“Hell, what do you know about it? You’ve got Elise Pentani so confused and mixed up she can’t think of anything but telling me what a worthless piece of scum you are.”

“Elise?”
She’s in love with you, fool, not me. She can’t stand me.
“Elise and I don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

“You could do worse than settle down with Elise, you know.”

“I’m not settling down with anybody. Besides, she hates my guts.”

“If she hates your guts so much then why was she so upset when she found Cynthia Collichetti half naked at your house? Huh? Oh, didn’t think I knew about that? Elise told me all about it… several times.”

She was upset? How upset?
Of course she’d be upset, she thought he was worthless, a reptile of the lowest form. “This isn’t about me,” Michael said, changing the subject. “Alex’s uncle is holding some kind of town meeting tomorrow night to try and persuade the rest of the town to sell out so he can build that rich-bitch resort of his. She’s going to try and talk people out of it, tell them the downside of selling out and all that, but she doesn’t think anybody will listen”—he scratched his chin—“unless you give her your stamp of approval.” He downed the rest of his iced tea, burped, and said, “So don’t be such a chickenshit, talk to her, will ya?”

***

Nick turned the phone over in his hands. Once, twice, three times. Michael was right. He really was a chickenshit. But damn it, he didn’t want to talk to her, to hear her voice, to see her in his mind. He wanted to forget her, be done with it, over,
now
, not tomorrow or the next day or next week; but how the hell was he going to do that when he had to have a conversation with her that was only going to start the remembering all over again?

Hadn’t he vowed after Caroline that he was never going to let himself get into that kind of situation again, where you gave your heart, your soul, your trust, where
everything mattered so damn much?
Lisa hadn’t mattered, much to his mother’s pleasure, neither had the ones before that. Until Alex. She mattered.

Shit.

This one was going to be a long, slow death, the kind that sucked you dry, left you hollowed out and decaying, half insane with remembering, filled with bitterness and longing that you’d deny to your grave.

It hadn’t been that way with Caroline. Her death was merely the culmination of a tortured relationship gone bad. He’d loved his wife, but he couldn’t save her, couldn’t stop her from suffocating their marriage with her insecurities, her neediness, her paranoid reactions to life. She’d died long before they pulled her charred body from the second-story bedroom on Freeman Avenue. If he were honest, he’d have to admit that the Caroline he knew and loved had died the day she left Restalline, withering a little more each year, like a flower without water, until the essence had disappeared, crowded out by insecurity and clumps of neediness, burying all indication of what had been.

He’d promised Michael he’d call. Uncle Frank was expecting him to do this—so was his mother, his sister, hell, who else thought he ought to call her? Fine, he’d do it and be done. He grabbed his cell, punched out her number.

“Hello.”

It was her.
“It’s me, Nick.”

“Nick.”

He didn’t like the way she said his name, like she was sucking in oxygen. “Michael said you came to see him.”

Silence. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

Why was she so hesitant? Where was the take-charge, ball-busting Alex he knew? Was she trying to be demure, hesitant, so he’d feel sorry for her? Too late, she’d get no sympathy from him. “He said your uncle’s holding a meeting tomorrow night at seven.”

“Yes.” Pause. “Can you be there? I… I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need your help.”

“What, you mean you blew your credibility?” He knew he was being a jerk, but he didn’t care.

“If you called to make me feel worse, that’s not possible. So, are you going to put aside our differences and try to make these people see sense or not?”

There was a trace of the old Alex. “Seven o’clock. I’ll be there.”

“Thank you. Do you think we should meet before that, try to come up with a plan?”

“How about something new and innovative, like the truth?”

“You’re never going to let this go, are you?”

“Probably not.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Right.”
Click
. Nick tossed his cell on the couch and rubbed his eyes. He had to stop acting like a wounded animal ready to lash out, rip flesh from bone. She was only a woman… one woman… and he was more than one kind of fool if he thought he could just blink twice and forget about her.

***

You’ve got Elise Pentani so confused and mixed up she can’t think of anything but telling me what a worthless piece of scum you are…

You could do worse than settle down with Elise, you know…

If she hates your guts so much then why was she so upset when she found Cynthia Collichetti half naked at your house? …she told me all about it…several times…

It was early morning, the sun hadn’t been up more than an hour and Michael was walking the trail, preparing to take down two big oaks that were wedged between a copse of cherry and walnut saplings. There was an art to dropping them without disrupting the younger trees, but Michael would have the oaks on the ground before the rest of the crew showed up. Twenty minutes, tops. He set down his saw, sized up the first tree. It was a big mother, wide and burly, with branches that were the size of trees and roots—thicker than both of Michael’s legs—protruding from the ground.

Mornings in the woods were his favorite time. It was the only time he could really think… He touched the bark, felt the coarseness of the wood…his mind wandered…

Nick didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Elise wasn’t in love with Michael. Hell, she couldn’t stand his guts. She loved Nick, she’d always loved Nick. But there’d been a time or two when he’d wondered what it would be like to nip at the soft spot just beneath her ear, trail his lips down her throat, hear her moan as his hand closed over one melon-sized breast. They were fleeting thoughts, maybe dreams of some sort, coming to him right before he fell asleep at night, or at predawn, or shit, coming to him once when he was banging Cynthia Collichetti. He’d felt like a real slime bucket after that. What kind of man bangs one woman while he’s thinking about another one?