Simple Riches (12 page)

His shoulders drooped and he stared down at his plate.

“But,” she went on, “they say it’s like riding a bike. Once you learn how, you never forget.” She spoke his name, then, soft, comforting, “Justin? Would you like to play baseball after dinner?”

His head shot up, and he nodded.

Nick watched the two of them, Justin with that stupid grin on his face, wide enough to show off the gap where his left front tooth had been, and Alex, smiling, a real smile, not one of those polite-shake-your-hand kind of smiles. She was being nice to Justin, and Nick appreciated that. When he got a chance, he’d tell her so. He hadn’t pictured her for the kid type, not with the pearls and the Rolex and the Saab. That had translated into something more cosmopolitan, more chic, more self-centered.

Maybe he was wrong about Alex. Maybe he needed to back up and get a history on her, forget the initial impression. He pretended an intense preoccupation with the insides of a pierogie, separating potato from onion as though he were dissecting internal organs. Alex was still talking to Justin, and the boy was laughing, honest to God laughing.

“So, if the ladder wasn’t tall enough, how’d you get the cat out of the tree?” he asked.

“Simple,” Alex said. “I put on my old sneakers and climbed it. Of course, at ten years old, I didn’t think about how I was going to get down with a cat in my arms. I must’ve been up there two or three hours.”

“Weren’t you scared?”

“Not really. I had Daisy with me. We just sat there and I held her, pressing my cheek against her fur. She was tan and white, with black paws. To this day, I’ve never felt anything so soft.”

“Who found you?”

“My aunt.” The lightness drained out of her voice. Nick set his fork down, looked up. She was staring at her glass but he knew she wasn’t seeing it, knew she was miles away, years away, back in that tree.

“So what happened next?” Justin asked with the innocence of one anticipating a happy ending and wanting to hear every minute detail.

“Aunt Helen called the fire department and they brought their ladder and got us down.”

“Wow. That’d be so cool. So then what? Did Daisy stay out of that tree?”

There was a second’s lapse, the briefest of moments when Alex’s mouth clenched into a hard, fierce line. “Yes, she stayed out of it. Aunt Helen gave her away two days later when I was at school. She said I was too young to care for Daisy and she’d be better off with another family, one who would be more responsible. Maybe in a couple of years, we’d try again.”

“Where’d she go? Do you know?”

“She went to the golf course to keep the area clean.”

“Huh?”

“To hunt mice,” Alex said.

“Did you ever go visit her?”

“Twice. One day she just disappeared, nobody knew where, and nobody went to look for her.” She paused, then said, “They just got another cat.”

***

“Thank you for playing ball with Justin.”

“Oh, is that what I was doing?” She’d run, jumped, fell, scraped her knees and got hit in the shin several times in a weak imitation that didn’t even vaguely resemble what she’d seen on a real baseball field.

“Sure was.” She and Nick were sitting on the swing in Stella’s backyard. The crickets were already filling the twilight with noisy cadence.

“Well, I couldn’t tell him the only time I’d ever held a baseball was in a souvenir shop.” She shrugged and thought of Justin’s face when he’d asked her if she played baseball, so hopeful, innocent.

“I appreciate that. You know, no matter what we teach our kids, there are times when honesty really isn’t the best policy.”

Right. Like now, for instance. If I told you why I was really here, you’d boot me out so fast my head would spin all the way back to Edna’s.
“You’re right. There’s a time when it’s honorable to twist the facts.”

“I’ve done it a time or two myself.”

They were quiet after that, rocking back and forth on the old swing as it creaked and groaned with the weight of their bodies pressing against the boards. Justin and Kevin and Sara were on the front porch eating ice cream sandwiches and trying to catch fireflies. Stella had herded them out of the backyard, waving the box of ice cream sandwiches in the air like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. She’d said nothing to Alex and Nick, merely turned and winked at them. Grace and Rudy had packed up their brood an hour ago and headed home.
I’ll see you tomorrow
, Grace had said.
We’ll make pasta together
. There was a genuineness about her, an open honesty that spread to everyone near her. Alex had never been like that. She’d always hidden her thoughts, huddled them close to her, careful not to show too much. It was the way she’d been raised. With reserve, dignity, poise.
Don’t smile so wide
, Aunt Helen had told her when she was twelve.
You look like a horse. Practice. Practice in the mirror. Don’t look so… happy. It’s just so common. Allusive… that’s what you want.

“Are you still interested in showing me around town?”

He didn’t answer at first. “My schedule’s gotten really crazy—”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to feel obligated.” Why did she feel a pang of disappointment at his response? “I understand.”

“It’s just that—”

“Nick, forget it. I can’t talk to one person that I don’t hear about Dr. Nick and how he’s fixed them up. I know you’re busy.” She paused. “It’s just that I would have appreciated it if you would have returned my phone calls and told me yourself.”

He stopped the swing, looked at her. “What phone calls?”

Alex shook her head, let out a sound that was half laugh, half aggravation. “Trying to
twist
the facts a little?”

“No.” He touched her chin with the tips of his fingers. “Look at me. What phone calls, Alex?”

She turned and saw the confusion in his eyes. “I called your office a few times, but you were always busy. After the fourth time, I got the message.”

“
I
didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. If I’m going to tell you no, I’d like to know I’m doing it, not someone else.” He rubbed the side of his face. “I wonder why Elise didn’t tell me.”

“You said you’ve been busy,” Alex said, anxious to be done with the conversation. Even if he was telling the truth, and the look on his face told her he probably was, he’d just admitted he was too busy to show her around. Either way, it was a rejection and she wanted to be done with it.

“I am busy, so is Elise. But it’s not like her to lose a message, or in this case, messages. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She looked away as the last rays of light seeped through the branches. “Really.” If it was one thing Uncle Walter and Aunt Helen taught her it was to never, ever be a burden to another person.

“Maybe I can take you around tomorrow night, say seven o’clock?”

She shook her head. “That’s okay. Edna’s offered, so has Gracie.”

He ran a hand over his face. His fingers were strong, tanned, capable. “Edna’s a sweetheart but you’re going to hear about everything from old man Hatzinger’s cat to Mrs. Glonski’s pregnant niece from Schenectady. And Gracie will drag you from Restalline to Clarkton looking for garage sales.”

“Then I guess I’ll include Edna’s stories and Gracie’s garage sales in my research. After all, it’s small-town behavior that I’m researching.”
And they won’t think of me as an inconvenience.

“I’ll take you,” he said, his voice firm, final. “Talk to them if you want, listen to Edna tell you about the way old man Hatzinger dressed his cat and took him to church, go with Gracie to fifteen zillion garage sales in search of the perfect pink tights for ten cents, but let me show you the land, the surroundings, the openness that’s nothing like a city.”

She hesitated a second, then nodded. “Okay.”

“One more thing. We’ve got some eccentrics in this town, but they’re ours. Good, honest, hardworking people. We take care of them and we care
about
them. I don’t want you making fun of them for the sake of an interesting read.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Just remember that. They’ll give you their trust, take what you say at face value and never think twice about it.”

“But not you.” The words fell out, cold, hard, wedged between them.

“I lived in the city, remember?” he said, avoiding a direct answer. “I know what preys there, what gobbles other people up, what can destroy them.”

“Not everybody is Godzilla.”

He didn’t answer. “I’ll help you, but just remember, you’re writing about these people’s lives, their families, the only town most of them have ever known.”

“You really don’t trust me, do you?”
Why don’t you trust me? You can’t possibly know what I’m doing here.

“I don’t know you.”

“Neither does your mother, but she trusts me.”

“Yeah, well, she trusts everybody.” He laughed then, and she did too.

I’ll get you to trust me, you’ll see. And then I’ll convince you that life does exist elsewhere, maybe not in a big city, but a suburb. There are lots of hospitals in the suburbs, and they need someone like you, a doctor who cares about his patients, really cares. They’ll pay you a lot of money, get you established, find Justin a good school. Suburbs have land, parks, grass, for God’s sake, and theaters and ball games. You’ll see, Nick Androvich, you’ll see, I’ll get you to trust me. I will. I know all about suburbs, I know a lot of people. I’ll help you. I’ll help them all. Trust me, trust me. We’ll all be winners, every one of us.

“About my mother…” He leaned his elbow on the back of the swing, balled his hand into a fist under his chin. “She’s not the most… subtle person in the world.”

“That’s okay.” She didn’t want to hear this. Why couldn’t they just ignore it?

“It’s obvious what she’s trying to do… what they’re all trying to do.”

Oh, no
. Was he really going to talk about it? No, no he wasn’t. “Why don’t we just forget it?” She touched her throat, felt for her necklace, her thumb and forefinger grasping two pearls, turning them over and over, the soft, smooth feel of them calming her, reminding her who she was, where she’d come from.
Dignity, Alex
, her Aunt Helen had told her.
One must maintain dignity at all times
. “I really don’t think we need to discuss it.”

“Of course we need to discuss it.” He sounded annoyed. “What are we going to do? Ignore it?”

“Well… yes.” Her fingers worked the pearls, harder, faster.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. We have to at least address the issue… take a stand.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know my family.” He blew out a long breath. “Next they’ll be planning the—”

“If we just ignore it, eventually they’ll stop.”

“Is that how you deal with problems?” He was close, leaning toward her, his breath fanning her hair. “Just ignore them, wait for them to go away?”

Sometimes
. She turned to face him, the last sliver of light on his face. He was close, so close. Alex inched back, felt the wood of the swing dig into her back. “Look, Nick, it’s no big deal. Let’s forget it, okay?”

He ignored her. “I was trying to apologize for them. Sometimes they don’t know when to stop.”

“Thank you.”
Okay, now let’s be done
.

“It’s not as if… as though… you and I… we don’t even …”

That was it. “I think I know what you’re trying to say.” She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and stared at his face, half hidden in darkness and shadow. “You and I are not interested in one another in any capacity other than a strictly business one, in which you will act as a guide while I conduct my research in this town. There is not, nor will there ever be, even the merest hint of attraction to one another, and any attempt to enhance the relationship will be done so merely in the name of politeness.” There. Let him think about that.

He did not respond at first, and she wondered if her words had been too harsh, too cruel. She’d spent so many years burrowing under layers of aloofness that she didn’t stop to consider whether that very thing that protected her, injured others. “I… I’m sorry.”

The kiss came from nowhere, hard, powerful, consuming. He pulled her to him, his arms strong, protective, pressing her against his chest, hard planes to soft. She opened her mouth, let the feel of his tongue move over her, into her, through her. Heat pulsed deep inside, hot and wanting. Closer, she wanted to get closer. Her fingers found his hair, stroked its silkiness.

Then it was over and Nick was pulling away. His breathing was hard, heavy. Alex couldn’t move, couldn’t see his face in the darkness, couldn’t see if it was filled with regret. He unwound her arms from around his neck, placed them in her lap, and stood. “I’m sorry too, Alex.” Then he turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Alex sprinkled flour over the long strip of dough, flipped it over and sprinkled the other side. Then she went to the next strip and the next until she had ten lined up. There had to be an easier way. She was hot and sticky, the back of her neck was wet, even her bra clung to her. They’d been at it all morning, pouring flour from a twenty-five pound bag of Robin Hood, mixing, kneading, cutting, flouring, and—the fun part—running the flattened strips of dough through the pasta machine. Finally, they’d spread the noodles out on dowels, set up over the backs of eight chairs, in the dining room no less, with layers of newspaper covering the carpet.
They have to dry properly
, Stella had told her.
Air, that’s what they need. Don’t let them lump together, spread them around. In the old days, I didn’t have dowels, so I used to cover the dining room table with paper towels and spread them out there.

Alex tried to picture Aunt Helen’s mahogany table covered with layers of paper towel and floured noodles. It was impossible, of course.
Furniture is to be respected
, she’d said, the one and only time Alex had left her algebra book on the table.
Do you have any idea what the value of this table is? What it’s worth?

But these people didn’t seem to care. When Sophia spilled her whole cup of apple juice on the linoleum floor, Stella had just handed Gracie a rag and she’d cleaned it up. No fuss, no lecture, no warning that she was a disrespectful child.

“Alex? Ready to roll?” Gracie laughed, held out her hand for a strip of pasta. “Mom’s grading you, you know.”

Alex handed Gracie the pasta, waited for her to roll it through the machine twice, once to flatten it, and then a second time to cut it into wide noodles. She caught the noodles as they fell through the blades and then hurried to the dining room and lay them over a dowel.

“Stella,” she said, after they’d finished another batch, “isn’t there an easier way?”

The older woman looked up from the ball of dough in front of her. “What do you mean?” Her hands and fingers were crusted and caked with dough.

Alex wiped a hand over her forehead. “This is a lot of work! Isn’t there an easier way to get it done? Automate it somehow?” She looked over at Gracie, who was smiling. “Buy it, maybe?”

“Buy it?
Buy it?
Why on earth would I want to buy someone else’s noodles?”

Gracie laughed. “Bad word in this house.”

Alex tried to explain. “Well, it’d be a lot easier and probably cheaper when you figured the time and effort you put into it.”

“But Alex, why would I do that? I’m making noodles because I enjoy it, that’s half the reason for doing it. If I found a cheaper, faster way to do it, like those confounded bread machines they have out today, what would be the sense? Where’s the feeling of accomplishment? Any imbecile can measure out flour and water, dump it in a machine and press a button. But it’s the
knowing
that makes the difference, knowing the right ingredients by sight and feel, handed down through the family, working it in your hands. Creating something, that’s what it is, Alex and you can’t buy that in a store or with a machine.”

“But you do use a machine for your noodles.”

She nodded her head and a tangle of brown-gray fell forward. Stella pushed it back with her forearm. “My mother used to make it all by hand, on a big cutting board. She’d roll the dough into huge pieces bigger than a pizza and cut each noodle with a knife. When she got older, her fingers got gnarled with arthritis and she couldn’t hold the knife. The boys, my brothers, bought her a pasta machine”—she patted the machine beside her— “this machine. And every time I use it, I think of her. That’s why I don’t make the noodles by hand, and it’s the only reason.”

“Wait until you taste these, Alex,” Gracie said from her spot on the kitchen chair. “You’ll love them.” She was resting her hands across her bulging stomach, occasionally massaging her fingers in small circles. Gracie was her mother minus thirty years or so, with the same brown hair and eyes. They shared the same smile and when they laughed, Alex had to look to see which one it was.

“We’ll cook some of these up for lunch with a little oil and garlic,” Stella said. “The kids can have butter if you want, Gracie, but I keep telling you it’s time to introduce them to oil and garlic. We had to when we were kids, and besides, it’s much healthier.”

Gracie rolled her eyes. “I know, I know.”

“Okay, so you know, but I don’t see you making it for them.”

“I’ve just gotten Rudy used to it, Mom. Not everybody wants to be Italian. You know he’s Czech and he eats all of your Czech food.”

Stella
tsk-tsked
, looked at Alex, who was playing with a few leftover dough crumbs. “What about you, Alex? Do you like Italian?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

“Ask her if she likes Czech,” Gracie said.

“What about Czech food? Do you like that?”

Alex thought of what Nick had said.
Thymus gland and cow’s stomach
. “Some.”

“See?” Stella cast a triumphant look at her daughter. “She’s a good girl.”

“Come for thymus gland tonight, Alex. We’ll see how much you like it.” Gracie grinned when she saw Alex pinch her lips together in disgust.

“How often do you make pasta?” Alex asked, trying to change the subject.

“Oh, not so much anymore, probably twice a month, unless someone gets sick or asks for it. When the kids were babies, I made noodles once a week, faithfully. Nick Senior loved them”—her voice fell an octave—“especially the thin ones. He said that’s really why he married me.” She drew in a deep breath, “When he died, I made them two, three times a week. It was my therapy.” She shrugged. “It helped me feel close to him. I gave most of them away, but I just kept making them.”

“And then everybody started asking for them,” Gracie said, “and they haven’t stopped. You’d think she was a store, Alex. People call her up and ask her not only for the noodles, but for the chicken soup or sauce that goes with them. Do you believe it? And you know what? She does it!
Do you believe that?”

“No, not really.” How could somebody give everything away?
Why would they do that?
“If you lived in the city, someone would have snatched you up a long time ago, Stella, given you a trade name like Mama Stella’s Cuisine, and marketed it in the gourmet section of the grocery store. You’d be rich.”

Stella met Alex’s gaze and gave her a slow smile filled with a wisdom that only comes with living. “I already am.”

“Yeah, well, I think what Alex is saying is that you’d have money too, Mom,” Gracie said. “Not just kind words and thank yous, and ‘oh, by the way, I’ll take another pumpkin nut roll,’ but cash. Dinero.”

“You girls.” Stella shook her head. “One day you’ll understand.”

“I know, I know, ‘give and you shall receive’ and all that.” Gracie stood up and yawned.

“Gracie, speaking of giving, why don’t you and Alex drop a bag off at Nick and Michael’s after lunch?”

Nick
. Alex stared at the crumbs in front of her, tried to steady her breathing. In and out, in and out,
just breathe
. She’d been waiting for one of them to mention his name all morning, half hoping, half dreading that he would show up here in his mother’s kitchen, explain why he’d kissed her, then said he was sorry, too. What had he meant? Was he sorry he’d kissed her? Sorry he felt the same way she did? Sorry for what? The kiss?
What?
She’d spent hours lying on Tracy’s pink ruffled comforter, playing and replaying those five seconds in the dark, when life stood still and nothing existed but the feel of Nick, his lips, his tongue, his hands.

And then the other question, the one that had her tossing and turning the second half of the night. Was she sorry he kissed her? Well, was she? The honest truth, no twisting allowed, was yes… and no.

“I’m not very happy with either one of my brothers right now,” Gracie said, grabbing a large pot from the bottom cupboard. “They both promised they’d stop in Clarkton at the flea market and look for an old cradle. You know, the kind with the base that’s suspended in the air. I even sketched it out for them.” She lifted the pot, put it on the stove. “Last week.” She carried the pot to the sink, turned on the spigot. “I haven’t heard a word about it, not a peep.”

“You know they’ve both been very busy.”

“Yeah, well, see if I make them brownies anytime soon.”

“Now Gracie—”

“And don’t you go making them any either, especially not the ones with the double fudge. Busy or not, I’m their sister, their
only
sister. They could have found an hour in the last seven days to check it out.”

Stella sighed, “Alex, see what having siblings does to a grown woman? It makes her behave like a child sometimes.”

Gracie ignored her mother and turned to Alex. “Respect and a little consideration, that’s all I’m asking.”

“Maybe they’re planning a big surprise for you,” Stella said. “Maybe you shouldn’t ask so many questions or you’ll ruin it.”

“But I need it now so Rudy can strip it and get it refinished before the baby comes. You know, seven weeks is right around the corner, and what if I’m early, like I was with Cecily? Then what?”

“Then you relax and Rudy will set up the crib in the attic. Now hush before you spoil everything.”

A huge smile spread over Gracie’s face, a mixture of pure joy and anticipation. “They got it already, didn’t they?”

Stella kept her eyes on the pasta board in front of her. “I’m not saying anything else.” She picked up a knife and started scraping dried dough from the wooden board.

“They did, didn’t they, Mom?” Gracie’s voice squeaked with excitement.

“Gracie Ann, if you don’t stop pestering me right now, I’m going to tell your brothers, and then see if you get anything!”

Gracie laughed, rushed over to her mother—as fast as a seven-month’s-pregnant woman could—and hugged her. “Thanks, Mom. I won’t say a word. Promise. And Alex and I will take the noodles
and
I’ll make both of them a batch of brownies tonight.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Stella said, “you just remember that.”

Alex watched the interaction between mother and daughter, her chest tightening with a pain she hadn’t felt since she was in the eighth grade and the students put on a commemorative play to honor their mothers. Afterward, there was a reception with lemonade, and chocolate chip cookies baked in Home Economics. The mothers sat in folding chairs and drank from plastic cups. Each of the students wrote a note to their mothers, thanking them for being so caring and generous with their time and their love. Alex wrote a note, too, filled with wonderful, sappy words, all for Aunt Helen;
I love you so much, you are such a wonderful person, thank you for coming into my life
. And more than anything she wanted them to be true, wanted to feel the love, the gratitude that flowed from those words, wanted Aunt Helen to be so moved that she’d pull Alex into her arms, mindless of the wrinkles it would put in the linen of her Chanel suit, and hold her tight, sobbing with joy and love.
Yes, Alex, yes I love you, child. I’ve always loved you. And now, now I’m going to show you
.

Alex waited for those words with the innocence of one who believed that wishing hard enough could make the impossible come true. She remembered Aunt Helen’s face with her smooth, perfect makeup as she scanned the note.
Thank you, Alex. That’s very nice of you
, she’d said in the same tone she used when she told the gardener to clip a little more off the privet. And then she laid the note down, leaned over, and whispered in Alex’s ear,
Can you believe they’re using plastic glasses? And where are the table linens? You’d think they’d take a little more pride in
presentation
. Alex knew then, as the pain gripped her chest, tore her hope apart, that Aunt Helen would never love her the way a mother loved a daughter.

Mothers were women like Stella Androvich.

“Alex, do you know what time Nick will be by?” Stella was at the sink, rinsing lettuce for lunch.

“No. I have no idea.” The thought of seeing him again made her suck in a deep breath. What would she do when she saw him? Should she pretend nothing happened?
Could
she pretend?

Stella looked over her shoulder, met Alex’s eyes. “Oh. I was just wondering. You and Nick looked awful cozy last night.”

“We were just talking.” It came out in a rush, the words all jumbled together. Had Stella seen Nick kiss her?

“Sure. I know. Talking.” She turned back to the sink. “Just talking.”

***

She loved to watch him.

The way he moved, the absent gesture when he rubbed his jaw, his smile, the left side tilting up a fraction higher than the right, and his eyes, darker than bittersweet chocolate… He’d been up a good part of the night, called in during the early morning hours when Chuck Lubovich was rushed into the hospital, possible stroke. There was a dark shadow along his face and jaw, evidence that the electric razor he kept at the office couldn’t compete with the razor he used at home. The tiny lines on the sides of his eyes and mouth were more pronounced today, etched in. He’d changed into one of the clean shirts he kept in his office, a blue-and-white-pinstripe, same jeans. His eyes were closed, his head resting against the back of the leather chair.