Simple Riches (14 page)

And Alex would have given just about anything right now to be back in Stella Androvich’s cozy kitchen with her wrought-iron roosters, sipping Maxwell House coffee, and eating bread dumplings and stuffed cabbage.

“Madame?”

She glanced up at the waiter, wondered if he waxed his thin mustache to make it curl up at the ends. “Yes?”

“More wine, Madame?”

She shook her head, glanced at her half-filled glass. “No, no thank you.” Stella would like this wine. Cabernet 1962. Perhaps she should bring her a bottle, maybe some crystal glasses, too.

“So, Alex, tell the truth, isn’t it great to be back in civilization again?” Eric leaned closer, his smooth voice rolling over her skin, lifting the tiny hairs on her forearms.

“Restalline isn’t exactly the Stone Ages,” she said.

He laughed, laid a hand over hers. “No, that’s true. Beverly Hillbillies would be my guess.”

She didn’t like his tone or his words. “They’re very nice people, Eric, with successful businesses, families, and lives that fulfill them.”

“So I hear.” He glanced at Uncle Walter. “Who’s this doctor? Androvich?”

Her pulse kicked in an extra beat. Alex slipped her hand out from under Eric’s. “His name is Nick Androvich, and yes, he’s a doctor, family medicine.”

Eric straightened in his chair, picked up his wine glass. “Probably went to some school in East Podunk, U.S.A., graduating last in his class.”

“Actually, no.” This would kill Eric and his self-importance. He thought he was one of the only ones who were gifted with superior intelligence. “His mother said he was in the top tenth of his graduating class from Hahnemann and even received a fellowship to study Family Practice. And of course, he’s board certified.”

“So, what’s the catch?”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s wrong with the guy?” He pushed up his wire-rimmed glasses. “I mean, if the guy’s such a brain, why isn’t he at Johns Hopkins? Or Mayo Clinic or the Cleveland Clinic? Why’s he in some little no-name community hospital in the middle of nowhere?”

“Maybe that’s where he’s needed most.” She thought of all the people she’d met over the past few weeks; Harry Lendergin and his gall bladder, Ida Sellone and her high blood pressure, Chuck Lubovich and his heart, and Edgar Malowski and his chronic back pain. A person couldn’t cross the street without hearing praise for Dr. Nick. How many other doctors still made house calls? And how many accepted roast chickens and cherry pie as payment? Of course, Eric would never understand that.

“Or maybe”—he took a long sip of wine—“maybe that’s the only place he could get a job.”

“Eric.” Uncle Walter’s voice held the hint of quiet authority that had gained him praise throughout the boardrooms in Northern Virginia. “Androvich’s medical abilities aren’t in question here. I’m more concerned with his ability and desire to take the deal we’re offering him should we decide we want the town.”

“Of course.” Eric paused. “I just don’t want Alex getting all friendly with these people and losing her focus on why she’s there.”

“I’m not losing my focus—”

“I didn’t say—”

“Alex. Eric.” Uncle Walter gave them both a hard look. “This isn’t a competition between you two.”

“She’s losing her edge, Walter. I can see it in the way she talks about these people, like she wants to be their best friend, for God’s sake. And what about the money, huh? What’s with this two and three times fair market value? Why not just give them a blank check, let them fill in the zeroes.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Eric.”

“I’m being practical. I can’t go in and negotiate if you’re opening up the checkbook. I’ll look like an ineffectual ass.”

“It’s always about you and what you’ll look like, isn’t it?” Anger burned through her. “You don’t give a damn about what’s the right thing to do, the fair thing, do you?”

“Fair for whom? Right for whom?” He frowned. “We’ve got a business to run here, and I’m hired to make sure we see a profit. You’re supposed to be doing the same thing.”

“I am.”

“Well, well,” Uncle Walter said, “at least I can be assured WEC Management has two dedicated employees, eager to do right by it, albeit in different manners. Why don’t you two settle your differences and let’s enjoy our meals?”

Alex and Eric stared at one another, neither willing to concede defeat.

Eric straightened his blue silk tie, met his employer’s gaze. “I think I should go back with Alex, Walter. See what’s going on and make sure she’s on the right track.”

“I’m not a child. I know my job.”

They both looked at her. Finally, her uncle spoke. “Very well, then. You’ve got four weeks to prove it and then I’m sending Eric.”

“Why are you doubting me?” She stared at her uncle, hurt and angered by his words. “This may not even be the right location. It may all turn out to be nothing.”

When he spoke, his voice was matter-of-fact. “But that’s not what you really think, is it, Alex?”

She couldn’t lie. “No, no it’s not.”

“Deep down, you think this could be the greatest resort WEC Management has ever built, don’t you?”

She met his gaze, looked into those pale blue eyes, the color of ice melting on a lake… and nodded.

“Then do this, Alex”—his eyes burned with a look of power—“get them to sell, and I’ll make you president of WEC Management.”

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Stella Androvich leaned over, whispered to Nick.

Beautiful,
she was beautiful all right, but it was more than that. He kept his eyes on her, the slight tilt of her head, the sway of her hair, her bare arms, hips, legs…“Yes, she is.” His voice sounded hoarse, unnatural, as though he’d pulled an all-nighter and then downed three shots of Jack Daniel’s. But he’d done neither.

“She looks like an angel, doesn’t she?” His mother clutched his forearm, squeezed. “Doesn’t she, Nick?”

He nodded, watching the full pink lips move as she smiled…

“She’s the perfect bride.”

He tore his gaze away, stared down at his mother. “Bride?” What was she talking about?

“Marie, the bride, Nick.” His mother frowned at him. “Who did you think I was talking about all this time?”

“Oh, right, Marie. Of course, I knew.” He yanked at the collar of his shirt. It was getting damn hot in here. “She is beautiful, Mom. Kenny’s a lucky guy.”

His mother, the spy, was already scanning the floor, widening the perimeter where Marie stood. Her gaze stopped when it hit her target—Alex Chamberlain. She was standing a little to the left of the bride, talking with Gracie. She was wearing a pale pink sleeveless dress cut a few inches above the knees with pantyhose that shimmered when she walked, and, of course, pearls.

“Ah, I see.”

“What?”

“Nick.” There she went with that patronizing voice. “I’m your mother.” She smiled up at him, patted his arm. “You’re smitten, admit it.”

“Of all the ridiculous—”

“I knew it. Gracie thinks she’s smitten with you, too.” If her smile got any wider her face would crack.

She did? Why would Gracie think that? Had Alex said something? He wanted to know, but he’d cut his tongue out before he’d ask his mother. She’d pester him to death, interrogate him, badger if necessary, and enlist accomplices to ferret out information. Anyway, so what if he admitted Alex Chamberlain was beautiful? It didn’t mean anything, not a thing. So what if he’d called Edna Lubovich the last three days, asked about Chuck, and then, so very casually, inquired if Alex had returned from her trip yet?

In truth, he doubted Edna was fooled. She was probably in cahoots with his mother—maybe they’d compare notes and conversations over coffee, tried to decipher what was happening.

What
was
happening? Damned if he knew, but he’d been restless since Alex had left, had driven past the Lubovich’s five times looking for her Saab. He missed her, wanted her to come back, and yet, he hated admitting it to anyone, especially himself.

He should never have kissed her. He should have kept the relationship simple, platonic, but he couldn’t have prevented himself from tasting her any more than Adam could’ve refused the apple in Eve’s hand. It was done.
Now,
was what mattered. He just couldn’t do it again, right? Hadn’t he behaved in an exemplary manner after that night, kept everything cool, detached, impersonal? Of course, he’d kept Justin wedged between them, reminding Nick that there was no room in his life for a personal involvement with Alex Chamberlain. She was a short-timer, heading back to the city for good in a month or less, and he didn’t want a serious relationship anyway.
Did he?
Of course not.

When Nick? When are you ever going to settle down again, love again?
He heard his mother’s words floating around in his mind, loose, unfettered, the same words he heard every six months filled with the same sadness, the same desperate need to help. She was a fixer, all right, but not this time.

Love?
He always gave her the same answer.
What are you talking about? I love you, I love Justin—

A woman
,
Nick. A woman. When are you going to love a woman again?

Loving a woman is like having your wisdom teeth, impacted ones, pulled out with a pair of pliers and no anesthetic
.

Why then, had the blood rushed to his head, and other body parts, when he saw Alex Chamberlain walk into the Community Hall a little while ago with Gracie? And when she’d met his gaze, held it, then looked away, why had he felt a stab of disappointment?

“Nick?” His mother tapped him on the shoulder. “Go talk to her.” She gave him a little shove. “Go.”

“Stop it, Mom. I’m not sixteen.”
I feel like it though
.

“Didn’t say you were. But you two have been eyeing each other for the past ten minutes. Nonstop.” She crossed her arms under her chest. “Any fool can see you’ve got some things that need to be said. Or done.” A small smile crept over her lined face. “Why don’t I take Justin tonight? You relax, go have some fun.”

Nick stared at his mother. “It’s not what you think—”

“I know, I know. Didn’t say it was, did I? Justin and I have a score to settle. He’s beating me by fifty points in Rummy and I need a chance to catch up.”

He paused, nodded. “All right.”

“So, go talk to her. If it’s nothing but friendly conversation, what are you worried about?”

***

“What’s everybody doing?” The music had stopped and the deejay was holding two cream-colored satin pillows edged in lace and ribbon in his hands.

“It’s the pillow dance!” Gracie said in a gush of excitement.

“The what?”

“The pillow dance. It’s tradition.” She lowered her voice. “The first time Rudy kissed me was during a pillow dance. The Jawkowski wedding. I hardly knew him, but when somebody puts a pillow in front of you, what choice do you have? You kiss them. Not that I minded, but I thought it was awfully bold of him.” She sighed, smiled. “Awfully bold.”

“Gracie? What’s the pillow dance?”
Kissing?
Nick was here, she’d seen him. Oh, God.
Kissing?

“It’s one of the fifteen million traditions we Czechs have, been doing it for as long as I can remember. See those pillows?” She pointed to the deejay. “Everyone forms a circle around the bride and her father, like they’re doing now—come on, Alex, you too—and then they’ll start the dance, first a polka, then a waltz. When that’s through, Harry and Tilly, his wife, will join hands. Marie will take the pillow and place it on the floor next to Kenny. They’ll both kneel on it and kiss. Then it’s their turn to do a polka and a waltz. Follow me, so far? Okay, when all of that’s done, Kenny will throw the pillow at one of the ladies forming the circle, go over, kneel, kiss, and dance with her. When they’re finished the lady tosses the pillow to a man, they kneel, kiss, and yada, yada. Oh, and the guys have to put money in a cigar box every time they dance. Don’t ask me why it’s a cigar box and not a velvet-lined wooden box or something fancy like that. It’s always been a cigar box… And Alex,” she said, raising a dark brow, “you have to kiss the person who puts the pillow in front of you.”

“Sounds awfully…invasive,” Alex said thinking of all the men, young, old, in-between, forming the circle.

“Oh, come on, don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy.”

“I…” Her gaze met Nick’s from across the room. She had to avoid him until she could sort out the feelings that made her jumpy whenever he was within fifty yards of her. She was here on a mission. Her uncle’s words filled her head. …
get them to sell, and I’ll make you president of WEC Management...
It would be the ultimate act of faith on her uncle’s part. Finally, after all these years, she’d have earned his trust and his faith. She had to do this… she had to…

“Come on scaredy-cat.” Gracie pulled her along. “Who knows, you might get lucky. Nick might kiss you.”

Alex whipped around, “I—”

“Yeah, I know,” she cut her off, inched her way between a heavyset woman with red curls in a matching red polka-dot dress, and a tall thin man with thick black glasses and a green-silk-striped vest. “You two are
just
friends.”

“Right.”
Had Nick said that?
She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d gotten back in town late last evening and he hadn’t been at the wedding ceremony, some emergency, Stella said. Twenty minutes ago was the first she’d seen him, when she’d looked up and caught him watching her. Waiting? For what? For her to smile and beckon him forward? She hadn’t—she’d stared back and then looked away, pretending she didn’t want to see him, speak with him, be with him. And she didn’t, she
couldn’t
, not until her brain could take charge of her emotions, make them settle down, stay focused. That was the plan, but it had been much easier to formulate and anticipate executing when Nick Androvich was hundreds of miles away instead of just across the room.

The music started, the
Tanta Anna Polka
, and with hands clasped tight, the crowd began its slow, rhythmic circling of Marie and her father. Harry smiled down at his daughter, pride and love etched on his face.
This is love
,
the love of a father for his daughter.
Alex’s chest tightened as Harry whirled Marie around, her satin skirts swirling.
And this is love
, her heart told her, when Kenny took Marie’s hand and pulled her into his embrace. They twirled and danced, eyes shining, hearts pounding with love and promise, as the ribbons of the small satin pillows floated around them.

“Look at them. They’re so much in love,” Gracie said.

Alex nodded. What would it be like to have such commitment, such devotion? She and Eric had never had that. They’d said all the right words, gone through the motions, the proper ones, the expected ones, had a most elaborate wedding, one that could have been replicated in
Bride
magazine. And the gifts, so many of them, expensive, unique, no Correlle everyday wear at this union. Everything had been perfect, from the Sterling roses and white orchids in Waterford crystal vases to the three-carat diamond ring from Cartier’s shining on Alex’s third finger. Bright, bold, noteworthy. In all of the grandness of planning, they’d only neglected one thing, not the prenuptial agreement; that had been their first consideration. No, the only area lacking, with an emptiness so vast it could not remain hidden for long, was commitment.

Eric and Alex committed to
things—
a prenuptial agreement, of course, a lease on a condo, a pension plan, even an extended first anniversary trip to Hawaii, but they did not commit to each other. Ever. Marie and Kenny had made that commitment; it was in their eyes, bright, shining, their movements, soft, cherished, their kiss, filled with love, hope, promise. They were thrilled with their honeymoon trip to the Poconos, the matching Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirts, the Black & Decker coffee pot, the cork coasters. The gift didn’t seem to matter, it was the sharing, the commitment to one another that made them smile, even cry.

So, why were they so happy? How?
Marie worked in the kitchen of the local hospital, went to school three nights a week at Midland Community College, twenty miles away. She wanted to be a nutritionist, but it would take her three, four, maybe five years to finish, if she didn’t get pregnant first. And Kenny, he worked for Norman at the Restalline Millworks.
How could they be happy?
Did they want to live in a two-bedroom box for the rest of their lives, with peeling paint and a wrought-iron front railing that wobbled when you touched it? The heck of it was, it didn’t seem to bother them at all.

Did happiness only elude people like Alex? The well-educated, overachievers who doubted anything that wasn’t fact-based, who depended on no one but themselves for solutions and resolutions, who pushed and pushed, until the enjoyment and the desire behind the original goal was beaten into the ground, stamped out and all that remained was bitter resolve to see the job done because no one else could be trusted to do it? What? What was it?

Had her parents been this way? Had they pushed forward, determined, eyes always on the next goal, never savoring the present achievement? Bigger, bigger, better, better? She thought of the hand mirror, the time and care that had gone into creating it. And love, there had been love in the working of that mirror, she felt it, knew it. Perhaps her parents had been like Marie and Kenny, committed and loving, to Alex, to each other. Perhaps they had intended for their daughter to be that way, too. If so, they would be very disappointed.

“Get ready, Alex,” Gracie said. “George Konklin’s heading straight toward you.”

Alex stared at the wiry little man moving in her direction. How many turns had they taken? She’d been so caught up in her own thoughts, she hadn’t noticed. Her gaze swept the circle. Nick wasn’t there.

“Keep your lips closed tight,” Gracie said in a loud whisper, “or he’ll try to slip his tongue in your mouth.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“He’s gross, lives with his mother, but you should see the magazines he buys. A regular skin collection. Pervert.”

George Konklin dropped the pillow in front of Alex. She stared at his tongue, thick, fleshy, protruding, as it inched out to run over his thick lips, leaving them wet, shiny, coated with saliva.
I’m going to be sick.
He started to kneel. Alex stared at the floor, blinked twice, hard. When she looked up, Nick was kneeling in front of her, his tanned face hard, unsmiling. George Konklin was nowhere in sight. Nick reached out, took her hand and pulled her to him. The music, the people, all of it faded away, everything but this man, this moment. She knelt, whether by the pressure of his hand or her own volition, she couldn’t say, didn’t care. Closer, closer, her gaze locked with his.
The mission! The mission!
a tiny voice screamed.
Stop, stop, now, before it’s too late!
Her eyes fluttered closed, their lips met
. It’s already too late. It’s always been too late.
The kiss was long and slow, her mouth opening, inviting, his tongue searching, mating, her fingers buried in the nape of his hair, his hand pressing her against his chest.