Simple Riches (26 page)

“Of course,
I’m
only his brother”—he looked at Alex—“and what are you to him, exactly?” He scratched his head, rubbed his jaw. “Oh, yeah, that’s right… his future wife.”

“Usually, it’s the involved party who proposes not the involved party’s brother,” Nick said.

“I know, I know, but who knows how long it’ll take you to get around to it? Alex, if he doesn’t pop the question in three months, you come see me, I’ll get him moving.”

Nick laughed, shook his head. “Speaking of popping the question?”

“December twenty-fourth,” Elise said, smiling.

“She won’t live with me, so I have to marry her.”

“Michael—”

He turned to Elise, brushed his fingers over her cheek. “I
want
to marry her,” his voice was low, husky, “the sooner the better.”

Alex couldn’t believe the man standing at the foot of her bed was Michael Androvich. He was gentle, clean shaven, sans ball cap or rude comments… civilized, that’s what he was and it was very appealing.

“Shit!”

Well, almost civilized.

“I mean heck. Where’d I put that damn, I mean darn bag?”

Elise held up a small brown bag. He smiled, kissed her on the mouth, “Thanks, Babe.” Then he turned to Alex. “Before I forget, Mom said to tell you Rudy found the mirror. Said you’d know what that meant.” He cleared his throat, shifted from one foot to the other. “I know I haven’t been exactly nice to you since you came—especially that first time”—he had the good grace to turn a dull shade of red—“but this is for you.” He held out the bag.

“Thank you, Michael.” She reached inside, pulled out a hard object covered with tissue paper. When she pushed the paper aside, she could barely see through the tears. It was
one of Michael’s boxes
, a beautiful, rich cherry. She ran her hands along the edges, lifted the lid to peer inside at the burgundy velvet. Michael had told her that his boxes weren’t for sale; they would only be given as gifts.

And he’d done just that. He’d given her a gift of his friendship.

“Welcome to the family.”

***

It was late. Nick had gone home a little while ago to get some sleep and reassure Justin and the rest of the Androvich family that she was going to be okay, and, equally important, that she was staying in Restalline.

Alex closed her eyes, happy yet exhausted. She’d fought two fears these last few days and battled her way through both to emerge the victor. The first was the water, the second, more treacherous, was almost losing Nick.

She didn’t hear the man’s footsteps as he entered her room, came to stand beside her bed. Not until he spoke, in a voice that she recognized as vaguely familiar but somehow different, did she realize that she was not alone.

“Alex?”

She opened her eyes, stared. “Uncle Walter?”

Of course, it was Uncle Walter, she knew her uncle. But the man standing in front of her didn’t look like the man she’d grown used to seeing for the past twenty-odd years. That Uncle Walter always wore a suite with a silk handkerchief tucked in the pocket, and fine, hand-tailored linen shirts. Even on Saturdays he donned gabardine or wool. And his face, always clean shaven, nails well-manicured, hair trimmed and re-trimmed. His voice was steady, sure, his words clipped, demanding.
Walter Chamberlain was power
.

The man before her was none of those. His shirt was wrinkled, sweat-stained under the arms, no tie, hair disheveled. But it was the way his shoulders slumped forward in obvious resignation, perhaps defeat, and the wavering in his voice that shocked her most, told her something was terribly wrong.

“Alex,” he said again. “I came as soon as I could. I was on my way back home, thought I’d check in with Kraziak,” his voice cracked. “He told me.”

“I’m fine, really.”
Why are you here?

“Would you have risked your life for that ridiculous mirror your father gave you?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Would it have been worth it?”

She nodded. “Yes, yes it would have been.”

“I see. What you said last night…about lacking…in your life…did you mean it?”

Alex looked away. He’d never understand.

“Do you hate me so much?” The words were filled with agony. “So much that you can’t credit me with one good thing in your life?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. His face looked hollowed-out, a shadow of its former strength as though he were diminishing right before her. “I don’t hate you, Uncle Walter. I loved…love you, but I can’t live my life for you anymore.” She blinked hard. “Ever since I came to live with you, I’ve done nothing but try to please you, do what you and Aunt Helen wanted me to do, expected me to do. And do you know why? So I could get a small scrap of praise, a pat on the head or a nod… I settled for that because what I really wanted, what I needed most of all, I knew I’d never get.” She swiped at her cheeks. “Do you know what that was, Uncle Walter? Do you have any idea what I’ve been working for all these years? Do You?” Her voice cracked, dipped to a whisper. “All I ever wanted, ever, was your love.”

A single tear fell down his cheek. “Why do you think I’ve worked so hard to protect you, educate you, see that you got the right start in life, made the right choices? I did it because I loved you, Alex.” Another tear fell. “I’ve always loved you.”

“It didn’t feel like love. It felt like possession.”

He fell into a chair, buried his head in his hands. “I tried to shield you from your parents’ nomadic ways. I didn’t want you to end up like them.” He shook his head. “All I wanted was for you to have what your father rejected, what was yours by birth.”

“And all I wanted was your love.”

He lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot. “My God, what have I done?” It was a moan, a supplication.

Alex reached out, hesitated, laid her fingers on his shoulder. He grasped her hand, clung to it.

“I took every memory of your parents, the pictures, the letters, the artwork, and I hid it all, except for the mirror, and you only got to keep that because you slept with it under your pillow every night.” His shoulders slumped forward. “I was afraid for you…afraid for me…afraid I’d lose you…to their lifestyle…their memory. But I lost you anyway, didn’t I?”

“No, Uncle Walter, you haven’t lost me. But you have to love me, the
real
me that’s inside, not the one you want me to be.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I’m staying in Restalline. I want to live here and love here and hopefully grow old here. But I can’t if you take the town away. Please don’t do that, Uncle Walter, please.”

“I pulled out the minute Norman Kraziak told me what had happened to you. I knew if there was any chance of repairing our differences, this place couldn’t be an issue between us.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m thinking about getting out of the development business, maybe concentrate on renovation instead. Preserve our history. What do you think?”

“I think that’s a great idea.”

“I’m proud of you, Alex.”

“I’m proud of you too, Uncle Walter.”

He smiled then, a real smile. “Good.” He clutched her hand in his, a sign of love, respect, and need. “Good.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Nick pulled the Navigator in front of the small ranch-style home.

Alex nodded. “I’m sure.”

He reached over, kissed her on the lips. “Let’s go.”

It would be a lie to say she wasn’t afraid, that she didn’t fear the owner would slam the door in her face. And who could blame him? She’d lied, not directly, but indirectly, as an accomplice—if not in the beginning, then down the road, after she’d learned the truth. Maybe if she’d taken a stand, spoken out, tried to fight, she could have made a difference. Maybe, but she’d never know.

Now, she had to face Leonard Oshanski and tell him that his sister’s tree, the one his father had planted in the name of his dead daughter, Emma, and entrusted to his sons to protect, the same one Alex promised would not be touched, had most likely been uprooted, plowed under, stripped, and hauled away with the first clearing of the lots.

Nick had told her he understood if she wanted to leave things alone. After all, his father and Leonard had been friends, both from the old school, where a man was only as good as his word. He would not think too highly of a person, man or woman, who gave a promise and then broke it.

But Alex had insisted. Right was right and maybe one man’s open mind could right a wrong. She pressed the doorbell, waited.
Right was right. Right was right
. The door opened.

“Yes?” There was a half inquisitive smile on Leonard Oshanski’s face as he opened the door. Then he saw Alex. “Hello! Come in.” He turned to Nick.

“Mr. Oshanski, my name is Nick Androvich, from Pennsylvania. I don’t know if you remember me—”

The old man’s eyes lit up. “Of course, I do. Nicholas Androvich. Your father was the best woodcutter in this part of the country.” He looked from Nick to Alex. “You two, you are… together?”

Nick nodded. “We are.”

“Good. Come in, come in.” He shuffled into the small living room, leaning on his cane. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? A shot of Johnny Walker?”

“No, nothing for me, thank you.” This was not the greeting Alex had expected. She took a seat on a small blue-plaid loveseat, swallowed. Did he think Emma’s tree was still standing? Could he not know? Oh, God.

Nick sat beside her, covered her hand with his. “Mr. Oshanski, Alex has something she wants to tell you, something she feels you should know.”

Leonard Oshanski lowered himself onto his tweed recliner, smiled at her. “Your uncle’s already been here.”

“Uncle Walter? He has? Why?”

Mr. Oshanski rubbed his chin. “Probably the same reason you’re here. He called me a few weeks ago, said he had something important to discuss. The next thing I know, he’s here.”

“What… what did he say?”
Uncle Walter had visited Mr. Oshanski?

“He told me about Emma’s tree, apologized for going back on his word and not saving it.” He pulled out a white handkerchief, blew his nose. “Then he did the damndest thing. He showed me a piece of paper, all notarized and legal, renaming the winter part of that there resort you’re building. And you know what the new name’s gonna be?” He grinned. “Emma’s Promise. How about that?” His voice tapered to a soft drawl. “Emma’s Promise. I wonder what in the devil got into him to do such a thing.”

“I think I know.” Alex smiled at Nick, turned to Mr. Oshanski. “He found this wonderful place that changed his life. Maybe you’ve heard of it”—her fingers interlaced with Nick’s—“it’s called Restalline.”

The End

If you would like to be notified when Mary releases a new book, sign up for her mailing list at http://www.marycampisi.com

The following is an excerpt from PARADISE FOUND

How does one see truly—with the heart or with the eyes?

Matt Brandon has it all—wealth, power, looks, and talent. Women want him, men want to be like him. When a freak ski accident strips him of one of life’s most basic needs—his sight—he struggles to accept the possibility that his blindness may be permanent.

Enter, psychologist, Sara Hamilton, a woman who has known her own share of grief and loss and may just be the one person who can help Matt redefine his new world. Sara is every woman’s woman—she’s not a toothpick or a Cosmo girl, has never been prom queen, or dated the blond-haired god with the big white teeth. She’s honest and decent and real…and lives on the perimeter, applauding her patients’ successes, nursing them through their failures, but never acknowledging or accepting her own lackings. She’s loved and lost once and has been so emotionally scarred, she’s not willing to risk those feelings again.

Of course, she’s never met a man like Matt Brandon. As Matt and Sara explore the delicate balance between ‘blind’ trust and hope, they will discover that sometimes you have to lose everything to find what you are truly looking for…

by

Mary Campisi

To my brother-in-law, Dennis—a true original with a pure heart

Godspeed and good health

And to my sister, Annie—one of the strongest women I know

Rock on!

“Sara, every man is not your ex-husband.”

“Thank God.” A woman could only take so many lying philanderers in her life and once was definitely more than enough. Of course, Jeff would remind her that psychologists shouldn’t dissect their personal lives like case studies. Easy for him to say. He had a wife who loved him and a baby on the way. What did she have besides a hurt so deep she couldn’t take a full breath?

“You’d only be in California until I can get things squared away here. Then I’ll be right out. A few weeks at the most.” His voice softened. “Nina's having another ultrasound today. The bleeding's stopped.”

Sara pushed past the queasiness in her belly. “I know how much you both want this baby.”

“The doctor thinks everything will be okay, but I can't leave until we know for sure. But Matt needs help now. His brother said he’s getting worse every day and lately he won’t let anybody near him.”

“Not even one of those little starlets of his?” If the tabloids were accurate, company, especially the female variety, was plentiful.

Jeff frowned. “You shouldn't believe everything you read.”

He was right, of course. The remark was not something a psychologist should say even if she thought it. “I'm sorry, that was unkind. I don't even know the man.” But she’d read a lot about him. Matthew Brandon. Writer. Millionaire. Blind man.

“He's a decent guy once you get past the trappings.”

And there were plenty of trappings. Seven months ago, he'd held the key to fame, fortune, and opportunity. One sharp maneuver down a steep ski slope had ended all that. The key was gone and he couldn’t even find the door. Literally.

“He's been through four psychologists. West Coast brands, though”—he flashed her a grin— “so they don't count.”

“And you think one East Coast variety, who happens to be female, is going to make him behave?”

He shrugged. “You might be just what he needs. If all else fails, you can run interference until I get out there and knock some sense into him.”

“We're talking about a man's life, not a football game,” she said. “And the man in question is more than a little noncompliant.”

Jeff laughed. “That's Matt all right. He's been that way since college. I sacked him three times during a drill one time. Told him not to try the damned quarterback sneak again or I'd bury him deeper than tomorrow. He didn’t listen. Zipped right past me for the touchdown.”

“Well, he's not zipping past much of anything these days.”

“But the point is, he doesn't give up. Matt's the kind of guy who thinks if he tries hard enough and persists long enough, he can make anything happen. That's why he's so successful. He never takes no for an answer. Until now. He believes he'll never see again.”

“What are the odds he will?”

“Not good. Getting worse each month. He has to start accepting the fact that he may be blind for the rest of his life.”

“He doesn't sound like the kind of man who would accept anything he can't control.” She'd read about the multimillion-dollar book deal he and his agent had negotiated for
Dead Moon Rising
. Four million? Or was it five? There was even talk of another movie. And a lot more money. Matthew Brandon had been a regular in
People
magazine since his first book,
Hard Truths
, hit the big screen four years ago. Hollywood had opened her arms and sucked him into her Armani-clad bosom of beauty, wealth, and power. There'd been a string— no, strings—of starlets and supermodels since then. The beautiful people. The ones to watch. He'd become as intriguing as Jack Steele, the character in his books. Men wanted to be like him. Women just wanted him. Most women, that was.

“Matt's never been very good at settling for anything,” Jeff said. “That's why somebody like you might be able to help him. You've got a quiet strength, determined but not forceful.”

“I doubt he’ll listen to a woman. He needs a firm hand like yours.” She looked away, ran her fingers down the creases of her linen pants and concentrated on the way they popped back into place when she lifted her fingers. Some people were like that. You could flatten them and they'd bounce right back. She’d bet Matthew Brandon was a survivor and blind or not, he’d pull through.

“If you think about it, Matt's going through the same thing you did a few years back,” Jeff said in the voice he used to calm his patients. “His identity's been stripped, his frame of reference distorted with the accident. You went through that when Brian left.” He hesitated, his voice dipping lower. “And you lost the baby. In a few months' time your whole world flipped and crashed.”

I lost my heart
. “We have nothing in common.” From what she’d read, he didn’t have a heart.

Jeff pushed back his chair and moved to the other side of the desk. “I'd say you have a lot in common, and you might be just the one to show him how to survive.”

“I don’t think I could maintain my objectivity.” There, she’d admitted she couldn’t be objective about a man who reminded her too much of her ex-husband.

Jeff read her thoughts. “Matt's nothing like Brian. Once you get to know him, you'll see for yourself.”

She wanted to tell him she had no desire to get to know the man, but what purpose would it serve? Jeff needed her help, and as his partner and friend, she couldn't let him down.

“Two weeks? Right?” Certainly she could handle fourteen days.

He nodded and a smile inched across his face. “Give or take a day or two.”

“Okay then. I'd like to get everything wrapped up here and leave as soon as possible.” No sense prolonging the inevitable.

“Great.” He leaned over and clasped her hands in his. “I owe you.”

She shrugged, trying to pretend it was no big deal. “What about my clients?”

“Jessie can handle them if she needs to. Just get the paperwork in order and let them know you'll be gone for a few weeks.”

“She's so young,” Sara said, thinking of the perky redhead who followed her everywhere with notebook and pencil in hand.

“Twenty-five is not that young,” Jeff said. “Of course, she's not ancient, like you. What are you anyway?” he asked, rubbing his chin. “Thirty-six? Thirty-seven?”

Sara frowned at him. “Thirty-four. The same age as your wife, as if you didn't know.”

Jeff threw his hands in the air. “So I was off a few years. What does it matter? Thirty, thirty-five, forty? You'll still be beautiful at fifty.”

“You must be desperate to get me to California if you've resorted to out-and-out lying.”

“What do you mean?”

He actually looked confused. Okay, she’d clarify it for him. “Beauty has never been one of my greatest attributes. I've always opted for brains.” Though once in a while she had wondered what it would be like…

“Oh, so now you can choose your beauty like a pair of old shoes?” The look on his face told her he thought she was joking. She wasn't. For much of her pre-adolescent and teenage life, she’d known the sting of being just plain ordinary. Nothing spectacular, except perhaps her eyes—amber-green, almond shaped with a slight tilt. A seductress’s eyes, someone once said. What a joke. She'd never been able to seduce anything, including her husband.

Brian was the only person who had ever made her feel beautiful with his honeyed words and slow smiles. Until he grew tired of her. Until she balked at cosigning a hefty business loan for him. She'd wanted him to wait until after the baby…

Can't you just once in your pitiful life say, ‘Screw it? I don't care if it doesn't make sense right now, I'm going to do it anyway?’ His perfect lips had pulled into a thin line. Hell no, you can't. You're so goddamned responsible, it's suffocating. Well then, screw you, Sara. He'd grabbed his jacket and slammed out of the house, leaving her sitting by the fireplace with her swollen belly and her shredded self-esteem.

No man would ever do that to her again, even if she had to reside in the world of the ordinary for the rest of her life. She was used to looking the other way when an interested male tried to catch her eye or a fellow colleague attempted to escalate their friendship to the next level. Ordinary was safe. Ordinary was what she wanted.

Jeff interrupted her thoughts with a long sigh. “One of these days, you and I need to have a long talk.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Oh. One of these days, we're going to talk about the incredible job you do with your clients. How you dig them out of a garbage pile of despair, build their self-esteem and send them into healthy new relationships and worthwhile jobs.”

“I care about those women. And I believe in them.” She had to, for God knew, they didn't believe in themselves, not when the pain and shock of being cast aside reverberated through their souls.

“You make it personal.”

He was right. She made it personal because she'd experienced firsthand every gut-wrenching emotion they would ever encounter and she'd survived. “So, why the need for a talk?”

He pinned her with a blue stare. “Because I want to know how you can have such patience and foresight with your clients and make such lousy choices in your personal life.”

Oh. So it wasn’t a compliment—it was an accusation. “We've been through this all before.”

“Yes, we have and we're still hitting dead ends. The day you lost the baby, you gave up on hope. When Brian walked out, you gave up on love. Why is it you can help everybody else, but you can't help yourself?”

The phone rang just then and saved her from having to conjure up a response. Jeff leaned over and levered the receiver from its base. “Yes?”

Sara closed her eyes, taking the momentary distraction to pull herself together. Jeff’s words made perfect sense. After all, she spoke similar ones to her clients every day. Why couldn't she listen to her own professional recommendations and open herself up to love again?

The answer was simple—she wasn't willing to risk the pain. It had almost destroyed her before and she couldn't chance it a second time. That's why she worked so hard with her clients. They were her success. They went on to live again, love again, hope again. She was a part of that and it was enough. It had to be.

Sara opened her eyes and found Jeff clutching the receiver, his face ashen. “What is it? Is it Nina?” Only one thing could reduce a man like Jeff Sanders to near tears.

Raw pain coated his next words. “She's bleeding again.”

***

The afternoon sun beat down on Matt, making him drowsy. There was nothing like California weather. Not too hot, never too cold and always just a day away from decent weather, even when it rained. It sure beat the hell out of Pittsburgh with its subzero winters, freezing rain, and ice storms. And the blizzards, they were a real treat. Even summer days with their overcast skies and cool nights left a person wanting. He ought to know—he'd spent enough years there.

California was different. It was the land of opportunity, a place for high rollers, where risk-takers rode with Lady Luck on their shoulder, smiling their beautiful smiles, making their multimillion-dollar deals and raking in cash by the armored truckload. He used to be one of the elite, one of the high rollers. But that was before he'd rammed into the tree that changed his life forever. He shoved his ball cap down, shielding part of his face from the heat.
Blind.
That's what he was. What he would be for the rest of his life.

How many times had he replayed those last seconds on the slope? Two hundred? More like two thousand. If only that kid hadn't been downed right in his landing path. If only he had veered to the right. If only he had listened to Adam and not made the final run. If only that damned tree hadn't been there. If only.

If only didn't matter, not when he opened his eyes every morning to darkness. That was the hardest part. That, and accepting blindness as a way of life. He'd have to do it. Someday. On his own terms. But he sure as hell wasn't going to put up with any more damned psychologists and their ‘How did that make you feel?’ probing.

And then there was that last one. The woman. Claire something or other. She'd only been interested in studying the effects of blindness on his sexuality—even offered herself up as part of the case study. Said she wanted to conduct an experiment with him. He'd yanked her by the arm and hauled her out of the house so fast she hadn't had time to button her shirt.

He was through talking with everybody. Except, maybe Jeff. He'd be here soon, not to pick and probe and dissect like all the others. But to listen. Like a friend.

***

LAX was a maze with only one exit. Men with starched white shirts and purposeful strides balanced cell phones and overnight bags while women in short silk suits with golden tans and sun-kissed hair, pulled compact travel cases behind them. Crying babies clutched their mother's shirts with pudgy fingers, balling the fabric into wrinkled messes, while toddlers wailed and grabbed at moving pant legs. So many people. All in motion. All going somewhere.

Sara scanned the signs overhead. The noise, the people, the hustle bustle. Nothing like Pittsburgh. Someone pushed her through the huge glass door, onto the hot concrete. The June heat smacked her in the face and stole her breath. She fumbled for her sunglasses, pushed them on her face and looked around. Los Angeles. Hot. Crowded. Smoggy. She dragged her bag forward and studied the sleek line of limousines dotting the curb. There were at least twelve. They were as popular as minivans back home. A man emerged from the line of cars, carrying a sign with her name on it.

He didn’t look like any limousine driver she'd ever seen. Not that she'd seen many, but she was certain their dress code did not consist of khaki pants and sneakers. He was a big man, at least six-feet-two, with a solid build except for a bit of a tummy protruding from his checkered vest. His eyes settled on her, and something in her expression must have told him she was the one, because he advanced on her like a grizzly bear stalking a fish.

“Dr. Hamilton?” he asked, towering over her.

Sara stared up at the mountain before her and nodded.

His face broke into a grin as he reached for her suitcase and briefcase. “A tiny thing like you shouldn't be lugging these things around,” he said, taking her belongings from her and shifting them into one hand as though they weighed nothing. Tiny? Her? Sara Hamilton? Wholesome. Sturdy. Healthy-looking. Those were terms she'd heard since her teens. Tiny had never been one of them. That word was reserved for cheerleaders and prom queens, of which she’d been neither.