Simple Riches (3 page)

She looked away, looked back, looked away again.

“Unless you have other plans—”

“What time?”

“Eight.”

“I’ll be there.” Her voice dipped. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good.”
Good
. “So am I.”
Have I got a surprise for you
… He glanced at his watch. “Gotta go. Mrs. Graeber’s pie’s waiting.” Nick grabbed his bag, waved a hand in the air, and ran out the back door.

***

Nick flipped on his blinker and turned the silver Navigator onto the long gravel drive leading to his parents’ home. Twenty-three years since his father’s death and he still thought of the old farmhouse as his mother and father’s. Stella and Nick’s. Maybe because his mother had kept almost everything the same as when the old man was alive—the big maple table with four side chairs and one captain’s chair, the faded, green-plaid fiberglass curtains pulled back over three windows, those god-awful wrought iron roosters, all shapes and sizes covering the walls, a wrought iron rooster clock, too. The old linoleum floor, a brownish-tan square mix, scuffed and cracked along the edges, and his father’s most prized possessions—the cherry cupboards he and Uncle Frank made, hand picked from Androvich Lumber. The only real changes to the kitchen were the appliances. The avocado refrigerator died two years ago and the Androvich children convinced their mother that the new white refrigerator she’d ordered made the old stove look like an eyesore and would she please get rid of it? It took some work, and a lot of persuasion, but Stella finally relented and had a white flat-top model from GE installed. There still wasn’t a garbage disposal or a dishwasher.
Garbage is garbage. I’m not going to sort it all out.
And,
If I have to scrape and rinse all the food off, I might as well wash it and be done.

She did accept Uncle Frank’s gift two Christmases ago, much to everyone’s surprise.
It was a microwave oven, and though she swore she’d never use it for more than reheating her coffee, as the months passed, she learned how to defrost hamburger, bake a potato, fry bacon, and even pop popcorn for her grandchildren. Stella Androvich, old-fashioned, make-it-from-scratch woman, was inching her way into the twenty-first century!

But the rest of the house stopped breathing new life twenty-three years ago, when Nick Androvich Sr. died. Sometimes Nick thought his mother tried harder to preserve his father’s memory than she did to forge on and live her life. Would he have wanted it that way? Would the old man really have wanted her to keep the red plastic currycomb he used to brush over his crew-cut head on top of his dresser? Couldn’t she at least put it in a drawer, tucked away, maybe take it out every now and then if she felt the need? But to see it every morning, every night, every time she went into her bedroom, would he have wanted
that?
Nick doubted it, but it did no good to say anything. Stella Androvich had a mind of her own, period. She wore the title of widow like a shield, barring no one entry but her children and then as time passed, her grandchildren, clutching the role of mother and grandmother, but never again woman, or even self. That part of her faded with the much-washed aprons she wore, one week at a time, until the colors ran into one another and it was hard to remember what they had once looked like. That was his mother, blending into her children’s lives, one washing at a time, a selfless person turned into a self-less woman.

Maybe it was the Androvich curse to end up alone. Uncle Frank had never even married or been close to it, though there must have been someone, somewhere, in his almost sixty-four years of life. Maybe, the Androvich’s just didn’t have it in them to love or open their hearts more than once. One time, that was it. Look at him, and Michael… perfect examples. Gracie was the only exception… so far. Maybe his kid sister would defy the curse, maybe she’d live happily ever after five doors down with her husband and children.

And maybe with a little help and a lot of luck, times would change for the rest of them. That’s why he’d invited Elise to Uncle Frank’s party. She would be good for Michael, tone down his temper, keep him even-paced, make him think about something other than his next six-pack. Maybe he’d even remember he had two kids.

“Nick? Is that you?”

His mother’s voice reached him from the other side of the screen door. She was in the kitchen, baking bread from the smell of it. “Hey, Ma.” He stepped inside. “My favorite cook.” He walked over to her, gave her a peck on the cheek.

“Not from what I can see,” she said, eying the pie in his left hand. “You’ve been to see Agnes Graber again, haven’t you?”

“How’d you know?”

She sniffed. “Simple. Who’s the only woman, other than me, who makes you pie? Cherry to boot?”

Nick grinned and put his arm around his mother. “So, Stella’s got a little competition, eh?”

She let out a huff. “I could bake circles around that woman. I think she only makes you those pies because she thinks you’ll ask her daughter out.”

“Gloria?” Thirty-six year-old, face-in-a-book, sit-in-a-corner, only-wear-black, Gloria? “I… don’t think so.” Could it be true? Had Mrs. Graeber been exaggerating the pain in her right foot, the one that
made it just impossible for her to climb the steps to his office
?

“I know that woman.” His mother wagged a finger under his nose. “She’s been trying to get that daughter of hers married off for years.” She wiped her hands on her apron, a pinkish-green tulip pattern, grabbed a quilted mitt and opened the oven door. “And you’d be the perfect catch. Ah,” she breathed, closing her eyes, “now this is real baking.” Nick watched her slide the grate out, lift a loaf of bread with one mitted hand, flip it upside down, and tap it three times with the tip of her fingers. A
dull thud means it’s not done.
The loaf was golden, glistening with butter rubbed all over. Four more loaves and twelve more taps before she closed the door and said, “Another ten minutes.”

Nick headed for the fridge, peeked inside. “What’d you have for dinner?”

“Your favorite. Stuffed peppers with parsley-buttered potatoes.” She smiled and ran a hand through her hair. It was cut just above her shoulders, dark brown streaked with gray, like a copse of pine trees topped with snow. “I fixed you a dish to take home.”

“Thanks, Mom.” At sixty-three, she was still a handsome woman, tall and slender, her movements measured and graceful.

“Don’t think Gloria Graeber has ever stepped foot in a kitchen.”

…with an opinion about everything. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that.” Her dark eyes narrowed on him. “And the same goes for that rent-a-heart doctor you’ve been flitting around with lately. She strikes me as a take-out kind of lady.”

Lisa… she was talking about Lisa. How had his mother found out about
her
?

“And that’s no way to raise a child. Justin would hate it. You remember that.” She
tsk-tsked
at him. “No way at all,” she said under her breath.

“Lisa cooks.” He paused, added, “Some.”

“Oh.” She waved a wooden spoon at him. “Her name’s Lisa. I see.” She tapped the spoon against the palm of her hand. “And what did this Lisa cook for you, Nick?”

How had they gotten into this conversation? He wished he could stop it, right now, yank the words back, start again. He’d shut up this time.

“Nick?”

He shrugged, jammed his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know. Some kind of pastries with spinach and crab.” They were pretty tasty, too. “And shrimp cocktail.”

His mother nodded her head, a knowing smile spreading across her face. “I know what you’re talking about. Sure do.” Her head bobbed up and down. “The pastries come twenty-four in a box at the Market Basket.” She tilted her head in his direction, lowered her voice and said, “In the frozen food section.”

Nick wasn’t going to let on that she’d gotten to him. “Hmm. Maybe I’ll buy you a box sometime, see how you like them.” So what if she couldn’t cook? The woman was a doctor, not a culinary expert for Chrissake. And it was just a few dates, a diversion, that’s all. Lisa Kinkaid, staff cardiologist for North West Pennsylvania Cardiologist’s Group was a city girl, addicted to Sak’s, the theater, five-star restaurants and sushi bars, none of which could be found in Restalline.

“Yes, let’s do that, Nicholas. And you’ll have to invite Lisa so I can meet her.”

He smiled. “Sure, Mom. I’ll have her check her schedule.” No sense telling her Lisa wouldn’t be back for another month.

“Well, I’m glad that’s settled.” She pushed her hair behind her ears and turned back to the oven. “I’ll just get these loaves out and you can take one home with you.”

“Thanks.” Nick grabbed a fork from the silverware drawer, lifted the tin foil on the casserole dish. “Where’s Justin?” he asked, digging out a chunk of stuffed pepper.

“He’s out back. Come to think of it, he’s been there quite a while. Maybe he wandered over to Frank’s workshop.”

Nick took another bite of pepper, set his fork down. “I’ll go find him.” He went out the back door, down the steps and looked around, raising a hand against the sun. The memories came rushing back, crowding his senses, like they always did when he looked out over the land, acres and acres of it, some treed, some fields, but Androvich land, all of it. His chest still swelled with an indescribable feeling when he gazed out over it. There were a lot of memories here, most good, some bad. He and Michael used to climb the maple tree to his right, shimmy fifteen feet in the air, arms hardly able to circle the thick branches, skinny legs dangling in the air. It was just the two of them then, Gracie was still a baby. And Nick Androvich Sr. was so proud of his sons, Nicholas and Michael, heirs to five hundred acres of land and Androvich Lumber.
This will all be yours one day, boys. Yours and Gracie’s.
They’d been standing in the middle of a field, knee-high in clover, the sun fading to pale orange as it drifted behind a blanket of trees.
It’s part of you… this land… can’t you feel it pumping in your blood
?

Nick and Michael had stood side-by-side, watching the sun inch below the trees, the bond between them tightening. Nothing would ever come between them, nothing. Not until Caroline…

“Dad?”

Nick blinked, blinked again. “Justin? Where’d you come from? I came out to look for you.”

“I was here. Behind that tree.” He looked up, squinted. “Are you okay? You looked kind of weird like you were gonna throw up or something?”

Nick cleared his throat, put an arm around his son. “I’m fine. What are you doing out here all alone?”

Justin’s shoulders slumped forward a little. “Nothing.” His voice drooped. “Just sittin’.” His gaze shifted to his sneakers.

“Grandma says you’ve been out here a while.”

“I guess.”

“Justin?” His son looked up and Nick saw tears in his blue eyes. Caroline’s eyes. “What’s the matter?”

“They said”—tears started streaming down his face—“they said Mom killed herself. That she burned to a crisp, like a marshmallow”—he hiccoughed—“all black and that her skin sizzled like bacon.” He buried his face against Nick’s shirt, grief moving through him with the rise and fall of his tiny shoulders.

“Who said that, Justin?” Nick gripped his son’s shoulders and forced him to look up. “Who son?” He gentled his tone, tried to keep the rage inside. Eight years old was too young for such hard truths. But then, so was thirty-eight.

“Jerry Toranchi.”

Figures. The undertaker’s kid. “Well, you ignore him, do you hear me? Just ignore him.”

Justin swiped a hand over both eyes, sniffed and nodded. “Uh-huh.” His voice wobbled.

“Good.” Nick put his arm around his son, pulled him to his side. “That’s my boy.”

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

Justin looked away, past the field, out toward the trees, to the place where sky and land met, blended, joined. “Did she?”

Nick tensed, forced the word out. “What?”

“Did she”—his voice fell to a whisper—“kill herself?”

I can’t do this anymore, Nicky. I can’t do it. I’m falling apart
. Caroline’s words filled his head, threatened to make it explode. Nick squeezed his eyes shut, pressed two fingers against his lids. “No, she didn’t kill herself.”

The boy let out a long breath, as though he was holding it, waiting. “I knew that.” He sounded relieved, almost happy. “Tell me the story about Mom again.” Justin looked up and gave him a timid half-smile, just enough to show the space where his left front tooth belonged.

Nick drew in a deep breath. “Let’s go sit under the tree.” They took the few short steps to the maple, plunked down, let the bark scratch at them through their shirts. Justin wanted the story,
his
story again, the one that Nick had been telling him since he was three and realized that Gracie wasn’t his mother and neither was Grandma Stella. It was a beautiful story actually, a fairy tale, embellished with details and happenings that would have pleased even The Brother’s Grimm.

“Once upon a time—”

“Not ‘Once upon a time,’” Justin cut in. “That’s for little kids, remember?”

“Oh, right. When you’re eight, it can’t start that way anymore.” Nick cleared his throat. “Here goes. This is the story of Caroline Ann Kraziak and Nicholas Anthony Androvich. Caroline was a beautiful girl, sixteen when she met Nick, with long blond hair, the color of corn silk and eyes so blue they reminded him of a cloudless July sky.“

“My eyes,” Justin piped in, sitting up. “They’re like my eyes.”

Nick nodded. “She was in eleventh grade when she met him, after a Friday night football game against the Elston Wildcats. Nick threw four touchdown passes that night, clinched the division title. Afterward, a bunch of kids went to Hot Ed’s—that was the hangout back then and that’s where he met Caroline.”