Simple Riches (8 page)

“Who are you talking about? Uncle Frank?”
Michael knew!

“Come on, Snow White, give me more credit than that. The whole family thinks I’m stupid, not you, too.”

“Michael—”

He chuckled and held out his bottle to her. “Want a sip?”

She swatted it away. “You’ve had too much to drink and you’re not making any sense. I’m going inside.”

He grabbed her arm. “Nick’s not in there.” His voice was low, all traces of his earlier jovialness gone.

Elise clutched the railing and tried to keep her voice even. “Where is he?”

“Took off with Goldilocks about twenty minutes ago.”

Goldilocks?
“Lisa?”

“No, not the doctor broad. This one’s a real cool cookie. She’s new.”

“But…” Nick had asked
her
to come, she’d memorized every word, clung to them like the lilac body splash she wore.
Elise, what are you doing Saturday night?…We’re having a birthday party at the house for Uncle Frank…Why don’t you come? Why don’t you come? Why don’t you come?

“Sorry, kiddo.” Michael touched her shoulder. “I just didn’t want you to hold out waiting for him. It’s not going to happen between you two. You know that, don’t you?”

No, she didn’t know that. She lowered her head, squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to hear this.

Michael took her hand, pulled her into the shadows of the porch. “You’ve been working for him for two years. It would’ve happened by now.”

She shook her head, willed the tears back. He was wrong. A little more time, that’s what Nick needed. Then he’d notice her.

“I saw the way he was looking at this new one. He’s a goner.”

Elise stiffened, pinched the bridge of her nose, hard. She’d heard enough. “I don’t feel well. If anybody asks…”

“Sure, Snow White, sure. I’ll cover for you. Go home.”

She turned and ran then, fast, down the steps to her silver Honda Civic, the tears burning her eyes, smearing her makeup, pouring the grief from her soul. And not until she was home, burrowed in her bed with the sheet pulled to her chin, did she realize she’d learned something new tonight. Beneath the rudeness, the insults, the cockiness, Michael Androvich kept a well-hidden secret—he had a heart.

“Dr. Nick! Come inside.” Edna Lubovich held the screen door wide. She was wearing a white-and-black polka-dot blouse with black stretch pants and satin slippers. Her red hair was piled high, topped off with a little black bow tucked in the center like a baby bird in a nest. When she smiled at him, a smudge of red lipstick smeared her right front tooth.

“Hello, Edna.” He stared at the shiny, black ball earrings dangling from her small lobes. “Don’t you look fancy.”

“Just got back from Mass.” She patted her hair. “Alex went with me.” She smiled again. The lipstick mark had turned to pink. “She’s not Catholic but she followed right along in the missalette. I told her a lot of Protestants convert, especially when they get married and start having kids.”

Nick hid a smile. “I’m sure she was glad to hear that.”

“Said she’d keep it in mind.” Edna lowered her voice. “She’s Lutheran, you know, but not a practicing one.”

Nick lowered his voice to match hers, “Oh. No, I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do and
you
should keep that in mind. Anxious to see her again, aren’t you?” Edna winked, didn’t wait for an answer before she went on, “I can see why, I certainly can. She’s a looker. Walks around like a princess, head up high, shoulders back. And she’s got class, loads of it, smothered on thick, not the kind you get out of a tube or on a clothes rack.” She leaned toward him, pointed at her chest, “She’s got it from the inside out, don’t you think?”

“Edna—”

She waved a hand at him. “Pshaw, Dr. Nick. Don’t be embarrassed about falling for her. I was watching both of you last night—you two make the perfect pair. I was saying so to Chuck.” She patted his cheek, grabbed his hand. “Just perfect. Now why don’t you come in and I’ll fix you a cup of coffee while you wait.”

“Actually, I’ve already had three cups. But thanks. I think I’ll just see if she’s ready if you don’t mind.”

She squeezed his hand. “You are anxious, aren’t you? I know, I know. Stella’s thrilled. It’s been so long… after Caroline and all, God rest her soul.” She made a quick sign of the cross, clutched the gold medal hanging around her neck. “Your mother thinks this might be the one to bring you a little happiness.”

“My mother said that?”
Good God
, how desperate could they be, matching him up with a woman they’d known for less than twenty-four hours?

Edna nodded. “She liked Alex. A lot.”

“She knows nothing about the woman.” This was ridiculous.

“Said you offered to show Alex around town, take her on a personal tour.” She raised a painted brow, dared him to deny it.

What could he say? The truth?
I only offered to escort the damn woman around town because I want to find out if she’s one of those “Save the Trees” people in disguise and this is the only way I can do it?
No, he couldn’t be that honest. Edna would be shocked that he could be so distrusting and his mother, well he could hear her now.
Nick, you need to have more faith in the goodness of others, especially strangers. You’re such a doubting Thomas.

He’d play along for now, keep his mouth shut, much easier that way. “Do you think she’s ready, Edna?”

She shrugged, gave him a half smile. “One way to find out, Dr. Nick. Only one way.”

***

Okay, so she was nice looking… maybe a little more than nice looking, maybe… pretty. Correction. Very pretty. But she wasn’t beautiful. Her eyes were too wide-set, her forehead too high, her jaw, too angular, her mouth… he glanced sideways, his eyes darting over her lips—full, soft-looking, moist. He swung his gaze back to the road, clutched the steering wheel. Her mouth was fine.

“Androvich Lumber has a very extensive conservation program.” Might as well give her the spiel before they got there. “Replanting, site selection, land rotation, education. They’re all part of what keeps the company going, and”—if she were a “Save the Treer,” she’d like this one—“
protects
the environment. We believe in giving back what we take. Always have.”

She shifted in her seat. “Good. That’s very … noble of you.”

Was she being sarcastic? Did she think their efforts were inadequate? “If we didn’t cut any trees, they’d all be scrawny, choking each other out, fighting for a ray of sunlight. And over half the town would be unemployed.” Why was he trying to justify his family’s livelihood? “If Androvich Lumber doesn’t produce, then Restalline Millworks and NK Manufacturing go out of business.”

“So, the town depends on these three businesses for its livelihood.”

Now she was getting it. “Damn right it does.”

“And it needs Androvich Lumber to supply materials to the other two companies.”

“You got it.”

“What happens if Androvich Lumber goes away?” She turned toward him. “Not that it ever would, but what would happen then? Could they get their wood from somewhere else?”

What was she trying to pull?
An environmentalist wouldn’t want wood taken from anywhere.
Who the hell was this woman and what was she after?
“They could, but it would cost them probably almost double, and Norman Kraziak’s a businessman, not a non-profit organization.”

“I see.”

He doubted it. “Why all the questions? It’s simple enough to understand. We’ve got three main companies that pump life into Restalline. Each of these companies work together and depend on the other, for material or orders. Norman’s companies make up seventy-five percent of our business and we make up one hundred percent of his.
We need each other
.”

“Kind of like interdependence,” she said.

“Exactly.” He saw the quarter-mile sign for Androvich Lumber. “Now you’ve got it.”

She nodded, “Yes, yes, I think I do.”

“Good, then you think about that while I’m showing you around.” He flicked his left turn signal on, maneuvered into the turning lane. “This afternoon, I’ll take you to meet Norman and t
hen
you’ll really understand.”

***

Alex took great pride in knowing the difference between a desk constructed of cherry and one made of mahogany. She preferred the darker, soft tones of mahogany. Oak was too coarse a wood for her taste, walnut too dark, pine too cheap. But it was one thing to walk into a showroom, run your fingers along the polished, buffed-out grain and claim yourself knowledgeable of finer woods and quite another to stand in a forest, surrounded by acres of trees and still possess the ability to differentiate the cherry from the mahogany.

He’d shown her the trees, so many of them, as far as she could see, brown and green, packed together, woven to form a backdrop for ground and sky. And then he’d pointed out the trucks that hauled them, the words
Androvich Lumber
scrawled in faded white lettering across the sides of each dull red cab, all lined up in one neat row—large ones with chains thrown over their beds and tires half as tall as Alex and several times wider. Lastly, were the men, sun-weathered and sweaty, some shaven, some bearded, in T-shirts and jeans, with dirt caked on their worn boots. When they saw Nick, they called out or raised a hand, their eyes slowly shifting to Alex, then back to Nick. Most smiled, a few did not.

Guilt pricked her. If they only knew why she was really here, they’d be chasing after her, chain saws revving.

“You see this tree?” Nick said, interrupting her thoughts. He was pointing to a large tree in front of them. This is a white oak.” He ran his hand along the bark. “Put your hand here. Feel it.”

She followed his instructions, the rough edges of the ash-gray bark beneath her fingers. “White oak has small scaly plates like this one. It’s a dead giveaway.”

“Maybe for somebody who’s lived in the forest all his life.” Alex backed away, stared up at the tree’s leaves. “So, you just look at the bark and know what kind of tree you have?”

He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Pretty much, but there are other ways to tell. Look at the leaves. I know you did at least one leaf project in grade school. Remember, find the leaf, flatten it under a dictionary for a week, glue it down, and label it?” He laughed. “Half the class paid me a buck each to find them leaves. But Uncle Frank’s the real master. He can walk through a forest and tell the type of tree just by looking at it. My dad used to be like that, too. When we were kids, we’d run around, pointing at trees and seeing how fast he could name them.” He shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck. “Michael’s probably the only one around these days who can still tell a tree just by eyeballing it.”

“Michael’s your younger brother.”

“Right.”

“I didn’t see him.”

“You won’t.”

Oh. “Why not?”

There was a short pause. “He stays in the woods. Cuts trees. Hauls lumber.”

“He doesn’t run the company?” It seemed like someone who could walk into the woods and identify every tree should be doing more than cutting and hauling. Especially if his last name was Androvich.

“No.” There was an edge to his voice.

“Oh.”

“How about some lunch? I’m starved.”

“Sure,” Alex said. He’d slammed the subject closed, right in her face. Something was going on between Nick and his brother. Rivalry? Jealousy? What? She’d find out, she was very good at ferreting around for information. Uncle Walter always said the more one knew about one’s opponents,
and everyone’s an opponent, in one way or another,
he’d told her often enough, the better equipped one would be to handle situations that presented themselves.
That’s how we make opportunity, Alex. Out of situations
. There was a situation here with the Androvich brothers, and she intended to turn it into an opportunity.

Nick was quiet on the trip back to the car. She walked beside him, taking in the dense trees, shielding all but slivers of sun like a curtain, the dark earth moist and rich under her feet. Sound was everywhere—chirps, buzzes, hums, drones, crackles. Perhaps they should consider a nature trail here, maybe slice a ribbon right through the heart of the land, dump a ton of gravel for a path, hang up birdhouses, construct a rabbit den. It would be a nice compliment to a summer resort that offered swimming, tennis, golf, the usual. She made a mental note to explore this option further.

“There’s a lake about two miles from here, on the outskirts of town,” Nick said, hopping into the silver Navigator. “Lunch is in that picnic basket back there.”

“Oh.” That surprised her. “How thoughtful of you.”

He shrugged. “It was my mother’s idea. I don’t even know what’s in there.”

Typical man. “Well, whatever it is, I’m sure it will be delicious.”

“My mother’s a great cook, but sometimes, you’re better off just eating it and not asking what it is.” He threw her a sideways glance. “Ever had tripe?”

She shook her head.

“Liver?

“Once.”

“Sweetbread?”

Another no. “I guess I’m more of a conventional chicken and occasional pork kind of person.”

“So cow’s stomach and calf’s thymus gland don’t interest you?”

She stared at him. “No, not really.”

He grinned. “Like I said, with my mother it’s better to just eat it and not ask.”

Alex turned around, eyed the wicker basket lying on the backseat. “Any idea what
might
be in there?” A Hot Ed’s sausage sub sounded awfully good right now, especially next to a tongue and some kind of gland.

“No, but I think she’ll go easy on you. Probably save the good stuff for when she knows you better.” He turned off the main road and onto a narrow side road surrounded by trees and grasses, so thick they made it impossible to see into the woods.
Maybe this could be another nature trail.

“We’re very ethnic people,” Nick said. “It’s how we were raised. Liver, cabbage, cow’s stomach.” He laughed. “Not that we actually dug into it or fought for seconds, but at least we were exposed to it. How about you? Got any delicacies you remember from childhood?”

Should she tell him about the time she spit out a mouthful of caviar at Uncle Walter and Aunt Helen’s annual Christmas party? She’d believed the old blue-haired woman who told her the little black balls in the crystal dish were better than candy, so she’d stuck a big spoonful on a cracker and stuffed it in her mouth. A half second later, she’d spewed it all over her red velvet dress and the white carpet. That was twenty-four years ago and it was the last time she’d tasted caviar. “No, not really.”

“Nothing? No soups or stews or other family recipes that get passed down?”

“We were pretty traditional.” She looked out the window, stared at the mesh of green blending together as they drove by. Family recipes? Aunt Helen left the recipes to
Bon Appétit
and the cooking to Rosa.

“What nationality are you?”

“Excuse me? Oh.” She was remembering Rosa’s chateau briand . “My father was English and my mother was Russian.”

“Was?”

What was he doing, taking a history, like she was one of his patients? Alex prided herself on keeping her personal life just that, personal. She pressed her shoulders into the back of the seat, kept her head turned. “They died when I was eight. I was raised by my aunt and uncle.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

She shook her head. “Just me.”