Simple Riches (2 page)

That’s where it got interesting, living in the town for two or three months, finding out who was in charge, and it was never the mayor, who had an alliance or a relationship to whom, who could be persuaded, who needed money. These were things you couldn’t find out from studying a piece of paper, you had to get in the trenches, imbed yourself among them, kind of like a computer virus, absorbing information, collecting data without anyone’s knowledge but unlike the virus that corrupts and destroys, Alex thought of her methods as a way to help those who couldn’t or didn’t know how to help themselves. Consider the widowed part-time Super Duper cashier who’d never been farther than an hour from her home. Buying up her property enabled her to go on a cruise with her women friends and purchase a condo near her son in North Carolina. Or the fifty-year old man who’d been laboring in the same factory for thirty-two years. He sold his land, moved his family to a suburb outside of Jacksonville, Florida and opened up a pizza shop.

With research, care and timing, everybody got what they wanted. In the seven years she’d been involved with the property research division of WEC Management, there’d only been two times when an individual had refused to sell. The first happened years ago, when Alex had just taken over the division. There was a farmer in Roanoke, Virginia, Leon ‘Rusty’ Dade, who owned fifty acres of land. He farmed some, rented out some, and kept the biggest section for his most prized possessions, his Black Angus. And no amount of cash incentives could persuade Rusty to sell. The land was his legacy, could be traced all the way back to his great-granddaddy’s granddaddy, and would be his five children’s legacy, too. The last Alex inquired, a year ago, Rusty was still farming and ranching and living out his legacy.

The only other time anyone had refused a WEC Management offer was two years ago when its chief competitor, Cora Ltd., slid in and bought up a track of land an hour from Portland, Oregon. Alex had been sure WEC would get the deal, had been shocked when they didn’t. Until she heard that the CEO’s son, Sam Cora, was keeping very close company with Lilly Arbogast, whose father, Jed, owned thirty-five of the fifty acres in question. And it didn’t surprise anyone, except maybe Lilly, that once the deal was done, so was Lilly.

“So do you want to tell me about the next venture?” Uncle Walter asked, straightening his gray silk tie.

This was when she felt the closest to her uncle, here, in this room, pouring over charts and graphs, watching his eyes spark with interest as she drew him into the planning stages of a certain piece of property, considering and discussing all of its possibilities. The usual stern expression on his face smoothed out, the brackets around his mouth faded, and he seemed almost… relaxed. If you could call a man who spent six and a half days at the office, had his hair trimmed every five days, and never went anywhere without at least a sport coat, relaxed. There was a oneness here, a unity, intangible yet real, that bound them to each other when they were planning a project. Alex felt it, he had to feel it too. So, maybe her uncle didn’t say the words, but she knew he cared. When he nodded his silver head in agreement, she felt like a child on a hot summer’s day, who’d just been given an ice cream cone. Delight. Pure delight.

“Alex? Plan on keeping it all to yourself?”

“No.” She laughed, ran a hand through her hair. “Actually, I think I may have found the ideal location for our next project.” She tried to control her excitement but it burst out, “A
year round
resort.”

“That’s quite a statement, young lady.”

“I know. But it looks perfect, at least the specs do. It’s an area in the northwestern section of Pennsylvania, about an hour from Pittsburgh. Lots of trees, birds, deer, a lake even… the whole nature bit.” She waved a hand in front of her. “The kind of landscape tourists love. And, get this”—she leaned forward, rested her elbows on the top of her cherry desk—“the first snowfall last year was October twenty-second.”

His pale blue eyes lit up. “Mix it with a little powder…”

“And by mid-November the slopes would be ideal.” She swiveled her chair around, pulled a large portfolio off the credenza and spread the contents on the desk. “Here, we’ve got a map of the area. There’s the Allegheny River, running west, which seems to be right in the town’s backyard.” She traced a thin blue line. “And over here”—she pointed to a small, blue shape—“is Sapphire Lake. The water alone is enough to get excited about, but they’ve got mountains, and steep hills, too. I can just picture them with lights and ski lifts.”

Her uncle picked up the map, studied it, rubbed his jaw. “I don’t want another piecemeal project, Alex. This time, I want the whole thing. One deal, period.”

“I agree.” She shifted in her chair. “I know you were disappointed Mr. Oshanski didn’t sell out sooner.” Her voice dipped. “He had a lot of issues to deal with…”

“We can’t afford to fall prey to another person’s sentimental wanderings. If we can’t get the package this time, we don’t do the deal.”

“I’ll get it, Uncle Walter.” She hadn’t missed the flecks of disappointment in his voice. Even though he’d told her he didn’t hold her responsible for Mr. Oshanski’s thirteen-month delayed response, she
felt
responsible. She should have been able to persuade him to sell off his land and buy a condo in the suburbs. But looking at him, sitting in his rocker on the front porch of the old farmhouse where he and his deceased wife, Lena, had raised seven children, it hadn’t seemed appropriate or plausible to mention. He wasn’t the type who would look forward to central vacuuming or maintenance-free lawns. His children were scattered all over the country, busy with lives of their own and all he had left were memories… and a tree. Uncle Walter would never understand about the tree, or the memories, for that matter.

“What else do you know about the area?”

“Well, it looks like there are two families who run the place.” She scanned her notes. “The Kraziaks… and the Androvichs. A Mr. Norman Kraziak owns a sawmill company and a furniture manufacturing plant. They make specialty rocking chairs. And the Androvichs, looks like a Nicholas, owns five hundred acres and a logging business.”

“Interesting.”

Alex glanced up. “How so?”

Uncle Walter’s lips pulled into a semblance of a smile. “It’s obvious the businesses are interdependent. They may even have relatives on both sides, through marriage and whatnot. One can’t survive without the other. All you have to do is win one of them over...”

“And the other won’t be able to survive.”

“Or at the very least, surviving would prove very difficult. That’s where we come in and offer them a way out.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Alex jotted down a few notes.
Meet Mr. Kraziak and Mr. Androvich, ASAP.
“I thought I’d leave in a couple of days. Get myself settled.”
Show you I haven’t lost my touch. I can do this, I can get the whole package.

“What? Not even a buying trip to New York?”

“No.” She gave him a sheepish look. “I hate to admit it, but I’ve got half a closet stuffed with clothes that still have Bloomingdale and Neiman
Marcus tags on them. I really think I should pass.”

“Eric said something about Maui.”

Here it comes
. “Good. He should take a vacation. He’s been working hard.”

Uncle Walter cleared his throat. “Actually, he said the same thing about you. He thinks you’ve been working very hard and need a break.” He paused, cleared his throat again. “I think he was intending to ask you to go with him.”

Alex underlined the names Kraziak and Androvich three times. “Sorry.” She looked up, gave him a half-smile. “I really want to get started on this project. It’s already May and I want to see the area in the summer. I figure two months for research”—she tapped her pen against her chin—“that should put us well into July.”

“I’ll expect to hear from you at least once a week,” Uncle Walter said. “And monthly visits. You’re not that far from home that you can’t make the trip once a month.”

“Of course,” Alex said, dipping her head to hide a smile. He got like this every time she told him she was going away somewhere.
Call. Visit. Don’t forget to
…. “Of course I’ll come home.”

“Good.” He picked at a piece of lint on the sleeve of his gray suit. “I want to be kept informed.” He looked up, met her gaze. “Remember, all or nothing.”

“I’ll remember.” He was never going to let her forget unless she redeemed herself with this next project.

He stood, brushed a hand over his slacks and said, “This place you’re going to, does it have a name?”

“Restalline. It’s called Restalline.”

“What was it this time Harry?” Nick Androvich looked up from the chart in his hand. “Peanut butter pie? Cheeseburger from Hot Ed’s?”

The man on the exam table rubbed his stomach, groaned. “Sausage sub, peppers and onions.”

“From Hot Ed’s?”

Harry nodded. “Don’t tell Tilly, Doc. She’ll shoot me if she finds out.”

Nick set the chart on the counter beside him and shrugged. “I’m not going to tell Tilly anything. I won’t have to, Harry. One look at you and she’ll know what you’ve been doing.”

“Ah, Doc”—he moved his hand up and down from just below his belly button to the top of his groin—“I couldn’t help it. I didn’t mean to, honest. I just went in to give Bernie his mail, but I had to get his signature on a certified piece and he was back in the kitchen frying up peppers and onions.” He groaned again, let out a belch. “I couldn’t stand it. The sausage was just sitting there, all shiny and plump. And that smell… After three weeks of broth and boiled chicken, I went crazy. Bernie and I figured one sub would be okay.”

“Well now you know it isn’t.”

Harry lowered his head which was shaved to less than half an inch on top, gray speckled with brown. “I think it was the other ones that did me in.”

“The other ones?” Harry wasn’t going to stop until he landed on the operating table. “How many other ones would that be?”

Harry’s shoulders slumped forward. “I don’t know what came over me.” He inched his eyes up to meet Nick’s. “I tell you, it was like I was an addict, and that sausage sub was my drug.”

“How many, Harry?” The man was going to eat himself right into his grave.

“Three.” The word came out low, barely above a whisper.

“Three,” Nick repeated.

“I’m sorry, Doc.”

“Damn it, Harry, you know better. You were in her three weeks ago because Tilly’s chicken paprikash finally caught up with you. Remember telling me it felt like somebody was running a hot poker along your insides?”

“I know, I know.” He clutched his stomach with both hands and leaned forward.

Nick rested his hand on the other man’s shoulder. Harry Lendergin had been delivering mail to the residents of Restalline for thirty-four years. He knew every route, every street number and name, had been assigned to most at one time or another. Over the years, he’d stuffed hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of pieces of information into mailboxes, bills, letters, junk mail, magazines, good news and bad, hoped for and dreaded, in small white envelopes and long manila squares. He’d carried Nick his MCAT scores, then his admission letter to Hahnemann and later yet, a certificate from the state of Pennsylvania with his name on it—Nicholas Anthony Androvich, Board Certified in Family Practice. Harry was a simple man, honest, hardworking, with a wife, two grown daughters, and an affinity for food packed with fat.

“I’m from the old school, Doc.” Harry shifted around on the exam table, settled both hands over his stomach, started rubbing up and down. “When Tilly gives me a piece of cake, I want it to taste like cake, not that god-awful yogurt stuff she puts in there. Substitute. That’s what she says.” He heaved a big sigh. “She’s driving me nuts, you know that?”

“Harry,” Nick said in a gentler tone. “This isn’t about Tilly, she’s only trying to help. It’s up to you. You were raised on bacon and gravy, you and three quarters of the people in this town over fifty. But your body can’t take it anymore and it’s fighting back. You’re only fifty-four years old, with a lot of good years left, if you take care of yourself.”

“I will, Doc, I will.”

“Listen to me, aside from the way this food is tearing up your gallbladder, what do you think it’s doing to your arteries? Do you want to end up like my dad?”

Harry shook his head, made a hasty sign of the cross. “Poor Nick Senior.”

“He was less than fifty feet from his men and he couldn’t call for help, not that anybody could have done anything for him. But at least he wouldn’t have died alone.” Even now, after all this time, Nick hated to think of his father, lying in the snow, half-frozen, dead from a massive heart attack. He still remembered the pickups, traveling down the long gravel driveway, inching forward, headlights dim, like a funeral procession, converging on the old, white farmhouse where Nicholas Androvich Sr. and his wife, Stella, lived with their three children. His mother had run outside, wiping her hands on the printed apron she always wore.
He’s hurt, isn’t he? He’s tried to take down a tree by himself and got hurt, didn’t he? Is it his leg? His arm?
Her words grew louder, the pitch more hysterical.
Where is he? Where? Nick! Nick! Damn you, Nick, for taking foolish chances! We’ve got three kids to raise!
Uncle Frank, Nick Sr.’s brother jumped out of the first truck, pulled her away and said something to her. Nick Jr. watched from the top step of the wraparound porch as his mother’s legs buckled and she fell into Uncle Frank’s arms like a rag doll that’s had the stuffing pulled out of it.

Nick knew then, didn’t have to hear the words swirling around him in hushed whispers to confirm it. His father was dead. Nicholas Androvich Sr., second-generation son of a Czechoslovakian immigrant and his wife, was dead. Nick Jr. thought of his father lying somewhere amidst the five hundred acres of land he’d bought years ago, shrouded in maple, pine, poplar, ash, and the elusive cherry. He’d forged a logging company through brawn, sheer will, and a desire to provide a better life for his family, and then, when the dream was just within his reach, he’d toppled over and drawn his last breath among the trees he knew so well. People said Nick Sr. was like his trees—tall, sturdy, formidable, a man who bowed to no one, no one but his own body that gave out at forty-nine. Everyone wondered about his death. Was it the two shots of Smirnoff he had every morning before pulling out that weakened his heart and did him in? Or maybe Stella’s mashed potatoes and gravy or her stuffed dumplings? Some said it was his temper, all bottled up like aged whiskey, ready to explode any second. And still others wondered about his family history, his father and his father’s father. Genetics. Nick, at fifteen, hadn’t known what to think, so he’d thought about all of it, all of the time. Could it have been detected, maybe prevented? Could his father still be alive today? The questions wouldn’t go away. If a doctor had examined his father and identified a problem, a blockage maybe, then maybe the outcome would have been different. Maybe…

Restalline had two general practitioners back then, Dr. Montolowski and Dr. Heinen. Stanley Montolowski treated everyone with a dose of castor oil and a tablespoon of Brioschi. If that didn’t do the trick, he sent them to Dr. Heinen. Charles Heinen was originally from Pittsburgh, a “city boy” the town called him. He’d moved here with his wife and two small children to get away from the city and enjoy country life. People laughed at his bow ties and shiny wing-tip shoes, so different from Dr. Montolowski’s red-and-blue striped tie and scuffed oxfords. Many thought his ways were too different, too bizarre. Who ever heard of sitting in a dark room and counting your breaths? That wasn’t relaxing, that was downright crazy! And the tests the man ordered, blood test for this and that, getting poked like a pincushion. Nick Androvich Sr. refused to see Dr. Heinen, even after Dr. Montolowski’s castor oil and Brioschi treatment failed.
It’s a pulled muscle is all from lifting logs all day. That pansy doctor wouldn’t know the first thing about hard work or real pain. He’s a city boy, not like us, not Restalline born and bred.

Two weeks later, Nick’s father suffered a massive heart attack and died. If he’d let Dr. Heinen examine him, would the outcome have been different? Would he have lived? Nick vowed to find a way to educate the town, help them overcome their prejudices, their ignorance about health care. He’d become a doctor of family medicine because his father had fought illness with blind denial and died because of it.

Nick was not going to let Harry Lendergin be a victim, not if he had to barricade Hot Ed’s to do it. “Right now your gallbladder’s inflamed and the attacks are your body’s way of telling you it can’t handle the food you’re giving it.”

“I don’t want the surgery yet, Doc.” Harry’s dark eyes filled with panic. “Not until after Marie’s wedding.”

“No doctor would do the surgery now, not with the inflammation. We’ve got to get that under control with antibiotics, and then we’ll talk about having you see a surgeon. I’ll give you a few names.”

Harry waved a hand in the air. “Just one name, the one you think would be best for me.”

“Fine. Can I tell you what I think would be best for you right now?”

“Sure, whatever you say.”

“You need something for pain and you need rest.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’m grateful, truly grateful.”

“I’m not finished yet, Harry. No more sausage subs, no more chicken paprikash, chicken and dumplings, hamburgers, or peanuts.”

“Okay, Doc.” He nodded his crew-cut head.

“Just wait a minute. No ice cream, peanut butter, donuts, Twinkies, or pizza. Nothing loaded with fat.”

“Anything you say, Doc. I promise.”

“I mean it, Harry. If it happens again, you won’t make it a month to Marie’s wedding. You’ll be in the hospital, period.”

Harry’s face turned white beneath his tan. “I gotta make Marie’s wedding. I’ll eat Tilly’s broth and boiled chicken.” He shook his head, muttered, “That’s probably what’ll do me in, but I’ll eat it.”

Nick smiled, shook Harry’s hand. “Call me if you have any other problems. Sometimes the gallbladder acts up even when all you’re eating
is
broth and boiled chicken.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Harry nodded. “Thanks for everything.”

Ten minutes later, Harry Lendergin left the doctor’s office with a prescription in one hand and his empty mailbag in the other.

“Well, whose kitchen has Harry been raiding this time?” Elise Pentani looked up from the stack of charts in front of her.

“Hot Ed’s,” Nick said, handing her Harry’s chart. “Three sausage subs.”

“Good Lord, no wonder he came in doubled over.”

“I told him if he wants to walk Marie down the aisle next month, he’d better stay away from all that junk he’s been sneaking.” Nick unbuttoned his lab coat and pulled it off. He glanced at his watch and said, “I’ve got to stop by and check on Mrs. Graeber. I told her I’d be there by six.”

“Speaking of fat, I bet she’ll have a cherry pie waiting for you.”

Nick grinned. “I’m counting on it.”

“Most doctors want cash.” She laughed. “But you, you want cherry pies, chocolate chip cookies, banana nut bread. You have some nerve lecturing Harry.”

“The difference is that I can eat a piece and stop. Harry doesn’t call it quits until the whole thing’s done.” He patted his stomach. “But one of these days it’s all going to show up, right here.”

She shook her head. “I doubt it. Some people are just blessed.”

“Yeah, that’s me all right. Blessed. A regular
GQ
kind of guy.” He ran both hands through his hair, tried to smooth down the flip in the back. He needed a trim. “That’s why I’m wearing a red polo from Penney’s and a pair of Levi’s, relaxed fit, mind you. And docksiders with a stain on the left shoe thanks to Mrs. Graeber’s Chihuahua with the irritable bladder.”

“And the really sick thing is you still look like you just walked off the cover of a magazine.”

“Right.
Zoo World
, maybe.”

“Hardly, Nick.”

He laughed. “You need to get a husband so you can tell him all this flattery stuff. He’d eat it right up. Great for the marriage.”

Elise scrunched up her nose. “Uh, thanks, but I’m a little light in the male department right now.” She held up both hands. “Not that I’m looking.”

“You should be. You’re what? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?”

“Thirty.”

“All the more reason. You’ve been on three dates in the two years you’ve been working for me. That’s crazy.”

“Five. I’ve been on five. Six if you count the cholesterol screening with Dr. Crawford. We went out for coffee afterward.”

“Okay, six. You’re beautiful
and
you’ve got a great personality.”

She let out a little laugh. “So what kind of man could match a compliment like that?”

He ignored her. “And you’re one hell of a nurse, great with the patients, easy to talk to. Any man in his right mind would jump at the chance to be with you.”

“They’re all lined up outside, aren’t they?” She tapped her fingernails on the Formica desk and looked at him.

“Maybe I’m working you too much, maybe you need more time to get out and socialize.” She was at his office all the time, early in the morning until late at night.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

Now she sounded just like him.
Thanks, but no thanks
. He had a reason to be that way. Elise didn’t. She’d never been married, never even had a serious relationship, not that he knew of, and he’d known her since she was five. So, what was she afraid of? Caring about someone enough to get hurt? Baring her soul and being rejected? Loving someone and losing him? She’d make a great wife, a great mother. Any man would be lucky to have a woman like Elise… any man… even his lame-brained, stubborn, brother.

The idea hit him so fast he had to slow it down and replay it all over again. Elise and Michael… Maybe she could straighten him out and knock that chip off his shoulder. Show him how to love, give him hope… “Elise, what are you doing Saturday night?”

She coughed and sputtered, “What did you say?”

“I said what are you doing Saturday night?” The question made her face turn bright pink. Pretty, very pretty. Michael liked dark-haired women, didn’t he?

Elise patted her hair, fanned her hand in front of her face. “It’s awful hot in here, don’t you think?”

Had she guessed what he was planning? Is that why she seemed suddenly off-kilter? “We’re having a birthday party at the house for Uncle Frank. He’ll be sixty-four. Mom’s making stuffed cabbage and lasagna. Why don’t you come?”