by Mary Campisi
“Damn right he did. Best thing that ever happened to the town was when he came back.”
Androvich? Alex listened with heightened interest. Androvich was the name of the people who owned the lumber business and a substantial amount of land in the town. And there was a doctor? He’d obviously gone away to school, lived in or near a city, maybe come back more out of duty than desire. She needed to meet him, talk to him, maybe work through him to persuade the rest of the family they could cash out of Restalline, buy a condo in the suburbs, drive a Volvo. But he’d come back? Why?
“The… Androvich’s is it? They’ve been around a long time?”
“They practically started the town,” Chuck said, moving across the room to take the cup Edna held out to him. He took a drink. “Ahhh…perfect.”
“She wants to know about Nick Senior and Stella,” Edna said, like a child ready to blurt out information her parents don’t know.
Chuck Lubovich held up a hand to still his wife, took another sip of coffee. “Restalline was nothing but a clump of dirt until the Androvich’s came here with their saws and buckets of sweat. They started with less than a hundred acres… worked from dawn to dusk, cutting, hauling, selling, buying more land, bit by bit.” He scratched the back of his head. “That’s what brought old man Kraziak here.”
“And the furniture company where Chuck worked since the day he came home from the service.” Edna beamed, pleased with her little offering.
“Kraziak started a lumber processing factory, took all the Androvich lumber and treated it, turned it into boards and the like, then shipped it all over the coast. Anybody who wanted a job had one.”
Edna nodded. “They’re good people, the Kraziak’s. Good people.” Her voice dipped. She made the sign of the cross. “Why such a tragedy should happen to good people like that—”
“Edna!”
She shrugged, pursed her red lips. “It is a tragedy, Chuck. And I think Dr. Nick still blames himself for it.”
“It’s not our business.” He gave his wife a look that told her the discussion was closed.
But Edna Lubovich either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Pshaw! Business. We’ve known him since he was a boy. He deserves to be happy.”
“Just because he doesn’t bring a girl to Sunday dinner, doesn’t mean he isn’t happy,” Chuck said, an edge to his voice, “or that there isn’t a girl waiting at home for him. Trust me.”
“Don’t you dare talk that way about Dr. Nick.” Edna shook a finger at him. “He saved your life.”
“And I’m trying to save his from a busybody senior citizen who’s trying to butt into his business.”
“Hmmmph.”
“Excuse me.” As much as Alex wanted to find out about the Kraziak’s tragedy and Dr. Nick’s guilt, she didn’t want to be embroiled in the Lubovich’s marital spat. Confrontation made her uncomfortable. No, that wasn’t quite true, it wasn’t the confrontation itself that made her uncomfortable, it was all of the emotions tied up in them, tight, coiled, choking out rational thought. That’s what made her fidget, avoid if possible, run away if necessary. Like right now, now was the perfect time to make an escape and with what better reason than to tell the Lubovich’s that she’d like to see her new apartment? Maybe that would sidetrack them long enough for her to get out of here.
“Excuse me.” She cleared her throat. “Do you think I could see the room?”
“She’s staying?” Chuck looked confused.
“She’s staying.” Edna set her coffee cup in the sink, moved to the door, eyes straight ahead. “For two months.”
“Good. Good. Now Tracy won’t be able to run home to Mama the next time she has a fight with Ted.” He raised his voice as Edna headed for the door. “She’ll have to stay home and work it out!”
“Old fuddy-duddy,” Edna muttered under her breath. “Come on.”
Alex followed her up the narrow staircase. Uncle Walter and Aunt Helen had never raised their voices in front of her. Their tones were always quiet and respectful. Passionless. No emotions thrumming at the surface, threatening to explode in anger… or joy, not when it came to each other. Even when Aunt Helen died, Uncle Walter didn’t cry, didn’t grow hoarse with grief when he talked about his dead wife. He referred to her. My wife loved to play bridge. My wife was an excellent golfer. My wife was President of the Garden Club. My wife, my wife, my wife, rarely Helen. And never anything as personal as I miss Helen. I miss her so much some days I wake up and see her side of the bed is empty and just for a moment, I think she’s already downstairs, reading the paper, having her first cup of coffee. Of course, he never said that. How could he? He and Aunt Helen hadn’t shared the same room, let alone the same bed.
“Chuck and I finished this place off for Tracy when she graduated from high school.” A wooden sign with the name TRACY painted in pink hung from the door. “She still comes here sometimes”—Edna turned the knob—“mostly when she and Ted have a little disagreement, you know, married kind of stuff, nothing serious.”
No, Alex didn’t know. The one and only disagreement she and Eric ever had ended in divorce.
“They’re getting along fine now.” Edna opened the door, stepped inside. “I just talked to her this morning.”
As long as she gets along for the next two months. Alex scanned the living room. Pink. Very pink.
Edna pushed back a pink ruffled curtain, opened a window. “She just lives across town. I’m sure you’ll meet her.”
“That would be nice.” Alex was too caught up with the room to say anything else. Good God, Edna’s daughter had actually lived in this place? There was a pale pink sofa pushed against the wall, six hot pink pillows—three round, three square—lining the back of it, a pink coffee table, pink lampshade, pink picture frames displaying pink carnations, petunias and roses, a pink carpet. Pink carpet? Alex blinked. Yes, a pink carpet. Even a pink trash can tucked next to a pink rocking chair.
“Isn’t this room just precious?” Edna beamed. “Tracy did it all herself, wanted to make sure everything matched.”
“Wow.” It matched all right.
“She loves pink.” Edna pulled an afghan—pink of course—off the back of the rocker, refolded it, put it back.
“I guess she does.” Was Tracy pink too? Pink hair, pink makeup, pink clothes?
“You’ve got to see the bedroom. It’s even better than this.” Edna motioned for Alex to follow. Eight steps forward and three to the left they entered Tracy’s bedroom. It was covered in pink, starting from the ceiling, stretching to the rose wallpaper, wrapping itself around the teddy bear sitting in the middle of the satin bedspread and ending with three ceramic vases of silk roses tucked in the corner.
Edna leaned toward Alex, lowered her voice as though there was another person in the room. “I think she has a real knack for decorating, don’t you?”
“Hmm. She certainly knows how to carry a color theme.” To an extreme. Alex spotted the pink-knitted Kleenex box on the nightstand next to the pink alarm clock. At least at night she wouldn’t be able to see anything but black, thank goodness. “I’d like to pay you by the week if that’s all right with you.” She’d didn’t need to see any more, didn’t want to see anything else that would make her feel as though she were being swallowed up by a giant gob of cotton candy.
“But I haven’t even shown you the kitchen.” Edna’s red lips pulled into a frown. “Or the bathroom. Tracy has the most adorable soaps in there, shaped like baby lambs and kittens.” Her voice drooped, fell, stilled.
“Of course, I want to see all of it,” Alex lied. “Every inch. But I thought we could get business out of the way and then”—she paused, forcing an extra eagerness to her voice—“I could just enjoy Tracy’s talents.”
That made Edna smile wide, revealing a metal bracket of bridgework on her back teeth. “Okay, then. What about one hundred a week?”
One hundred a week? Alex was used to the ridiculous prices small-towners threw out for lodging, eyes dart
ing around the room, hoping to earn a little extra for their wish lists—self-propelled lawn mowers, dirt bikes for the kids, dishwashers, air conditioning window units, linoleum floors. It was obvious few of them traveled to the city, where one hundred dollars didn’t cover one night’s stay. So, she paid her twenty-nine dollars a night at The Gazebo or whatever the place was, and let them think they’d gotten the better part of the deal.
But this? One hundred dollars a week? What was that? Fourteen dollars a day? Even for an apartment decked out in pink confection that was too cheap. Alex wanted to earn Edna and Chuck’s trust, convince them to sell out, but she wasn’t trying to rip them off.
“Is that too much?” Edna pressed her hands together, bit her bottom lip. “I could go seventy-five. How’s that? Seventy-five plus a meal a day.”
“Edna, please.” Alex held up a hand, smiled. “I think it’s not enough. I was thinking two hundred a week.”
“Oh, no!” She flung a hand over her heart. “Too much. Way too much.”
Alex hoped it would be this easy negotiating for the Lubovich’s land. “Not really. Listen, Edna. You’re paying all of the utilities, did you think of that? Water, electric, gas? I shower at least once a day, flush the toilet more than that, and I’ll probably watch a little television, listen to the radio, maybe even cook once in a while. That all uses up utilities. It’s only fair.”
“I’m an honest woman, Alex.” Edna patted her yellow kerchief, squared her bony shoulders. “I don’t take nothin’ from anybody unless I earn it.”
“Neither do I.” That was true enough. “You’re going to be my landlady.” Good Lord, was it really going to be this easy to buy up the town? “You have something I want. I’m willing to pay for it and even though you think it’s a lot of money, it still isn’t even fair market value, which means a reasonable price. So, we’re both making out. You’re happy, I’m happy, you make more money than you counted on, I pay less money than I counted on.” Alex held out her hand. “It’s called business, Edna. Pure and simple business.”
Edna clasped Alex’s hand with both of hers. “It’s a deal. But I’m still going to fix you one meal a day. You choose. Stuffed cabbage or chicken paprikash?”
“Can’t say that I’ve had either.” Alex subscribed to the grilled chicken, steamed broccoli, no salt regime.
“Really? Well, you’ll just have to try them both. The only person in town who can even come close to my stuffed cabbage and chicken paprikash is Stella Androvich.”
There was that name again. And here was an opportunity. “Well, then, I’d like to meet her sometime.”
“Sure.” Edna paused. “Why not tonight? There’s a big party for Frank Androvich, Stella’s brother-in-law over at her house. It’s his sixty-fourth birthday. Chuck and I are going. You come with us, meet people, talk to them about Restalline.”
“But I haven’t been invited.”
“Oh, go on, don’t worry about that. I’ll call Stella and tell her we’re bringing you with us.”
“She won’t mind?”
Edna waved a hand at her. “Nah. Stella won’t mind a bit. Especially when I tell her I’ve got somebody I want Dr. Nick to meet.”
“Me? Why?”
“Why not? You’re young, pretty, smart—”
“Oh, no, Edna. I’m sure he’s a very nice man, and I do want to meet him, but I’m really not interested… not that way.” Really not interested. The last thing she needed was to get involved with someone whose property she was looking to buy up and flatten.
The older woman smiled. “You will be, trust me, Alex.”
“Edna.”
She was already turning away, heading toward the door, her yellow slippers flapping across the linoleum. “I’ve got to go think about what I’m going to wear tonight,” she went on. “You think about it, too. Dr. Nick likes blue, anything blue. See you around seven.”
The door clicked and Alex was alone, caught in the middle of a pink nightmare. Dr. Nick Androvich. He was an educated, city-schooled, descendant of a family who owned half the town. He was the one, the one she might convince to sell his land, the one who would then convince the others to sell theirs.
Chapter 4
He spotted her the minute she walked through the door. Tall, graceful, blond, reminding him of a present, One whose wrapping is so elegant, so exquisite, the receiver almost dares not open it, choosing instead to admire the outer trappings, delighting in the beauty of the presentation, all but forgetting the contents within.
Nick tried not to stare. He took a swig of beer, then another. His gaze shot back to the woman. She seemed to be with Chuck and Edna Lubovich, moving through the crowd of well-wishers at Uncle Frank’s party, stopping when they stopped, smiling, holding out her hand. Who was she? A relative? One of Edna’s sister’s children? He doubted it. This one had too much class to be part of the Lubovich clan, he could see it in the way she held herself, head high, shoulders back, chin up.
“Nick,” his mother’s voice interrupted his assessment of the mystery woman, “would you be a dear and carry out the stuffed cabbage and lasagna for me?”
“Sure.” He straightened himself away from the doorway, leaving the woman behind, and followed his mother into the kitchen. “What would the old man say if he knew you were serving stuffed cabbage and lasagna to the guests?”
His mother smiled, pulled open the oven door. “He’d say the Italian in me was trying to drive out the Czech in me.” She stuck her right hand in a cooking mitt. “And then he’d snarl and say that all these years of marriage to him hadn’t taught me ‘one damn thing.’ And then he’d probably insist on setting the Italian food on one table, way in the back, behind a table covered with Czech food. No pizzelles mixing with nut bread or pasta with cabbage rolls.” She looked up at him, her face red with the heat from the oven. “Your father had very particular opinions about things.”
“Except where a half-Italian, half-Czech girl from Restalline was concerned.” Nick took the mitt from her, grabbed another hot pad and lifted the tray of lasagna from the oven. They’d all heard the stories of how Nick Sr.’s parents forbade him to marry a woman with Italian blood, even if part of her was Czech, and how his mother had cried for a week when she learned her son had asked Stella Collianni to be his wife. Only Uncle Frank had stood by their side, telling Nick and Stella that love goes where it’s sent.
“I was his one exception.” Her voice fell low, almost blanked out by the polka music in the next room.
“I know.” Nick lowered his voice, too. Even now, after all these years without him, he still heard the sadness in her voice. She missed the old man, really missed him, like a chunk of her life got torn away when he died. Did Nick’s voice sound like that when he talked about Caroline, like there was a gaping hole right in the middle of his heart, open, bleeding? Probably not. How could there be? He’d mourned her more when she was alive than when she was dead. He’d lost his wife long before the smoke from the fire sucked out her last breath. And that’s where the guilt crept in, housed itself in the corner of his conscience and tortured him.
A good husband would have been able to keep his wife happy. A better husband would have kept her safe. Obviously, Nick had been neither.
“Who’s the woman with Chuck and Edna?” he asked, curious once again about the mystery woman.
“Woman?” His mother lifted a ladle, spooned sauce over the lasagna. “Oh. Edna called and asked if she could bring her new tenant with her.”
“Relative of hers? Niece?”
She shook her head. “No, just someone passing through. Doing some kind of research on the town or something like that.”
The last time someone came under the guise of research, two years ago, Nick had booted him out when he discovered the man was only interested in gathering data to try and undermine the lumber company. “She better not be another one of those ‘Save the trees’ people.” Every year, Androvich Lumber received letters from different factions, protesting the cu
tting of trees. And every year, the company issued a statement regarding their conservation of natural resources policy—how they selected sites to be cut, the need to thin areas to permit maximum growth, alternating sites, re-planting programs and a general education pamphlet. Last year, three people showed up with signs that read, “We Are The Trees”, “Save Mother Tree”, “Treed No More”, and camped in front of Androvich Lumber for three days. The whole town talked about them, two men and a woman, with ponytails and white robes, carrying signs and chanting. Nick tried to talk with them, get them to understand the company’s position on supporting conservation. Michael was less diplomatic—he threatened to drag them by their ponytails out of Restalline. In the end, their own indiscretions got them booted out of town with the threat of jail if they ever came back—rolling joints, offering them to fifteen-and sixteen-year-old girls, trying to persuade the same girls to “explore the group’s bodies and get in touch with their emotions.” In other words, sex. Nick and Michael had intervened and the trio was gone in forty-five minutes; tent dismantled, pulled up by the stakes and tossed into a beat-up Ford, “Save the Trees” posters broken and thrown into the fire, weed confiscated and burned, girls delivered to their homes. Nice, neat, complete, without raising a voice. Michael, being Michael, couldn’t let them leave without what he considered a proper farewell, fitting the occasion—he punched the leader in the jaw and bloodied the other man’s nose. Take that you sonofabitchin’ pervert.
That was last summer. Nothing since. There had only been one other time when an outsider threatened the quiet existence of Restalline. Her name was Deborah. She just showed up one day, about a year after Caroline’s death, said she was looking to unwind from the frantic life in the city. Her hair was the same pale gold as Caroline’s and her eyes the same blue. But she wasn’t interested in relaxing or anything else, except a story of how the wife of a medical student burned to death in her home while her husband put in yet another shift at the hospital. The questions were subtle at first, casual. I heard your wife died last year. How tragic that you have a baby son to raise, alone. And then, Do you want to talk about it? I’m a great listener. Was it an accident? Do you think—just the right amount of hesitancy here—it could have been prevented? It wasn’t intentional… was it? At this point, the real Deborah surfaced and he knew she hadn’t picked Restalline by coincidence. You worked so many hours. Maybe she was depressed, with being alone so much of the time. Doctors are never home, are they? Maybe it was too much for her? Maybe she took something to help her sleep and couldn’t get out, or maybe, just maybe she just didn’t want to wake up? Could that have been it, Nick? Could it have been that?