by Mary Campisi
“But I think I’m getting better. Really, I do.” She lifted her head, eyes wet, tears streaming down her face. “Don’t you think so? Don’t you think I am?” It was the voice of a child, afraid and uncertain, seeking help, shelter, love.
He stroked the side of her face, trailing his fingers over her hair. The gesture was so tender, so personal that Alex had to look away. “Let me take you home,” he said. “I’ll fix you a cup of chamomile tea. Would you like that?”
“Yes. Yes, I could use a cup.”
“Good. That’s very good.”
“Who’s the lady?”
“That’s Alex. Alex Chamberlain. She’s come to write about our town.”
“Oh.”
Silence. And then she spoke again and Alex understood why Norman had hesitated when he’d seen her standing in the doorway, understood why he was stroking her face and hair as though she were a child. With one sentence, she understood it all.
“Maybe Caroline will come today, and then she can meet this young woman and tell her how wonderful this town is and just how much she’s missed Restalline.”
***
“She’s loony, poor thing.” Edna shook her head, lowered her voice. “He can’t even trust her to go to the grocery store by herself.” She clucked her tongue, “All that money, that beautiful house, and for what? Nothing will bring Caroline back, not all the money in the world.”
“Edna, tell me about Caroline. What really happened to her?” Alex couldn’t get the sight of Norman Kraziak or his wife out of her mind. She’d tried, but Ruth Kraziak’s pathetic words kept coming back to her. But I think I’m getting better. Really, I do. Don’t you think so? And then, the shocker. Maybe Caroline will come today...
Edna pushed back her chair. “Hold on a sec.” She peeked out the window. “He’s out back, trimming the hedges. It’s safe for a little while. Chuck says I need to mind my own business, not talk about other people.” She waved a hand in the air. “Says it’s gossiping. I said, heck no, it’s not. It’s just transferring information, like the newspaper does, no difference. Right?” She looked at Alex, hands on hips. “Right?”
“Right.”
“That’s what I tell him, but you know men,” she said, moving to the stove and lifting the lid off of a big pot, “they don’t listen.” She stirred the contents of the pot, “You ever hear them talking about their male parts the way we women talk about our female parts?” Edna shook her head and the yellow bow in the back bounced up and down. “Never. Don’t talk about the fight they have with their wives or girlfriends, either.” She grabbed a teaspoon from the drawer, dipped it in the pot, tasted it. “Mmmm. Beef stroganoff tonight, Alex. Needs caraway, maybe a little more pepper.”
“I don’t want to cause a problem between you and Chuck—”
“Pshaw! Don’t you worry about Chuck.” Edna sank onto the yellow cushion and lowered her voice. “Somebody should tell you about Caroline… and Dr. Nick. Who’s gonna do that if I don’t?”
“Thank you.” Edna Lubovich was proving to be Restalline’s version of Dear Abby. The woman knew everything about everyone.
“No problem. It’ll help your book, right?” She stirred her tea. “No way to say it except to say it. Caroline died in a fire when Dr. Nick was finishing medical school. It’s been almost eight years now, hard to believe it. She’d just had Justin, it was her first night home and thank God the baby had to stay in the hospital. Dr. Nick was working. The fire started and she… she never made it out.”
“How horrible.”
“You can’t imagine the way this town grieved. Or Dr. Nick. He blamed himself, thought he should have been able to do something to help her.”
“What happened? How?”
Edna took a sip of tea, set the cup down. “There was talk,” she said, her voice falling to a hint above a whisper, “a lot of it.”
“What kind of talk?”
She shrugged. “People said Caroline took a bottle of pills, that she was depressed, that things weren’t so good between her and Dr. Nick.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
“Some of it. Dr. Nick never talked about it, still won’t. And poor Ruth, she just fell apart, like a pumpkin smashed on the road, splattering everywhere. She lost it, couldn’t accept that her baby was gone, that she’d died such a horrible death. So she started to pretend. At first, we were all sympathetic, didn’t say nothing, just acted like we didn’t hear her when she talked about Caroline coming home. But it got worse—she used to go sit at the bus stop every day, waiting. Now she only goes once a week. And she’d go to the grocery store and buy up all of Caroline’s favorite foods—canned peaches and pears, cottage cheese, strawberry ice cream. Poor Norman. He finally had to take her to see Dr. Endson, the psychiatrist two towns over and get her on some medication.”
“Has it helped?” Alex thought of the thin woman in the oversized dress and stained slippers standing in the doorway of Norman Kraziak’s office.
“Some. She gets out a little, not much. Dr. Nick keeps an eye on her, goes to visit her every week, sometimes more. Stella says he’s always torn up when he comes back. She hates what it does to him.”
“What about the boy? Justin?”
“He’s a good boy. He’ll be eight, let’s see, July twenty-second. Dr. Nick’s done a fine job, but he’s had a lot of help from the rest of the family—Stella, Frank, Gracie, even Michael.”
Alex didn’t recognize Gracie, maybe it was his sister or an aunt, but she had heard of Stella, Michael, and Frank. Definitely, Frank. “Is Frank, Uncle Frank? The man who didn’t show up for his own birthday?”
Edna threw back her head, laughed, revealing a fair amount of bridgework. “That’s just Frank. He’s really an old softy, loves the kids, and they love him.”
“Aren’t they… afraid of him?”
“Because of his face? Nah. They’re used to him. Anyway, they’re too busy listening to his stories to think about being afraid. You know, he made the kids a tree house with two ladders, a trapdoor, and windows with shutters. Half the town wants to buy one for their kids, but Frank’s not interested.”
How could he not be interested? Alex would love to meet him, ask him how he could turn away business opportunities for his woodworking when it was obvious there was a demand for his work. Didn’t he know about supply and demand? He could name his own price. People were always willing to pay exorbitant amounts for their children’s pleasures. “Seems like he’s sitting on a gold mine and all he has to do is dig at it a little.”
“Maybe. That’s just not Frank’s way.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“You will. Soon enough.”
Chapter 7
“Alex! Where have you been?”
“Hi, Uncle Walter.” She traced the edges of the glass jewels on the hand mirror. The colors were still bright and vibrant.
“You don’t return phone calls? I told Eric if I didn’t hear from you by tomorrow, I was coming to look for you.”
The thought of Uncle Walter driving into Restalline in his Audi and Armani suit unsettled her. “No,” she said, a little too quickly. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’ve just been very busy.”
That seemed to calm him down. “Oh? What did you find out?” There was an eagerness in his voice, the kind that always crept in when they were discussing acquisitions or new ventures.
“I think you’ll be pleased. The backdrop is perfect, lots and lots of trees, and there’s the lake I told you about, Sapphire Lake. I thought it could be a focal point of the resort, maybe build a lodge or a club close by, or a restaurant overlooking the lake.”
“I like the restaurant idea. What about the skiing?”
“I think it’ll work. It looks to have the same land slope as the one in New York.”
“Good. Good.” He paused. “And the people? Do you think they’ll be amenable?”
“Of course.” The mirror winked against the light when she turned it in her hand as thoug
h it had spotted her for the lies she was about to tell. Alex thought of Nick Androvich, whom she hadn’t seen since he’d dumped her at the Restalline Millworks. And then there was Norman Kraziak, the poor man hadn’t even been able to make eye contact with her after his wife promised to invite her over when Caroline got in.
So, there were a few hurdles, nothing insurmountable, and certainly nothing Uncle Walter needed to hear about. She’d handle it.
“How are the two principles? Kraziak and what’s the other man’s name? Androski?”
“Androvich.” Nick.
“That’s right. Androvich,” he corrected himself. “How are they?”
“Fine. They’re fine.” That wasn’t quite true. Nick Androvich was avoiding her and no matter what his nurse said, Alex knew he couldn’t possibly be with a patient every time she called. And Norman… Well, Norman was battling the humiliation that an outsider knew about his wife and her problems. Maybe if they moved away, left the reminders behind, it would help Ruth Kraziak deal with her pain, get on with her life. It could be a very good thing for them. They might actually welcome an opportunity to leave Restalline behind.
As for Nick, from what she’d seen so far, he had his feet buried in Restalline soil like all of his ancestors before him. Persuading him to sell might be more difficult than moving Mount Saint Helens.
“You know I really want this deal,” Uncle Walter said. “The whole thing, Alex. Can you get it for me?”
There was a ring of challenge in his voice. “I’ll get it,” she promised, clutching the mirror. One way or the other, I’ll get it.
***
“Who’s coming to dinner tonight, Grandma? Who’s the lady?” Justin pulled the salt and pepper shakers out of the corner cupboard and waited.
“Curious little bugger, aren’t you?” Stella Androvich laughed, stirred the pot of pierogies she’d made that morning, potato and onion, Nick’s favorite. “Her name’s Alex.”
“Huh?” He scrunched up his nose. “That’s a boy’s name.”
“It’s really Alexandra, but people call her Alex for short.”
“Oh. Does she look like a boy?”
“No.” Stella smiled. The boy asked more questions than any other child she knew. Michael’s kids only talked when someone asked them a direct question, and then it was iffy whether or not they’d answer. Of course, what could anyone expect from children whose mother had run off to Buffalo with a pharmaceutical salesman, leaving them with a father who was too angry and sometimes too caught up in self-pity to notice they hadn’t changed their shirts in two days? And Gracie’s crew, Cecily and Sophia, well they just talked all the time, words flying out of their mouths, one trying to outdo the other, so loud and fast that nothing made sense.
Stella pushed back a lock of hair. Children were a blessing; she’d felt that since the second she held Nick in her arms, beet red and wailing, thirty-eight years ago. She’d wanted to keep her babies young forever, their boundaries clear, their homes secure. Safe. That’s what she’d prayed to the Blessed Mother for every night. Keep my children safe. Safe from bullets and knives, speeding cars, and cancer, safe from people who will use them and mistreat them and break their hearts. Please, please, please, take my happiness, but keep them safe. She knew better than to use prayer as a bargaining tool, but these were her children. And just when she thought the Blessed Mother had heard her prayers and granted them, Caroline had died. And then Michael’s wife ran out on him, and he started drinking. And then Nick and Michael had a horrible argument… It went on and on, the worrying never stopped. She’d gone to church and lit another candle today. This one for Nick, asking the Blessed Mother to help him find his way, see more clearly. Give Alex Chamberlain a chance. She seemed like a nice girl. Nick and Michael needed to settle down, find women to care about them—women who weren’t their mother.
And that’s why Stella had taken it upon herself to invite Alex to dinner tonight. Nick wasn’t responding to his mother’s innocent promptings that maybe he should invite that nice young girl to dinner and didn’t he think she was pretty? He’d done no more than shrug and change the subject.
“Grandma?” It was Justin again. “Does this Alex like to play baseball?”
Stella turned to her grandson, “Well, I don’t know Justin, but she might.”
“Do you think I should ask her when she gets here?” His eyes were the color of a September sky, just like his mother’s.
“I think that would be fine. All of you can play. Dad, Kevin, Sara, maybe even Uncle Michael, if he comes.” Stella tried to keep her voice even. Michael had a habit of dropping Kevin and Sara off and then disappearing until their bedtime. When he came back, he was never full-blown drunk, just … loose, relaxed. And sometimes it seemed, well, she could swear he hadn’t touched a drop, though she couldn’t guess, or maybe she didn’t want to guess, what he’d been doing for all those hours. Those were the nights he’d pull in the driveway, honk the horn, and yell, Let’s go! Now. She’d tried to talk to him, as a mother, as a grandmother—so had Nick and even Gracie, bless her innocent soul.
But Michael wasn’t interested in what any of them had to say. If I want a sermon, I’ll go to church, he’d told them. There just was no give to the boy, at least not any that he was willing to let his family see. Somewhere deep inside him there was a pain that needed healing, a wound that kept opening, bleeding, threatening to spread. And the worst part of it all was that Stella could do nothing more than watch and pray.
But she could help her other son. Nick was more approachable, less antagonistic, more likeable, than his younger brother. Perhaps it was because he’d taken over when his father died, blamed no one for being the oldest of three children, and therefore, the figurehead, the one who must forge a plan, set an example. Nick had done what he’d needed to do, no apologies, no excuses. Stella put the colander in the sink, lifted the boiling pot from the stove. He deserved a little happiness. She poured the pierogies into the colander, the heat of the steam smacking her in the face. Alex was smart, pretty, and she was not oohing and ahhing all over Nick like a lot of other women did. That said something for her. The woman had spunk, and she had Stella Androvich and Edna Lubovich rooting for her.
***
“This is delicious.” Alex forked a piece of pierogie. “What did you say was in this?”
“Onion and potato,” Stella answered. “I made them this morning from scratch. You can buy them in the grocery store, in the frozen section where they sell other things like spinach and crab appetizers and shrimp cocktail”—she threw Nick a pointed glance—“but there’s nothing like homemade.”
“Do you like to cook?” This from Gracie, innocent, unintentional.
Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw Alex’s left hand ball into a fist. She cleared her throat, said, “Uh, I don’t get much of an opportunity with traveling and all.”
“So you probably depend on boxes and the freezer section?” He met his mother’s gaze from across the table.
“Yes,” Alex said, shrugging in half apology, “I do.”
“Well, don’t you worry, dear,” Stella chimed in. “You’ll be here plenty long enough for me to teach you a few things. We’ll make bread, and every woman should know how to make pasta—long, short, stuffed—pierogies, too. And of course, stuffed cabbage and babovka, our coffee cake.” Her dark eyes lit up. “What are you doing tomorrow morning, say around nine?”
There was a breath of hesitation, then, “I don’t have any plans. I’ll be here.”
“Good.” Stella nodded. “Good.” This with more force, as though they’d agreed on some heretofore unknown pact. “Isn’t that great, Nick, that Alex is interested in learning to make things from scratch?”
Great. “That’s great, Mom.” Could she be any more obvious? Why not just grab his hand and put it on top of Alex’s and tell them to go out on a date? Why not tell him to lean over, give her a kiss while he was at it? Wouldn’t that be easier than all the innuendos, all the sly l
ooks, the nudges under the table? He hated this matchmaking his mother was hell-bent on. It wasn’t enough that he’d had to hear about blasted Alex Chamberlain for the last few days, how intelligent, how sophisticated, how charming, even though his mother had come to that conclusion after a mere ten-minute conversation with the woman, but now he was face to face with her and it was so much worse. In truth, Nick hadn’t wanted to see Alex Chamberlain again—there was something about her that bothered him, left him questioning himself and her. He didn’t know what it was, only that it rubbed him raw like a blister rips the flesh off a person’s heels when they walk a mile in a new pair of shoes. He stuffed a whole pierogie in his mouth, chewed hard. The woman disturbed him and the hell of it was he couldn’t even say why.
“Mom says you’re from around D.C.,” Gracie said, her brownish-gold eyes warm, welcoming. She reached over, wiped the apple juice dripping down four-year old Sophia’s mouth.
“Yes.”
“Hmm. I went there once when I was a senior in high school. It was our class trip. I’ve always wanted to go back.” She turned, smiled at her husband, Rudy. “Maybe after the baby comes, we can take a trip there.”
Rudy lifted his crew-cut head, reached out and brushed a ham-sized hand over Gracie’s hair. “Maybe after the baby comes, Stella will watch the kids and we can take a second honeymoon there.”
“My grandbabies are welcome anytime.” Stella smiled at the children seated around the table. “Each and every one of you.” She pointed to Sophia who was stuffing a piece of bread in her mouth. “And that means you too, pumpkin.”
Gracie picked up Cecily’s empty glass, poured more milk into it. “Thanks, Mom.”
“The more the merrier,” Stella laughed. “I’d take another two, three, four grandchildren anytime, any way I can get them.” She turned to Alex. “Are there any little people in your family, Alex?”
“No. I’m an only child.”
“Oh.” The clatter of silverware on dishes filled the room. “Well, all the more reason you should marry and have a big family yourself.”