Simple Riches

by Mary Campisi

  Raw pain coated his next words. “She's bleeding again.”

  ***

  The afternoon sun beat down on Matt, making him drowsy. There was nothing like California weather. Not too hot, never too cold and always just a day away from decent weather, even when it rained. It sure beat the hell out of Pittsburgh with its subzero winters, freezing rain, and ice storms. And the blizzards, they were a real treat. Even summer days with their overcast skies and cool nights left a person wanting. He ought to know—he'd spent enough years there.

  California was different. It was the land of opportunity, a place for high rollers, where risk-takers rode with Lady Luck on their shoulder, smiling their beautiful smiles, making their multimillion-dollar deals and raking in cash by the armored truckload. He used to be one of the elite, one of the high rollers. But that was before he'd rammed into the tree that changed his life forever. He shoved his ball cap down, shielding part of his face from the heat. Blind. That's what he was. What he would be for the rest of his life.

  How many times had he replayed those last seconds on the slope? Two hundred? More like two thousand. If only that kid hadn't been downed right in his landing path. If only he had veered to the right. If only he had listened to Adam and not made the final run. If only that damned tree hadn't been there. If only.

  If only didn't matter, not when he opened his eyes every morning to darkness. That was the hardest part. That, and accepting blindness as a way of life. He'd have to do it. Someday. On his own terms. But he sure as hell wasn't going to put up with any more damned psychologists and their ‘How did that make you feel?’ probing.

  And then there was that last one. The woman. Claire something or other. She'd only been interested in studying the effects of blindness on his sexuality—even offered herself up as part of the case study. Said she wanted to conduct an experiment with him. He'd yanked her by the arm and hauled her out of the house so fast she hadn't had time to button her shirt.

  He was through talking with everybody. Except, maybe Jeff. He'd be here soon, not to pick and probe and dissect like all the others. But to listen. Like a friend.

  ***

  LAX was a maze with only one exit. Men with starched white shirts and purposeful strides balanced cell phones and overnight bags while women in short silk suits with golden tans and sun-kissed hair, pulled compact travel cases behind them. Crying babies clutched their mother's shirts with pudgy fingers, balling the fabric into wrinkled messes, while toddlers wailed and grabbed at moving pant legs. So many people. All in motion. All going somewhere.

  Sara scanned the signs overhead. The noise, the people, the hustle bustle. Nothing like Pittsburgh. Someone pushed her through the huge glass door, onto the hot concrete. The June heat smacked her in the face and stole her breath. She fumbled for her sunglasses, pushed them on her face and looked around. Los Angeles. Hot. Crowded. Smoggy. She dragged her bag forward and studied the sleek line of limousines dotting the curb. There were at least twelve. They were as popular as minivans back home. A man emerged from the line of cars, carrying a sign with her name on it.

  He didn’t look like any limousine driver she'd ever seen. Not that she'd seen many, but she was certain their dress code did not consist of khaki pants and sneakers. He was a big man, at least six-feet-two, with a solid build except for a bit of a tummy protruding from his checkered vest. His eyes settled on her, and something in her expression must have told him she was the one, because he advanced on her like a grizzly bear stalking a fish.

  “Dr. Hamilton?” he asked, towering over her.

  Sara stared up at the mountain before her and nodded.

  His face broke into a grin as he reached for her suitcase and briefcase. “A tiny thing like you shouldn't be lugging these things around,” he said, taking her belongings from her and shifting them into one hand as though they weighed nothing. Tiny? Her? Sara Hamilton? Wholesome. Sturdy. Healthy-looking. Those were terms she'd heard since her teens. Tiny had never been one of them. That word was reserved for cheerleaders and prom queens, of which she’d been neither.

  “I’m Rex. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Hamilton.” He stuck out a large paw and pumped her hand like a seesaw.

  “Call me Sara,” she said, hazarding a smile at the man whose crooked grin transformed him from grizzly to teddy bear. Her smile deepened.

  “Sara,” he said. “Let's get out of here before traffic heats up.”

  She took two steps to each of Rex’s lumbering strides, trying to ignore the honking horns, squealing tires, and roaring engines. And this traffic was before traffic heated up?

  “We're sure happy you're here,” Rex said, once he’d stowed her things and begun the maneuver from the parking lot.

  “Why, thank you.” She wished she could say the same.

  “Things just haven't been the same since the accident.” His voice slipped a notch. “I couldn't tell you the last time I had this honey out for a spin. We miss him, Doc. We want you to get him back for us.”

  She hadn’t missed the sadness and pain in his voice. “I'll try to help him.”

  Rex's big shoulders relaxed against the back of the seat. He glanced at her from the rearview mirror and grinned. “I think you're going to be the one, Doc,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Yes, sir. I think you just might be the one.”

  “How many others have there been?” She kept her eyes trained on the rearview mirror.

  “Others?” His gaze flitted to hers for a brief second. “Well, that was before…”

  “Before what?”

  A hint of red crept up his neck and settled on his ears. “Before… before you came. Yup, before you came, there were four other big-name doctors. Matt didn't like any of them. Three men and a woman.” He shook his head. “The men were all stuffed shirts and the woman was just”—he hesitated—“pardon the expression, but she was downright crazy.”

  Sara stifled a smile. Rex said what was on his mind. And then some. Would he be as willing to talk to her about his boss? Speaking of, very soon she'd be meeting the man himself. Would she be number five on the casualty list? Did she care?

  “You look tired, Doc. We've got a ways to go yet. Why don't you settle back and take a little nap?”

  “That's the best idea I've heard all day. And it's Sara,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “Just plain Sara.”

  The rest of the trip whisked by as she curled into the luxury of the leather seats and slept. She didn’t wake until Rex’s soft voice called to her. “We’re home.”

  Sara stretched and opened her eyes. Home? Good Lord, she’d never seen anything like this—a gigantic three-story stucco dwelling with a multi-tiered, terra cotta roof. Bougainvillea and hibiscus splashed against the stucco backdrop in yellow, orange, and red. Pink and purple cacti flowered on either side of the stone walkway. There were other flowers and shrubs, exotic ones she'd never seen before, whose names she wouldn't even venture to guess.

  Rex opened the car door for her and she stepped into the heat. The ocean air filled her lungs as she took in the swatch of blue water in the far distance. White peaks crested and fell, smashed into mountains of rocks in a display of nature’s beauty. Seagulls loomed overhead and shrieked as they swooped toward the water in graceful arcs.

  “Nothing quite like it, is there?” Rex said in an almost-reverent tone.

  “Everything is so”—she tried to find the right word but settled on—“beautiful.” It would take a string of words, perhaps twenty strings, to pay full homage to the magnificence of the view before her.

  “If you think it's beautiful from this vantage point, then you'd love it from up there,” he said, nodding toward the sky.

  She followed his gaze. A wash of blue blanketed the sky, tucking puffs of cloud beneath it. “I’ll bet it’s incredible.”

  “It's incredible, all right,” he said, shielding his eyes from the blast of rays that beat down on them. “I'll show you just how incredible someday. I'll take you up there myself.”

  She wa
sn't certain she'd heard him right. “You're a pilot?”

  Rex threw her his teddy bear grin. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Well, it's just that I don't know many limousine drivers who fill in as pilots.” She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then opened it again. “To be honest, I don't know many limousine drivers at all. In fact, I think you're the first one.”

  He winked. “I'm not your typical driver.”

  “So I noticed.” She leaned close and whispered, “Do you have any other professions you'd like to tell me about?”

  His quick grin made her laugh. “Did I tell you I'm an aerial photographer? No? Well, how about a genuine mister fix-it, mechanic, tour guide, and gardener?”

  “I don't think you mentioned any of those facts,” Sara teased. They'd reached a heavy wrought-iron gate that separated the yard from the house. Its complex carvings twisted into thick black bands, strong and unyielding, warning against unwanted intruders. And it was locked. As Rex fitted the key into the opening, Sara wondered if Matthew Brandon was like this gate—complex, strong, unyielding. And most definitely closed to unwanted intruders.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” Rex said as they headed up the stone walkway to the main entrance, “I'm a great listener.” He flashed another disarming smile and opened the door for her. Sara had no time to ponder that last comment as she stepped over the threshold into a level of elegance she had only seen in magazines. A three-tiered black-iron chandelier caught her eye first. Its sheer size dominated the foyer, its commanding presence demanding to be noticed and appreciated. Like the owner, no doubt. She glanced down the white hallway, looking for signs of Matthew Brandon. She heard voices, soft and muted, one male, one female. Was it him? She pasted a smile on her face and followed Rex toward the voices, no longer aware of the magnificent wealth scattered about in the form of paintings, sculptures, and furniture. She kept her eyes trained on Rex's broad back, but the vision of Matthew Brandon, cool, handsome, and very unapproachable, flashed before her.

  Rex led her to a large room full of potted palms and white leather. A man and woman turned toward them but the man wasn’t Matthew Brandon. He was tall and blond and looked to be somewhere in his mid thirties. The woman was well into her fifties, dark complected, with a short, round body that reminded Sara of rising bread.

  The man smiled and moved toward Sara, holding out his right hand. “You must be Sara,” he said, clasping her hands in his. “I’m Adam, Matt’s brother.”

  She looked up into warm gray eyes. “Nice to meet you, Adam.”

  His smile deepened, revealing two deep dimples on either side of his mouth. They added to his boyish charm and casual good looks. Sara doubted there was an ounce of anything boyish or casual about Matthew Brandon.

  The older woman made the sign of the cross. “You are the doctor?” She closed in on Sara, black eyes darting from top to bottom as she studied Sara's face—hair, clothes, shoes. Like a bug under a microscope. Crossing her arms under her ample bosom, she repeated the scrutiny in slow motion.

  “This is Rosa,” Adam said, gesturing toward the woman who watched her with such undisguised suspicion. Sara nodded. She wasn't opening her mouth. Not an inch.

  “This is the doctor! How can this be?” she uttered, crossing herself again. “Mister Adam, did you know this is the doctor?”

  “I sent for her, Rosa.” Adam shot her a sideways glance and said, “I know who she is.”

  Rosa tsk-tsked as though she hadn't heard him. “He's no gonna like this.” She shook her salt-and-pepper head making the bun on top bounce back and forth.

  Adam’s voice turned sharp. “I'll handle it, Rosa.”

  “It's okay, Rosa,” Rex said from the corner of the room, his words soft and reassuring.

  Sara turned and spotted him standing with arms crossed over his chest, minus baggage. Something was going on here and she had a feeling she was in the middle of it. “Is there something I should know?”

  Adam’s lips curved into a small smile. “It's really no big deal,” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders. Rex cleared his throat. Loudly. The woman named Rosa stood next to Sara, eyes downcast, lips moving in quiet repetition. Her fingers worked the beads of a small black rosary that hung halfway out of the deep pocket of her white apron. “Really,” Adam repeated. “Everything's fine.”

  Rosa lifted her head and stared at Adam, her plump fingers continuing their silent litany along the beads. “'No more women. No more women. No more women.' That's what he say.” The words flew out in quick, rapid succession. No more women? Matthew Brandon was swearing off women? Somehow, she found that hard to believe.

  “Adam, what does that mean?” Sara asked.

  Adam shot a quick look at Rex. “Matt had a bad experience with the last female psychologist I hired.”

  “He did? What happened?” Probably blazed her ears with his fancy, four-letter vocabulary.

  A dull flush crept up Adam's tanned neck, spreading to his high cheekbones. “It seems she was more interested in conducting experiments of a physical nature than aiding his recovery.”

  “Oh.” The woman had come on to her patient. And he'd turned her down. Perhaps Matthew Brandon had a few scruples after all. Or maybe she just hadn't been his type.

  “But you're nothing like her,” Adam said, his gray eyes warming. “As soon as Matt meets you, he’ll realize that. Everything will be fine.”

  Rosa shook her head again in obvious disbelief. The whole scene made Sara uncomfortable. It was as though she'd walked in on the last act of a play where everyone knew their part but her. What was going on? And where on earth was Matthew Brandon?

  “Is your brother expecting me?” she asked with growing apprehension. Adam took a sudden interest in the tassels on his fancy loafers. Hmm. As Jeff once told her, the answers were always in the seemingly insignificant details, such as Adam avoiding her gaze and her question. “He isn’t, is he?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Great. “Is that not exactly as in he knows I'll be here sometime but not when? Or is it not exactly as in he has no clue I'm coming and doesn't even know I exist?”

  Rex coughed twice and cleared his throat—an innocent sign if one weren’t looking for a deeper meaning.

  Adam finally looked her in the eye and said, “Jeff and I felt this was the only way.”

  “Jeff? He sent me here knowing your brother wanted nothing to do with another female doctor?”

  “It's my fault,” Adam said with an apologetic smile. “I was desperate. Matt’s been getting worse every day and I didn’t know what else to do. I begged Jeff for help. Don't hold it against him, Sara. If anyone's to blame, it's me for pressuring Jeff to send us a miracle before Matt destroys himself and everyone around him.”

  Chapter 2

  They waited for her response. Even Rosa stopped the incessant rosary bead clicking to hear Sara's words. What could she say when Adam had practically fallen to his knees and begged her to stay? “I'll talk to him,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Adam grasped her hand and squeezed. “Thank you.”

  She nodded. “Where is he?” Might as well meet the lion in his den.

  “This way.” Adam turned and headed toward a long hall. He passed three closed doors and stopped at the fourth. “This is his study,” he said, opening the door and waiting for her to pass through. It was a warm, lived-in room with a large cherry desk and matching leather chair. A computer rested on the left corner of the desk. How long had it been since its cursor blinked with activity? An elaborate entertainment center, complete with a state-of-the-art stereo system, monopolized the wall facing the desk. Rows and rows of CDs lined the shelves. Sara leaned over and scanned a few of the artists' names. Bach. Beethoven. Led Zeppelin. The Rolling Stones. What an interesting mix.

  “He used to spend most of his time in this room,” Adam said, running his fingers along the smooth grain of the desk. “But it's been months since he's ventured in here.”

  “And his work?” S
ara skimmed the framed awards and various recognitions mounted on the wall in front of her. How did a person stop doing what obviously gave him so much pleasure?

  Adam shook his head. “Not a single word. Not even a punctuation mark.” He moved to the bookcase and pulled out one of his brother’s novels, flipping through the pages.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “We all are.” He put the book back in its spot.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  Adam nodded toward the sliding glass door behind her. “Out there. Where he is every day.”

  She turned and walked to the door, peering out onto the stone patio. A man sat off to the right, partially hidden from view. She leaned closer to get a full glimpse of him. He was a big man, tall and broad, filling the green-and-white-striped recliner with casual grace, his long legs stretched out in front, crossed at the ankles. His skin harbored the honeyed tones of one who's spent long hours in the sun. The white polo shirt and navy shorts he wore fit his body well, accenting muscular legs and arms. He could have been just another California male with a tanned body and bulging biceps who never failed to draw an appreciative glance from the opposite sex.

  But he wasn't. He was Matthew Brandon and no woman with a pulse was immune to his charm. At least that's what the tabloids bragged each time they splashed a picture of him and his latest conquest across the cover of their magazine. No doubt, he was great to look at and that alone pumped up their sales. But some said his allure was more than just physical magnetism. They said it wasn't just the penetrating silver eyes that could strip a woman of common sense with the first hello. Or the hint of that ever-present half smile playing about his full lips as though he had secrets—bold, sensual secrets—waiting to be shared. They insisted it wasn't even the sound of his deep gravelly voice speaking in hushed tones that made him irresistible to women.

  They said it was the aura of the man that left most females weak-kneed and hopeful, desperate for attention, any kind of attention, and willing to do most anything to get it. Matthew Brandon knew how to smile his boyish smile, steal the essence of the moment, and slip away like a thief in the night, leaving a trail of shattered hearts behind. And so evolved the man whose very elusiveness was the greatest attraction of all. Every woman believed she would be the one to change him, to tame him, to make him stay. Each one failed. Miserably.