What's Left of Her (9 page)

Evie fingers the necklace Rupe gave her a lifetime ago. Tomorrow she’ll see her son and daughter and their families. Quinn is a doting father to Hope and Lucy and one day soon, Annie may have some good news of her own.

Who would have thought life would turn out like this? Certainly not the Evie Burnes who cooked, cleaned, and scrubbed dirt from socks. Or the one who stole someone else’s identity and disappeared into the fabric of another life. Those women are merely scraps of a past that is often unrecognizable. What remains is a person filled with hope, love, and belief in the beauty of the second chance. And finally, that is enough.

The End

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Excerpt from Simple Riches

Alexandra Chamberlain is a cosmopolitan woman whose uncle taught her to discard everything but the bottom line on a balance sheet. She’ll do anything to earn his approval and prides herself on excelling at her job, which is selecting small towns to buy up, flatten, and replace with luxury resorts. When Alex decides to investigate Restalline, Pennsylvania as a potential site for the next resort, she enters the town under the guise of a researcher gathering information for a documentary. It should be easy, just like all the others. But this town is different, from Alex’s zany landlord to Nick Androvich, the town doctor with a battered heart who questions Alex’s motives yet can’t deny his attraction to her. As Alex and Nick explore their growing relationship, they must face the truth about each other and themselves as they search for their own
Simple Riches
.

Simple Riches

by Mary Campisi

Prologue

She stared out the window, waiting. They would be back soon, wet and dripping from the water and then it would be time for breakfast. Oatmeal with yellow raisins, two sprinkles of brown sugar. Her stomach grumbled. She leaned forward, pressed her nose against the glass. The water was dark today, the waves loud and mean looking, like a lion roaring when they hit the rocks and burst apart. She wished she could run outside right now, in her nightgown, fast, all the way down to the beach, with the sand between her toes, the salt stinging her face as she flung herself into the water. But she’d promised them she wouldn’t.
Next year
, Daddy told her.
Next year, you can come with us and I’ll show you what heaven looks like.
 

She couldn’t wait until she was nine, then she could go with them, see what they saw, see Daddy’s heaven. Just the three of them. It had always been that way, unless she counted Chessie next door. She guessed she was as close to a relative as she had. Chessie was like an aunt, kind of big, with a soft voice and a shiny black braid. She’d miss her when they left next week, but Chessie said she’d save all the best seashells for when they came back next summer.

Her stomach growled again. She squinted out the window. Maybe she should go to Chessie’s, bring over the oatmeal and raisins, see if she’d fix them, maybe give her an extra sprinkle of brown sugar. Maybe… no, she would wait.

She picked up the mirror Mommy and Daddy had given her yesterday. It was blue and green with a long handle and the most beautiful jewels all around; red, green, blue, yellow—sparkly and bright. She turned it from side to side, stared into it, blew her breath onto it.
The true jewel is in the mirror
, her father had said.
Look into it, Alexandra, look into it and see the jewel.
Where? Where was it? Where?

The red numbers on the clock moved forward, one click at a time… 8:24…8:32…8:51. She put the mirror down, got up and went into the kitchen, grabbed a graham cracker from the cupboard. 9:11…915. Nibble, nibble, nibble. 9:38…9:59…10:00. She brushed her hands against each other, watched the sugary crumbs fall in her lap.

Maybe she should go down to the beach, dig for sand crabs, look for her parents. Maybe… no, she would wait.

10:05…10:07…10:13. She pressed her nose against the glass again, harder this time. Her eyes were starting to burn, like they did when she got suntan lotion in them. Mommy knew how to take care of that… she put drops in and told her to blink, blink, blink. Daddy told her to cry and it would wash everything away. She swiped a hand across her nose.
I’m crying now, Daddy. See? I’m crying now and it still hurts
.

Maybe something was wrong… wrong, wrong, …
very
wrong. At 10:29, she jumped up and ran out of the house.

***

“Look at her.” The woman with the shiny necklace and smelly perfume shook her head. “That blond hair all knotted up… and those feet. They’re filthy. She looks like an urchin, Walter.”

The man, tall with a deep voice, said, “Not in front of the child, Helen.”

“Oh, Walter, for heaven’s sake, she hasn’t spoken a word since we got here. For all we know there’s something wrong with her. A genetic malformation…” The woman patted her big, yellow-white hair in place. “Who knows? Between that brother of yours and that Russian woman”—her voice dropped—“she could be deficient.”

“Peter had the IQ of a genius,” the man said. “And Nadia certainly was more than borderline functional.”

“You know what I mean.”

The man pinched the top of his nose, let out a long breath. “What I know is that my brother and his wife are dead and this child is headed for the orphanage if we don’t take her in.”

The woman named Helen sniffed, her blue eyes darting to the corner. “I don’t think we should rush things. Couldn’t we at least have her tested? Just to be certain there isn’t a deficit of some sort.”

“There’s no deficit,” the man said, his voice stiff. “She’s just lost her parents for God’s sake. She doesn’t know us from the stranger on the street. How do you expect her to act?”

The woman pinched her red lips together. “I’m sure I have no idea. I never had a brother who slept under the stars and believed in Karma. For all we know, she’s been weaned on magic mushrooms and has no brain cells left.”

“Peter was an artist, not a junkie.”

The woman laughed. “Walter, this self-righteous attitude does not become you.” Pause. “Or is that guilt I hear?”

“That’s enough.”

She ignored him, laughed again. “It
is
guilt. I think I’ll bask in the glory of it. The great Walter Chamberlain in a moment of guilt. How utterly… unique.”

“I said that’s enough.”

“I’m not going to be stuck with this child because you feel guilty about cutting your brother off from the family money. Neither should you. You gave him a choice and he took it.”

“I thought he’d come back.” The man ran his hands over his face and his words softened. “After a month, maybe two…”

“He didn’t want the money, Walter.”

“But he could have had anything. Instead, he chose
this
?” He swept a hand around the room. There was a red and gold couch, three folding chairs and an easel. “
This
is what he wanted?”

The woman walked up to him, raised her face to meet his. “He wanted freedom, the one thing you couldn’t give him… or take away from him.” She stepped back, opened her purse. “I’m going outside for a cigarette while you decide what to do about her.”

The girl hugged her knees closer, her eyes following the lady’s yellowish-white head out the door. They’d been talking about her. The tall man named Walter looked like Daddy in an old kind of way. Uncle Walter and Aunt Helen. That’s what they’d called themselves. How could they be her aunt and uncle? She didn’t have any relatives. Just Mommy and Daddy and herself. Just the three of them. That’s all it had ever been
. Mommy! Daddy! Come back!

“Alexandra?” The man, Uncle Walter, was looking down at her.

She lifted her head, stared back at him. Maybe the policeman was wrong. Maybe the man and woman they found washed up on the beach three days ago weren’t really her parents after all. Maybe they just looked like them… Maybe…

“Alexandra?” he said again. “Do you hear me? Can you understand me?”

Uncle Walter had said something about losing somebody. Maybe Mommy and Daddy were just lost. Maybe he was going to help find them.

“Aunt Helen and I are going to take you back with us… to Virginia.”

She opened her mouth. “Mommy…” She sucked in a gulp of air. “Daddy…”

He shook his head. His hair was the same brown as Daddy’s. “I’m sorry, Alexandra. They’re gone.”

Gone.
“Can you find them?”

“No. I can’t.” He looked out the window, toward the ocean. “They’re in heaven now.”

She bit her lip, hard, harder.
They’re in heaven now…
The sound of the waves beat in her ears…
heaven… heaven… heaven. 

“I promise you, Alexandra, I’ll make it up to you.” Her uncle’s voice reached her from far away. “I’ll give you everything that should have been your father’s. He didn’t want it, but you will. You’ll see…”

Chapter 1

Arlington, VA—26 years later

“You’ll save the maple tree, won’t you?” The man rested his hands on the desk. His fingers were gnarled and weather-beaten, the nails thick with yellow deposits. “You know,” he said, his faded blue eyes on Alex, “the one I showed you yesterday.”

Alex looked away and rifled through the papers in front of her. This was the part she hated the most, looking into their eyes, seeing the loss, the pain of leaving, the agony of knowing their homes would be bulldozed. Gone. Nothing left but snapshots, bunches of them, stuffed in shoeboxes or photo albums in a vain attempt to hold onto a moment in time that would prove as elusive as a grain of sand. Some left the remembering inside their head, buried under layers of inconsequential nothingness, crowded between mounds of garbled data. Underneath it all, crammed together was a history,
a life—
a remembering that faded and disintegrated with time.

Was it really so much to ask that a tree be saved? At least it could serve as a landmark for what had been before, a compass of sorts to lead generations of families back to their ancestral home. A simple tree. “I made note of it,” Alex said. “And we’ll certainly try—”

“Mr. Oshanski,” her associate, Eric Haines, cut her off in his typical lawyer style. “We’ll make every attempt to save your tree.” He smiled, a quick flash of white, before adding, “And hundreds of others like it.”

The old man leaned back in his chair, blew out a long breath. “My father planted that tree when my sister, Emma, died. She was only two. Scarlet fever, they said.” He stared at his hands, clasped them together. “He told us it was Emma’s tree and every time we looked at it, we should think of her.”

They could promise to save one tree, couldn’t they? Alex looked at Eric, waited for him to tell Mr. Oshanski he’d make certain the tree stayed. For Emma. But Eric was already shuffling through the document in front of him, reaching for his pen.

“We’ll see what we can do. Now, let’s get the rest of this paperwork out of the way and we’ll be all set.”

The old man smiled at them. “Thank you.” His eyes were wet. “Thank you for doing this for me. For Emma.” He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Twenty minutes later, Mr. Oshanski shuffled out of Alex’s office, a cane in one hand, a check in the other.

“We just made Leonard Oshanski one rich old man.” Eric tossed his pen on the desk, leaned back, and clasped his hands behind his head.

Alex fiddled with her own pen, a Montblanc, black with gold. “You did mean what you said to him, didn’t you? About saving the tree?”

“Why do you always doubt me, Alex? Of course, I meant it.”

She nodded. “Good.”

“It’ll never happen, though. You can’t bulldoze
around
one tree. Think of the time and money it would cost.” He shrugged. “Even if that wasn’t an issue, the heavy equipment would kill the roots. The tree would never make it and then, somewhere along the line, you’d have to come back in and dig it out. More time and even more expense.”

Alex stared at him, wondering how she’d ever thought there was a soft side to this man. How could she not have noticed the calculated pauses, the way he played with words, spoken and unspoken, twisting and massaging them to create his own justifications, state his own case? He was a lawyer, and a damn good one. Negotiation was his forte. That’s why WEC Management employed him as legal counsel and that’s why it was one of the premier developers of exclusive vacation resorts in the country. Eric Haines knew how to make his words come out in a voice that wrapped itself around the listener, soothing, calming, lulling. There was something about the way he looked at a person, as though they really mattered, as though
he
really cared. He could convince them that signing over their property was the right choice, the noble choice, for the betterment of family and personal interests. And it all seemed so genuine, so damn real, that people believed him. Even people who knew better.

“So, basically, you had no intention of saving that tree?”

Eric sat up, rifled a hand through his hair. It was a pale gold color, like wheat in a field. “Why is it that every time we finish a deal, you go through this thirty-second guilt trip, which by the way only lasts until Walter gives you his ‘well done’ nod and you see your name in the
Wall Street Journal?
”

“It’s not a guilt trip.” She stared down at Leonard Oshanski’s signature. Each letter was well formed, written with pride and confidence that right would be done. “The man just signed over thirty-three acres of land and all he’s asking is that you save one tree.”

“Wait a minute.” Eric slid his wire-rimmed glasses to the bridge of his nose. “He received a chunk of money for those thirty-three acres. Let’s not pretend it was a charitable donation.”

“I know that.” Money. It was always about money.

“And you heard me say I’d try.” He shrugged. “So I will, but I’m telling you the architect is going to laugh in my face.” His voice softened, “I’ll buy the old man a new tree. You can pick it out. What kind did he say it was, again?”