Bad Hair Day 7 - Dead Roots by Nancy J. Cohen Read Free Book Online Page B

cheese, crackers, and other crudités. Two opposite corners held cash bars with lines of customers.
    Marla noticed gazes turning their way, along with looks of envy from her female kin. A swell of pride filled her. Who wouldn’t look at the smashing man in the charcoal gray suit?
    Rochelle might do more than look, given the chance. If Marla had to stick to his side like nail glue, she’d protect Vail from the teen…and anyone else’s flirtatious advances.
    Vail grabbed her hand for moral support when Anita veered in their direction.
    “Marla, come meet our Colorado cousins,” her mother said, pulling her toward a cluster of people. Gripping Vail’s hand, Marla steeled herself for the onslaught of introductions.
    “So is this the entire megillah ?” Vail broadcast to the crowd after they’d made the rounds.
    Glances of benign humor passed among her relations. “I think you mean the whole mishpocheh . That’s family,” Marla whispered into his ear. “A megillah is a story.”
    Color suffused his cheeks. “I’m trying to learn.”
    She smiled gently. “I know, and I appreciate it.” Turning to Uncle Moishe, the eldest present, she said, “I’d like to hear the whole megillah about this hotel. I would have asked Aunt Polly, but she isn’t here yet. Has anyone seen her this afternoon? It’s unlike her to be late.” Anxiety churned her stomach. Polly had initiated this reunion. She wouldn’t miss their first function when it was so important to her.
    Uncle Moishe, ten years older than Anita, waved his hand dismissively. “She’ll show up when she’s ready to make an appearance. Polly never could let this place go. Even after Mama sold it, she kept coming back. I hear she takes the same room every year, like clockwork.”
    “Is it true our family used to own the hotel?” Marla asked.
    A hush fell over the room, and all eyes turned to Moishe. Her uncle, well into his seventies, nodded his head. “Polly spent her early years here, so this property represents her roots. Ours, too. Papa bought the place in 1924, the same year Polly was born.”
    “He came from Poland, didn’t he?” asked cousin Lori, Uncle William’s middle daughter.
    “That’s right,” Moishe replied. “My father’s original name was Andrzej Markowski. Papa changed it to Andrew Marks when he arrived in this country. A couple of years later, he met and married Ruth. That was 1923. They moved to Florida a year later when he bought this plantation from Tobias Rutfield. First they intended to work the fields, but when visitors started streaming south in the winter, they decided to turn the property into a resort. After remodeling the original plantation house, Papa constructed the main hotel. He’d studied architecture, you know, at the University of Warsaw.”
    “Where did grandfather get the money to buy the place?” Marla said. “Did he bring riches from the old country?”
    “Papa paid cash for the property, but I don’t believe he had a stitch when he immigrated. His source of wealth remains a mystery to this day. Polly may have more answers. My sister took care of Mama until she died.”
    “So Andrew established the resort,” Marla prompted, curious to hear the rest of the story. “Was he successful?”
    “You’d better believe it.” Moishe scratched his jaw. “They didn’t even have to advertise. People came on the recommendation of their friends. But then came the tragedy.” He surveyed the circle of eager relations, absorbing their history with the same alacrity as they downed their drinks. “Andrew died in 1943, and after that, everything changed.”
    Cynthia raised her hand as though they were in class. “Didn’t Andrew receive two visitors right before he croaked?”
    Moishe gave her a disapproving glare. “That’s true. I was only thirteen at the time, but I remember them. They were very somber, dressed in black, wearing Cossack hats like you see in old Russian movies. They spoke with heavy accents.