Nicholas Gerard dragged himself through the door of the Manhattan offices of Renaissance, Incorporated. Collapsing into the chair next to the receptionist's desk, he croaked, "Any messages?"

Hildy Adams, Nick's secretary-receptionist and self-appointed surrogate mother--as if he needed another one--peered at him over the frames of her half glasses. "You're sick. Go home."

"I'm never sick." A hacking cough branded him a liar.

Hildy's left eyebrow shot up to her hairline. "Better yet, go to a doctor."

Shaking his head, Nick struggled to get his coughing under control. Once he could speak again, he said, "I hate doctors. About those messages?" He eyed the stack of pink message slips on Hildy's desk. "All business, I hope."

"You got it. The holiday season is over."

If his lungs had been working properly, Nick would have breathed a sigh of relief. Hildy was right. Barring death, divorce, or another marriage, Nick wouldn't hear from his parents, his assorted stepparents, or any of his various half- and step-siblings until next December. After five years, his so-called family had learned to obey his no-contact-except-in-emergencies-or-at-Christmas rule. The exception for Christmas had been a compromise. His relatives had argued for contact at all holidays, both religious and secular.

Nick had held his ground, and the family had reluctantly acceded to his demand. Some of them had muttered insults, but he had expected that. Not one of them had told him to take his money and go to hell. A larger bunch of useless parasites would be hard to find.

Even Hildy, the most sentimental woman in New York City, agreed that Nick's family expected too little from themselves and too much from him. They had elected Nick patriarch, a position he had not sought and did not want, the year he made his first million. Nick had been twenty-three at the time.

At first, Nick had welcomed the attention given him by his family. For a few months, Nick had felt as though he belonged, that he had finally learned the secret that opened the door to togetherness. His family had kept him on the outside looking in for years.

Ever since his parents had divorced and formed new families, Nick had been the forgotten child. It had taken his picture on the cover of Forbes for Nick to be remembered by his immediate and not so immediate family members. Once his net worth had become public, his mother and father and most of the steps had begun calling to chat or dropping by his office and inviting him to lunch, to birthday parties, graduations, and Sunday dinners.

All that familial attention had been heartwarming, and Nick's heart had basked in the warmth for a few months--until Nick's head figured out what was going on. The family's sudden interest in his well-being had a cold, calculating rationale. The reasoning ran along these lines: all problems can be solved by money; Nick has money; therefore, Nick will solve all our problems.

Nick had taken the first giant step toward resigning the position of patriarch-cum-problem-solver five years ago. A few more years and Nick would rid himself of all contact with his family. He planned to retire somewhere far, far away. Alaska maybe, or a remote Pacific island.

Waving a hand under his nose to get his wandering attention, Hildy said, "You have three messages from that e-mail florist. They're desperate for your services."

Nick was a turnaround consultant, advising failing companies on how to succeed. He was very good at his job, so good that he could name his own price. Now. When he had started, his payment more often than not had been stock options in the companies he worked to save. Several of those once failing corporations now dominated the Nasdaq and the NYSE--making the stock, and Nick, worth millions.

"They should have gotten desperate sooner. All they can do now is sell their computer equipment and"--Nick sneezed violently--"and their customer list. Renaissance, Inc., is not in the business of selling used materials. Tell them to try E-Bay."

"And Corinne Ellis called. Your building hasn't sold yet."

"Why would it?" Nick grumbled. "According to Ms. Ellis, the tenants are intentionally sabotaging the sale. She wants to evict them."

Hildy sniffed. "At least she waited until after Christmas to come up with that plan. You don't believe her, do you? She may be the one responsible for the lack of interest in your building. Maybe you should get another realtor."

"Ellis Realty managed the building for years for my grandfather. And Corinne Ellis came highly recommended." Nick snatched a tissue from the box on Hildy's desk just in time to catch the fallout from another sneeze.

"Still ... It might not be a bad idea for you to take a more personal interest in your property. And your tenants. That was a very sweet letter you got from one of them. Magnolia Mayfair was her name, wasn't it?" Hildy's attempt to project wide-eyed innocence failed miserably.

Nick knew that fake innocent look. Hildy was match making again. Not one of her better efforts--how could Hildy think she could interest him in a woman he would never meet? "I don't remember." Nick mumbled his second lie of the morning.

Remembering Ms. Mayfair's letter made Nick feel guilty, and Nick hated guilty feelings. Guilt was the only thing that kept him entangled and enmeshed with his much mended broken family. Anyone with sense would have ended all contact with them ten years ago. Nick had given up trying to figure out why he should be the one to feel guilty--some ingrained sense of familial duty was the best reason he had ever come up with.

Hildy clucked. "How could you forget a name like Magnolia? It's so southern and sweet."

"Ms. Mayfair is a sweet, southern idiot. Asking me not to sell the building because the tenants are like a family. Bull."

"She couldn't know how you feel about families. From the way she talked about the other tenants, you could tell she really cares for them. Poor girl. She must be an orphan. The tenants are probably the only family she's ever known." Hildy removed her glasses and blinked at him. "And you're going to evict them all."