“It was irresponsible of you, nonetheless. Where was your loyalty? Or did you down it with one of your bottles of scotch?”
The stab was quick and clean; she could have been discussing the weather.
The cup stilled at his lips. Swallowing the bitter brew, C.W. slowly placed his cup upon its saucer. “My loyalties have always been to my family.”
Agatha’s eyes widened a hair and he knew he’d hit his mark. She had never been accepted as family by himself, Cornelia, or the relatives.
“Furthermore,” C.W. continued, “as you no doubt are aware, I settled with Sidney before leaving.”
Agatha set her cup down with a small clatter. “Sidney.” She spat out the name in disgust.
C.W. raised his brows.
Agatha visibly reined herself in and lifted her cup again. After a pause, she raised her eyes to his. “Taking an interest in art lately?” she asked.
C.W. leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Not generally. No.”
He noticed her foot tap twice. “Offering stock in the family bank for one painting constitutes an interest, I’d say.”
C.W. sipped his coffee.
Agatha’s voice rose in pitch. “An avid interest.”
He held back a smile. “It is a van Gogh.”
“Controlling interest!”
C.W. let his smile loose and slowly, with deliberate ease, placed his cup on the table next to hers. Not a drop spilled.
“Well, Agatha. Talking to Sidney, are we?”
“Everyone is talking to Sidney! That ineffectual school-marm. His clumsy attempts at learning why you want that painting has everyone stirring. That bloody auction will become the social event of the season. How dare you make such a spectacle of our business? How dare you make such an offer to Sidney without first speaking to me? You know as well as I, he’d never be in that position if he wasn’t married to your sister.”
C.W.’s eyes narrowed. She had slipped. His offer to Sidney was too fresh for gossip. C.W. abruptly stood and crossed the distance between them, allowing his size to add strength to his argument.
“To begin with, Agatha, it isn’t our bank. It’s mine. I still have controlling interest. Secondly, I do not remember ever requiring your permission for anything I decided to do. Thirdly, I don’t believe Sidney is the only one to have married into the business.”
“How dare you!”
“This is business, Agatha. I invited you here today not to discuss family, but to make you a proposition.” C.W. placed his hands behind his back and coolly eyed his stepmother.
“The invitation to bid for the painting is open. The one who acquires MacKenzie’s van Gogh at the auction acquires my controlling interest in the bank. A simple trade.”
Agatha’s eyes glared and she pinched her lips. He knew she could not refuse.
“It’ll be bid up into the millions.”
“Cheap at the price, wouldn’t you say?”
“This is absurd! Why this painting? What game are you playing?”
“What’s the matter, Agatha? Can’t you play a man’s game?”
She leaned forward upon her cane, clutching it so tightly that her hands resembled the wooden ball and claw feet of her chair.
“You impudent pup. I can play any game you set up. And I play to win. I don’t give a damn why you want this painting. You probably owe some Colombian drug dealer a clean payoff. Game—hah! You ought to know. You played at every bar in town after that fool MacKenzie blew his brains out in your office.”
C.W.’s face turned to stone.
Agatha’s mouth twitched into a thin smile. “What’s the matter, Charles? Was that a tad too rough for you? All that mess, and all that scandal… Tsk. Tsk. Finance is a dangerous game. You shouldn’t play with the big boys unless you can play rough.” Her eyes shone.
C.W. stretched his fingers at his side to calm the anger that was rising. Very good, he thought, sizing up her skills. She knew where to strike. Now it was his shot.
“You may be right, you know,” he replied evenly. He spread his jacket and stuck his thumbs in his belt. Then, looking at his shoes, C.W. gave his head a weary shake.
“It’s not a game,” he replied evenly. C.W. moved to a chair and sat down, staring at his hands. “Let’s be honest. For once. It cannot be news to you at this point that I intend to resign. We both know the bank cannot afford another scandal. Nor do I wish to endure one. I’m wealthy enough to walk away, and that is exactly what I intend to do.” He lifted his eyes to Agatha’s and his voice rose in warning.
“I do not, however, intend to walk away with my reputation in tatters. I want MacKenzie’s loans paid back and my name cleared. It was either you or Sidney who set me up, and I don’t give a damn which of you buys me out. The hell with both of you. As soon as I know the bank is solid, I want out.”
Agatha’s hands stilled on her cane while her eyes studied him through narrow slits. Then she stomped her cane.
“It’s a done deal. As if Sidney could do anything.”
C.W. tilted his head. “A done deal? My brother-in-law is a well-educated, shrewd banker. Don’t underestimate him.”
“You are out of touch.” She clucked loudly. “The MacKenzie scandal almost drove the stock down. Then you disappeared. People lost confidence in you—and your sidekick Sidney Teller. They came to me. Me! If it wasn’t for my intervention, my planning, the bank would have gone under.” Her fingers clasped and twisted up along the cane as she shifted her weight. “And now you have the audacity to come back from some drunken binge and tell me that you’re offering controlling interest of my bank to that loser.”
“You’re having trouble with pronouns, Agatha. The possessive can be tricky.”
“I’ve never slurred my words,” Agatha parried.
C.W. leisurely walked over to the Sheraton sideboard and poured himself another cup of coffee. It was clear that she had set up Sidney as neatly as she had set up MacKenzie—and himself. It was a shame she was so brilliant. While pouring, he stole a glance at his watch. Time was running out. He had to finish this in a hurry.
“You wouldn’t be afraid to lose to Sidney?” he asked, returning to their arena around the coffee table.
Agatha rose and stomped the floor with her cane. “Lose to Sidney?” She laughed with the screech of a crow. “I? You must be spiking your coffee. I haven’t lost one round with Sidney yet. You don’t think for one moment I’d give him the chance to amass power over me. I’d see the bank go under first. Afraid of Sidney. Hah.” She waved her hand again and muttered something under her breath.
C.W.’s eyes glowed over his steepled fingers as he sat, listening deeply.
“Do you fear me perhaps?”
“Fear you?” She studied him again for a long moment, then slowly shook her head. “Once, perhaps. When MacKenzie killed himself, you couldn’t stomach it. It revealed a weakness in you. Call it a human weakness, it doesn’t matter. Human qualities are not valued in business. And your sister! Cornelia clings to that failure of a husband. If she had any spine she’d have thrown him out long ago. Him and that mindless butler.”
Agatha picked up her purse and threw a final disparaging look his way. “No. I’m not afraid of you. You are not ruthless. Neither was your father, or your sister. It is your Achilles’ heel, and it will be your ruin.”
She turned and without another word paraded from the room, not bothering to close the door behind her.
C.W. strode across the checkered floor to the door, catching a final glance of her withered features before the elevator doors closed.
She didn’t see him smile.
Fate decreed that Nora’s auction would be the playing board upon which not only his own problems would be resolved, but Nora’s problems as well. Knowing that, he did not challenge fate. He used it to set his strategy. The players were on the board. The first move had been made. He had to finesse the black queen—and the game was his.
“Checkmate,” he said confidently.
He didn’t know that his own queen was already on the move.
Late that night, in another part of Manhattan, Sidney and Cornelia shared their bed but not their thoughts. They lay side by side, neither attempting to cross the five-inch gulf that separated them. Over dinner, Sidney had cursed Charles Blair’s black heart and his own blind loyalty. That Charles could offer controlling interest of the bank to Agatha was bitter. It made him physically ill. Better to sell public than offer to Agatha.
Cornelia had listened silently, not touching her plate, not offering even a syllable of rebuke or defense of her family. With a strange look of anguish on her face, Cornelia had spoken of patience and faith. Trust and loyalty.
Empty words, Sidney thought, lying in bed with his mouth twisting in anger. He stared at the blackness.
Charles was ever the calculating shark, he realized with cold logic. Charles must have known that things were tense between Nelly and him. He wasn’t cutting him a deal in case the marriage fell apart. That had to be it. He wouldn’t even offer to his sister.
Damn, but Charles was really going for the highest bidder! Sidney, intensely hurt, hadn’t thought that really possible.
To hell with the whole Blair family, Sidney muttered as he rolled angrily on his side, presenting Cornelia with his back. He’d buy that stock if it took every penny he had, and it no doubt would.
“Sidney?” Cornelia’s voice was soft with sadness.
He didn’t respond. His voice caught in his throat. He heard her sigh heavily and turn to her side, careful not to let her body brush against his. The distance between them pained him. He missed his wife. He loved her still. All it would take was a stretched-out hand, one touch. But no. Impossible. The gulf was too wide.
Sidney tossed and turned for hours, wondering if Charles had really betrayed him. Hadn’t Charles warned him of rough days coming? Of doubt and the need for trust? Was this offer to buy the van Gogh the last trick of a desperate man, or another ploy of the unpredictable Charles Blair?
Possible. He remembered the intense stare in Charles’s eyes. The recollection gave him hope.
Then Sidney shrugged the emotion away. It didn’t really matter. This was business. Every man for himself. Let the bidding war commence, he decided with more aggression than he’d felt in years. The bidding would go high, he figured, but he knew what the bank was potentially worth, and it was more than even Agatha knew. They’d underestimated the bank, Sidney thought, jutting out his jaw and clutching his pillow tightly.
And they’d underestimated him.
32
NORA TOOK A LONG, last look at her mountain before climbing in the Volvo beside Esther. The Johnston family was there to wave them off, sharing a look of sadness and shock as they clustered on the front lawn. In only twenty-four hours, Nora and Esther had closed up the big house, designated their chores, packed, and said their farewells. All that was left was to leave.
Esther’s eyes were moist but she waved heartily from the window. When she turned and faced forward, her eyes sparked with excitement.
Nora started the engine. In so many ways, this was going to be a long journey to New York, for both of them. She backed out slowly, careful not to hit any dogs, cats, or junk on the front lawn, and eased onto the road. Frank, Katie Beth, and Junior walked the length of the front yard after them, waving. May, Zach, and Sarah watched with solemn faces from the front porch, while Grace and Timmy chased the car down the road calling out, “Bye, bye!”
They hadn’t traveled more than a minute when Nora spied a blue pickup speeding down the road after them, honking. She pulled to the side, recognizing the truck as John Henry’s. From the corner of her eye, Nora saw Esther’s face pale and stiffen.
John Henry parked on the side of the road, just ahead of them. He leaped from his truck, leaving the door wide open, and ran toward Esther’s door.
“Oh, no,” Esther moaned, with more sadness than irritation, as he approached and yanked open her door.
“Esther, we gotta talk.”
“I tried to yesterday but you wouldn’t come out. It’s too late now. Let it go.”
“Es, please. You can’t go like this.”
Esther glanced at Nora, who promptly nodded and lifted her hand in a signal to get out. She did, reluctantly. They walked a few feet from the car.
“I know you’re doing what you always wanted to do,” John Henry began, marshaling all his reserve. “I respect you for that.”
“Thanks,” she whispered, holding herself taut.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you—”
“You haven’t,” she interrupted.
“I have, but it’s because I love you so much.”
Esther wouldn’t look up, afraid to see the pain she heard in his voice. “I care about you too.”
John Henry cleared his throat of the cry that suddenly shot up. He stood ramrod straight and he spoke forcefully. “I don’t know when you’ll be comin’ back, or even if you are. Even if you do, I don’t know if I’ll be waitin’.” He paused. “Es, look at me.”
Esther raised her eyes, and in the man, she saw the boy. Esther shuddered and willed herself not to cry.
The wind streaked John Henry’s brown hair across his cheek.
“Before I go I want you to know that, no matter what, I’ll always be here for you, Red. Know that John Henry Thompson will always be your best friend.”
Esther stepped forward, slipping her hands from her pockets to go around his neck. She couldn’t tell him that she loved him too, for fear he’d take it the wrong way and start to hope again. So Esther just whispered, “Thanks,” against the fine short hairs along his neck.
They sealed their pact of friendship with a hug, neither knowing how long it would be before they would see each other again, or whether they would ever be able to touch each other again with such intimacy.
John Henry was the first to break away.
“Good luck, Red,” he said heartily with a brave smile and a hasty wave of his palm. Then he retreated to his truck, his pace far too quick for indifference.
“God, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Nora muttered when Esther slid back in the car beside her.
“Me too,” Esther said gruffly, thinking of the water that pooled in John Henry’s eyes as he turned away. She leaned back, rested one worn shoe across her knee and stared out at the mud ditch that John Henry’s tires dug in the road.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Nora had driven this route many times, but the New York Thruway had never before seemed so long. Each mile brought a new knot of tension along her spine, at each exit she fought the temptation to turn around and head back home.
The mountains shrank in size as she headed south. They were sparse of trees and thick with ski runs. The traffic picked up and the drivers were more aggressive as the scenery changed from rural to suburban. Nora cut through Westchester, past rows of middle-class postwar houses. Then she hit the New York City limits and the scenery changed drastically.
She was back, she realized with a small shiver. She had thought she was ready to face that metropolis of memories, but now, speeding toward its skyline, she wasn’t sure. New York, for Nora, was a melting pot filled with too many ingredients. Rich, spicy, hot, sour. She just couldn’t digest it.
Esther sat up in her seat and gawked like a tourist at the billboards, the boarded-up buildings, and the high-rise, low-income housing. Nora’s face was grim as realization of the transition she must face hit full force. Here she was Mrs. Michael MacKenzie, with all the history that name evoked. Nora hardened her heart, sharpened her wits, and toughened her hide.
This was more than a change in scenery. This was entering another world.
Big-city driving is as much a learned arrogance as an acquired skill, but once you have it, you never lose it. Nora bumped over potholes, cut across lanes, and shot down to the south of Houston.
Jenny Gold came out to greet them and Nora hastily made the introduct
ions. Jenny and Esther stood eye to eye at the gallery’s threshold. Both women were tall and angular, but the similarity ended there. It was city mouse and country mouse. Jenny Gold’s kohl-lined eyes shrewdly evaluated the simplicity and utter lack of chic in Esther’s severe black cotton dress and worn leather flats. It pained Nora to witness Jenny’s subtle sneer and hear the thinly veiled contempt in her welcome. Nora closed her eyes, inexplicably weary of the significant subtleties of this world.
To her credit, Esther was neither mincing in manner nor shy. It was as though by her very arrival in the city, Esther had validated her talent and her dreams, cloaking her with a unique aura of confidence. Nora thought Esther was like a brilliant red rose: magnificent, straight, and thorny.
It was Jenny Gold’s job to recognize uniqueness in any form, and she was good at her job. Her sneer shifted to a wide, toothy grin and she swung wide the gallery door.
“Do go off to wherever it is you have to go,” she blithely informed Nora with a wave of her hand. “I’ll see to Esther.”
As Nora drove away, Esther flashed her a delightfully discreet thumbs-up sign.
In contrast to Esther’s confidence, Nora was shaking in her boots. She parked her luggage in a modest, discreet hotel, then headed straight for the Blair Bank, before her nerves failed her. She had carefully chosen a conservative, well-cut suit of dove gray, a white silk blouse, black low-heeled pumps, and matching black purse, and of course, Oma’s pearls. It was her intention to confront Charles Blair with the journal and insist that he pass out the word that the MacKenzie estate was indeed solvent. As the elevator passed floor after floor in the Blair skyscraper, Nora counted reason after reason why she had to face her enemy.
The doors slid open, revealing a long, well-lit corridor of highly polished wood and stark walls covered with a breathtaking collection of Hudson Valley artists. Along the walls sat sleek desks and behind them sat equally sleek and polished secretaries. This was the anteroom of the executive offices, the inner sanctum of the Blair Bank. Nora smoothed her French twist, clutched Mike’s journal, and stepped forward.
The Long Road Home Page 35