Just as Jeff was about to reply, the door to Folger’s office tore open, slammed against the wall with a shattering crash, and a blond woman, swearing loudly, her face flushed, stormed out of the office. She adjusted her sunglasses, stalked toward the front door, and anyone in her path quickly moved back, giving her considerable space.
“Who was that?” Jeff asked, and his gaze followed the woman out the door.
“Got me. I’ve never seen her before,” Grace replied.
“Probably someone we shouldn’t invite to our loan-signing open house?”
Grace paused and turned to Jeff. “Really? You’ve planned a party?”
“Well, the guest list only has one. Thought I’d stop there. No need to have the house too crowded.” His fingers grazed the collar of her blouse, and he gave her his most charming smile.
“I’ll have to check my calendar, Mr. Maitlin, and see if I’m too busy.”
“Thought you might. Hope you won’t be . . . too busy.”
She raised her eyebrows and gave him a bemused look.
Just then, Andrea Dunning returned, wiped her hands as if that situation were over, and stood before Jeff and Grace. Her usually assured voice was flustered. “Sorry for all the noise. I can promise you those events rarely happen here. Well, not always . . . I mean, never . . . but, actually, I guess ‘never’ doesn’t work after this morning.” Shaking her head in confusion, she picked up some files from her desk and delivered them to Folger’s office, knocking on his door. Grace heard a muffled reply.
Andrea disappeared inside and closed the door momentarily. Next, the door opened and Conrad Folger walked out, turned down a hallway, and disappeared. Then Andrea returned, her equilibrium restored, and said, “Mr. Folger will see you shortly. Follow me, and you can wait in his office.”
“Is it safe?” Jeff asked.
She turned and looked at him to gauge if he were joking. Seeing the smile on his face, she answered, “Oh, yes. He didn’t throw the vase. He seldom throws glassware at customers. Maybe only twice a month.” Then she smiled.
CHAPTER TWO
They followed Andrea Dunning into the bank president’s office. “Mr. Folger will be back in a moment. He just stepped out. Make yourselves comfortable.” And, with that, she left.
Grace gazed around the lavish office. She saw an entire wall of bookshelves, possibly solid walnut, which held bank regulations and official-looking document boxes. On the opposite side of the room were shelves of leather-bound books, many of which appeared to be first editions. A white leather sofa and chairs sat in the middle of the room, and the hardwood floor was topped by an expensive Persian area rug. Conrad’s massive desk occupied the corner farthest from the door, with a library lamp and gold nameplate. The desk was immaculately clean. No paper piles or folders sitting at various angles. It was quite the impressive office.
The wall behind Folger’s desk displayed old pictures of the bank from when Conrad’s father and his predecessors ruled over their empire from this office. Grace wandered over and scrutinized the photographs. One grainy photo showed the first Conrad Folger laying a cornerstone in 1852. It appeared to be the oldest picture and had probably been restored from an original. Grace stared at his face and studied his hard eyes, thin mouth, and square jaw. Standing behind him, back a few steps, was Folger’s wife. She was dressed for the occasion in a black skirt with matching black gloves. The plain skirt was topped by a standard white blouse with a corset under it and a dark jacket over it. Her hat covered a severe hairstyle, and her eyes stared at the camera as if she wasn’t sure what it did.
Grace studied another black and white portrait next to the first one. This photo appeared to be a later, better-quality picture, and was labeled “Conrad Folger II.” She almost gasped at the similarity. He was the mirror image of his father, with comparable, stark features that announced “frugal.” As if guarding the vaults, he, too, stood in front of the bank doors. He must have been president of the bank in the twentieth century, since Grace could see the edge of a Depression-era car near the side of the photo.
Finally, she studied a more present-day picture; judging from the people’s clothes, she guessed the scene was from the 1980s. This must be the current Conrad’s father. His pinched mouth and hard-eyed look were copied by three children who stood in front of him. Next to Folger, his wife—dressed in a conservative, old-fashioned suit with the large shoulder pads of the early 1980s—looked on unhappily. The tallest child was the Conrad Grace recognized. His brother, Will, was the oldest, and his sister, Jessalynn, stood between them, ill at ease. Grace speculated their father was a “spare the rod, spoil the child” kind of parent. Glancing back at the group of pictures, she thought about the four generations of discontented, glum faces. Could it be a genetic inheritance? Scattered nearby the historic photos were framed certificates and awards. She turned and joined Jeff, who was looking at the family photos on the credenza.
Grace followed his eyes to the photo of Emily and her two children. The boy looked a little older than the girl, and he smiled with an engaging look, directly into the camera. “He has Conrad’s eyes,” Grace said. The girl’s hair was neatly brushed back from her face and gathered into cascading ringlets. She stared off to the side of the camera lens, her mouth and eyes expressing discomfort at having her picture taken. Grace smiled at the resemblance to her mother. Emily had been the student assistant for several plays Grace directed at the high school, and the two had spent long hours together. Of course, that had been years ago. More recently, Grace had seen Emily from a distance in the drug store, and before she could catch her attention to say “hello,” Emily scurried out of the store by a different exit. It was obvious she had wanted to avoid speaking.
“Well,” said Jeff. “Quite a nice-looking family.”
“Emily looks much as I remember her, but a little older, more brittle, and hardened at the edges by life, I suppose. She was my student, along with Jessalynn Folger, the first year I taught. Her family owned a store and was the epitome of middle-class. Conrad’s brother, Will, is a vice president at the bank. I always thought he was considerably smarter than Conrad and definitely more human. I’ve talked with him several times at the bank. But Emily is the one I knew best.” She stood in front of the photo a moment, silently. Then she turned and glanced at the fireplace. “I wonder if it’s a good idea to have a fireplace in a bank. All that paper.”
“Another satisfied customer,” a voice boomed. Conrad Folger smiled as he walked in the door with his executive assistant following a few steps behind. “Sorry about the fracas.” He shook his head. “It can be a scary world out there, and sometimes people who are, shall we say, ‘a little confused’ walk in.”
At that moment, Andrea Dunning stepped around Folger and adjusted his tie.
“Ah, thank you, Ms. Dunning. Guess I am still a little tense.” She patted the tie in place—gave it a satisfied look—turned, and left the office, quietly closing the door. “Don’t know what I’d do without that woman. Of course, Emily chooses my secretaries. Never too young or too good-looking. Well, you remember Emily from high school, don’t you, Ms. Kimball?”
“Oh, please, call me Grace,” she said. “And you’re right. Emily was a student of mine.” She put her hand on Jeff’s arm and said, “This is Jeff Maitlin, Conrad, and he’s the one you actually want to speak with—I’m just along for the ride.”
Grace still remembered Folger’s eyes after speaking with him on several occasions. They were gray, almost a hard, steel color. Even now, he had a look of aggressiveness about him—the muscles in his shoulders strained the material of his pale beige shirt. How could Emily have married him? she wondered.
Folger turned to the editor. “Jeff. What a great job you’ve done reviving the newspaper. You’ve breathed new life into the old rag.” He shook Jeff’s hand. “Please, both of you come over and have a seat on the sofa. I’ll pull up a chair. My loan officer, Gus Hart, is putting the finishing touches on your papers, and he
’ll be in with them soon.”
“I don’t know who that young woman was,” began Jeff, “but are you all right?”
“Sure. All in a day’s work. People think anyone can borrow money—like that young woman. Fact is, I turn down a lot of loans to people who don’t qualify, and, believe me, I can tell on the spot. As someone important once said, ‘The poor will always be with us.’ ” He laughed quietly. “Not with me, however. Lots of changes in rules about lending money. After the recent hard economic times, the government regulators are breathing down our necks.” He turned and indicated all the heavy files along one of the walls. “Way too much to read and learn.” Then he walked to the bookcase and slowly ran his fingers across several of the book spines absent-mindedly.
Grace decided to turn the conversation to a more personal note. She said, “I was admiring your historical photographs of your family on the wall. Who are those people?”
Conrad came back across the room and a satisfied smile came over his face. He glanced at the photographs and then walked over toward them, pointing at the first one. “This one is the oldest. My great-grandfather began the Second National in 1852. Quite a man of foresight. Anyway, he left it to his son, Conrad II, in 1901. That’s his picture with his wife over there. He was an amazing man, my grandfather. Guided the bank through the Depression and both world wars, and he never closed its doors. I’m told he was instrumental in bringing job-saving industry to the town, and while he might have been a bit aggressive in his tactics, he helped restore the economy of Endurance in a financially shaky time. Then,” he said, as he moved to the photo with the three children, “this is my father, Conrad III, and my mother, Gertrude Folger. Of course, they’re gone now. I think this must have been taken sometime in the eighties, because I would have been about ten. That’s my brother Will and my sister Jessalynn. She doesn’t live here anymore. Moved away after she finished high school. Probably married by now to some beer-swilling construction guy who keeps her knocked up and in line.”
Before Grace could close her astonished mouth, which was hanging open at that thought, Conrad abruptly changed subjects. “Where is Gus Hart?” he asked, as he glanced impatiently at his watch. Walking over to the desk, he touched a button and called Ms. Dunning to remind the loan officer to bring the Maitlin papers immediately. Then he returned to his chair, his charming smile appeared once again, and, glancing at Jeff, he said, “I always wondered what the old Lockwood house looks like on the inside. You know it was built when my great-grandfather was alive, and he knew the old judge quite well. Used to play poker with him at one of the saloons downtown, I’ve been told. So many people have owned that house. Too bad they turned it into apartments.” He glanced at his watch. “What do you plan to do with it, Jeff?”
“Thinking about restoring it to its late 1800s specifications, and perhaps turn it eventually into a bed and breakfast. Actually, I thought it might be a good place for folks to stay when they come back for various occasions at Endurance College.”
“Sounds like a clever idea. Does this mean you’ll have to consult the National Register about how to do that?”
“No, it’s not on the Register, but I am going to get some help from Todd Janicke, who, I’m told, is an expert at restoration. The newspaper’s going well right now, and I figure our circulation has gone up considerably. I can use some of my time on the weekends to work on the house, but it will be a hobby for a while.”
“I remember my dad talking about old Judge Lockwood. I think he’d heard tales from his father. Lockwood owned a great deal of the town back in the late 1800s. One business was a lumberyard, so that’s probably what he used to build the house. Quite a showplace in its day. Even had a huge ballroom on the third floor. I’m not sure what happened to the house after his death.”
“Speaking of history, how many generations of your family have run this bank, Conrad? I’m relatively new in town so I don’t know the history like Grace does,” Jeff asked.
“Four so far, and my son, Conrad, will be the fifth generation. We just had his eleventh birthday last week.” He glanced at the photo behind his desk. “That’s a great picture of Emily, don’t you think?”
“She is an awfully special woman,” Grace responded. “And your daughter? What’s her name?”
“Caitlin.”
“She looks like her mother.” Grace glanced at the photo and wondered once again how Emily could have married Conrad. Then she looked at the bank president and, remembering why she came, decided to bring up a new idea.
“What you mentioned about the judge interests me. I’m planning to research the history of his house, and I’ll have to check out the judge, too. I don’t imagine your great-grandfather would have left any papers mentioning Judge Lockwood?”
“Not really. Anything he left generally had something to do with the bank.” He shifted in his seat and brushed an imaginary piece of thread off his pant leg. The room was silent for a moment. Then Folger said, “Grace is a great addition to the paper, Jeff. She would have been horribly tough on me in high school—all those commas and dangling modifiers. I never was much of a writer. Numbers were more my thing. But I know she and Emily were thick as thieves. Emily often talks about you, Grace, always in reverent tones.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Exactly how I need to be remembered—in ‘reverent tones.’ ”
Folger was about to reply when they heard a knock at the door and a dark-haired, rotund man entered, carrying a brown folder. Grace judged him to be in his forties, and he handed the folder to Conrad without a word.
“Ah, good. Jeff Maitlin and Grace Kimball, this is Augustin Hart, one of my loan officers. Oh, you already met Gus, didn’t you, Jeff?” He turned to Hart. “Always a few minutes late.”
Grace saw Hart glance at Folger with a dark look, but then he quickly changed his expression, greeted them, and shook hands, forcing a smile. After he turned and left, an awkward silence settled on the room.
Conrad dropped the file on his desk and rubbed his hands together. “Well, let’s get to it. You sit here, Jeff, and Grace you can relax on the sofa if you’d like. We’ll get these signed in no time.” He reached for a pen in his desk drawer while Jeff moved over to a chair next to Conrad’s desk. As Grace watched, they began turning pages and writing initials and names. Every so often the banker would explain a clause or a paragraph. Grace glanced out the window and thought about how much work Lockwood House would be. Lots of long and expensive work, she thought. She observed people walking down the sidewalk out in front of the bank, helped by the salt on the concrete. Suddenly, the sound of Peter, Paul, and Mary’s “If I Had a Hammer” filled the air. Both men looked up at her, Folger’s face a study in irritation.
“Oh, no. Sorry,” she said, as she fished through her purse for her cell phone. “I thought I’d turned the sound off. Guess when I nearly broke into pieces on the ice this morning, I totally forgot.” She punched a button to decline the call. “It’s my contractor. Excuse me.”
The men went back to their business, and Grace tiptoed out of the office and quickly called Del Novak’s phone.
“Hi, Del. What’s up?”
“Well, ‘what’s up’ is that a crazy woman is standing in your kitchen with an iron skillet in her hand, ready to use it on my head at any moment. I thought I was supposed to come over and do some measurements in the kitchen this morning.”
Grace blew out a long breath. “You’re right, Del. I forgot to tell my sister-in-law, Lettie, you were coming. In fact, I hadn’t mentioned the renovation plans to her yet. I figured she’d have a heart attack. She considers the kitchen hers. Sorry about this. Please, put her on the phone, and I’ll straighten it out.”
“Thanks, Grace.” Then she heard him explain to Lettisha Kimball that Grace wanted to speak with her.
“Who is this man?” Lettie nearly blasted Grace’s ear as she yelled into the phone. “This guy is over here saying he’s supposed to measure stuff in my kitchen. Say the word, Gracie, and I
’ll throw him out. I was about ready to start some lunch, and he just knocks on the door, says he’s here to measure something, and walks right in, free as you please. What’s going on, Gracie? He looks suspicious to me. Want me to run him off?”
Grace decided not to chastise her, as usual, because Lettie had called her “Gracie,” a habit of Lettie’s that drove Grace crazy. “First of all, it’s ‘my’ kitchen, even though I appreciate everything you do to help me. Second, I am going to make some changes. Modernize a bit. It will actually be easier on you, Lettie. The gentleman with the measuring tape is a contractor named Del Novak. I’ve hired him.”
Silence at the other end of the phone. Then, “Hmph! Well, I never. You know you can’t be too careful these days. I haven’t seen this guy before. What should he look like?”
“Lettie, Del doesn’t look familiar because he recently moved here from Massachusetts. His daughter and grandchild are here, and he’s retired, but doing some carpentry to keep busy. I met him at the newspaper when he stopped in to start a subscription.” Silence at the other end of the phone. Lettie seems to be at a loss for words, a highly unusual circumstance, thought Grace.
After the long pause, Lettie said, “Well, all right. But I will stay right here and keep an eye on him.”
Grace looked up at the ceiling, counted to five, and said, “Thanks, Lettie. I promise we’ll discuss this when I get home. For now, please just let him do his work, and give him the phone so I can talk to him.”
Then Del Novak’s voice came over the phone, surprisingly calm. “Grace, it’s fine. I hadn’t met your sister-in-law, but she certainly looks out for your interests. I’ll do the measurements, and you can explain.”
“Thank you, Del. I’m sorry she’s so blunt. Lettie lived with me after my husband died, years ago, and she helped with the children. Even though she doesn’t live with me these days, she does come over and cook. She considers my kitchen her territory. This may be a bit of a problem, but I’ll get it sorted out.”
Marry in Haste Page 2