The Long Road Home (31 page)

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Nora, listen to me. Think about what I’m asking. This is
not just about the bank. It’s about us. It’s about trust. Trust me, please. Trust yourself—trust us.”

A moment passed without words. Part of her wanted to accept his plea, to trust the man she had come to love. Another part called her a fool and warned her to guard against her nature. Mike’s last words haunted her: “Don’t trust anyone.”

But there it was. “Trust me.” A covenant offered, a promise begged. Nora closed her eyes. How far did trust extend? She raised her gaze and looked across the short distance at C.W. With this man, trust extended as far as it took.

“Yes,” she agreed hesitantly. “You may take them. Except the journal. There are some…well, it’s too personal.”

“I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“Agreed, then. With the exception of the journal, I’ll take these papers and memos, and the ledger, to New York. But I may need access to the journal later.”

“The ledger too?”

“Most definitely. Is that agreeable?”

“Yes.” The word rolled off her tongue, leaving her without anything else to say.

C.W.’s chest expanded. Nora’s love for him manifested itself in that one word:
Yes.

“I realize,” he said, taking her hand, “believe me, darling, I do, that you have been patient with me and that this constitutes blind faith.”

“There are some things worth fighting for.”

The light in C.W.’s eyes brightened at the rallying call, then changed from warm to hard as he tapped his fingers in agitated thought. Nora saw immediately that he was already in New York.

“I’ll leave tomorrow. I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I’ll be back to you, and to our farm, just as soon as I can.”

C.W. was using that deep slow voice he always used when the issues were important and he wanted to be sure he was understood. He brought her to him and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Tonight they seemed even more thin and frail.

“Ah, Nora,” he said against her temple. “These separations are no good for you. You will analyze and mull over your problems and eventually try to distance yourself. Yes, you will. I know you too well.”

“I love you,” she murmured brokenly against his chest. C.W. closed his eyes tightly. He’d make this period of suffering up to her, he vowed. And he prayed it would take him the rest of their lives.

They walked out to the deck and stared up at the sky. The storm was long gone and October’s normal crisp air made the stars shine like brilliants. Tonight, they could even see the Milky Way streak a quarter moon.

Nora and C.W. stood together, arm in arm, each praying that wishes did come true.

Two days later, Nora raced for the phone, thinking that it might be C.W. with some news. “Hello?” she gasped, out of breath. It was her auctioneer in New York.

“Walton! Is everything all right?” She glanced at the calendar; only two days until her auction.

“I only wish, darling.”

She swallowed hard and leaned against the counter. From the corner of her eye she saw Esther turn around and raise her brows. Nora waved her back with a shaky hand.

“Spell it out,” she said.

“D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R. Word’s out that you can’t set a minimum bid.”

“No.” Nora’s knees felt weak. “That secret was buried deep.”

“Dealers live under rocks. And they thrive on secrets. The phone’s been ringing off the hook for tickets to the advance showing. And all from big name dealers. Darling, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

“They’ll set the prices.”

“It’s already happening.”

Nora didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. After Mike’s disaster, then the farm disaster—was this a trend?

“What do you suggest?” she asked without much hope.

“You’ve got to squelch the nasty rumor that you’re broke.

I don’t know how, but if you don’t, it’s all over.”

“How can I squelch it? It’s the truth!”

“Can’t you talk to someone at the bank? Cry? Plead? Good God, sweetie, blackmail them if you have to.”

“Hold them back, Walton,” she said, an idea formulating in her brain. “I’ll leave today. And don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

Nora hung up the phone, amazed at how still her hand was.

“Are the auction people causing a problem?” Esther asked, wiping her hands.

“Unfortunately.” Nora rubbed her temples.

“Too bad C.W. isn’t here to talk to. He has got lots of good ideas.”

“Uh-huh,” she agreed, keeping his whereabouts a secret. C.W. hadn’t called and she didn’t know how to contact him. She desperately needed to talk to him. What did he say? Silence could buy plenty? He had all her main papers, and the ledger was gone. That was the bulk of her ammunition. Nora’s heart skipped. She still had the journal.

Nora scooped up the dishes and tossed them in the sink. “Pies can wait, Esther. I’m going to New York.”

Esther jumped from her stool. “Take me with you!”

“Oh, Esther. This isn’t the time.”

“Yes, it is! For me. Please, Nora.” She clasped her doughy hands together. “I stayed for Pa, but now he’s gone. Frank will handle things here just fine. I’ve got enough money. For the first time in my life there is nothing holding me back. If I don’t get out of here right now I might never have the courage again. Please, Nora.”

What else could she do? Esther was her friend. “All right,” she said, giving Esther an impulsive hug. “I only hope you have a better life there than I did.”

“Oh, God. Thanks, Nora. I will. I know I will.”

“Say your good-byes to May and the kids. And to John Henry.”

They gripped each other in a sisterly hug. Nora could smell the country in Esther’s hair and, for a brief second, prayed it would always stay there.

SIDNEY NERVOUSLY ARRANGED the files on the surface of his black desk, checked the Windsor knot of his tie, then eyed the clock for the third time in as many minutes. At precisely two o’clock his secretary notified him, in an awed tone, that Mr. Charles Blair was here to see him.

Quickly, Sidney touched his damp palms to his wool trousers and stood as his office door swung open. He stepped around his desk, grin wide and arm outstretched to his colleague, brother-in-law, and president of the bank.

To his credit, Sidney did not break his stride when he saw Charles walk in. Gone was the wild-haired, lumberjack appearance. Charles was immaculate, even elegant, in his navy double-breasted suit. His hair and nails were trimmed and polished, he was freshly shaven, and there was no trace of the dark circles under angry eyes that Sidney remembered from their last meeting. Charles had the sleek, dangerous look of a shark in shallow waters.

Greetings were brief. Charles did not take a seat. Sidney was so unnerved by Charles’s cold demeanor that he didn’t know
whether to sit or stand. He stuck his hands in his pockets and ended up standing by default.

“I’ll be brief and to the point,” Charles said, holding his hands behind his back and standing with his feet an arrogant distance apart.

Sidney nodded in compliance and wondered how the hell this man could walk back in after a rocky scandal and a year’s mysterious disappearance and still have the bearing of a king. For despite the current turmoil, Charles Walker Blair was still the king inside this bank.

“This unfortunate affair with the bank loans has grown out of my control,” Charles said evenly. “I intend to resign.”

Sidney’s mouth dropped into a silent
no,
then he cleared his throat. “I don’t think it’s come to that yet,” Sidney said, his panic rising.

“I wrote the ethics code for this bank. No one has to tell me I’m out,” Charles cut him off.

Sidney’s face tightened.

“I have a proposition for you, Sidney. The MacKenzie collection will auction off a van Gogh. I intend to offer the successful bidder my controlling interest in the Blair Bank in exchange for that painting.”

Sidney paled and his hands lifted from his pockets. “Are you mad?” he burst out before he could stop it.

Charles reacted with an icy smile. “I am sure there are those who will claim so, but no. I am not mad. I am quite serious.”

Sidney decided to sit down. He stared at his shaky hands, and when he looked up at Charles again, he searched the face of his one-time friend for some clue as to how he should react. Charles’s face was devoid of any expression, but his eyes held a strange gleam.

“Controlling interest in the bank in exchange for a painting?” Sidney asked, not believing what he’d heard.

“The MacKenzie van Gogh. Yes,” Charles confirmed.

“In the name of God, why?”

“For the name of Charles Walker Blair, that’s why.” Charles continued in a louder voice, enunciating clearly. “It’s simple. I want the loans cleared because I want my name cleared. I’m willing to trade my stock for that.”

Charles turned and walked to the door. “May the best man—or woman—win,” he said graciously. Before he left, he looked over his shoulder at Sidney. His blue eyes were intense. Then he was gone.

Sidney leaned back in his chair, feeling bewilderment before hurt and anger. What was that all about? What the hell was that final look? Was it some secret message that he was supposed to interpret?

Or, was it a warning?

C.W. stretched and looked out his window toward Central Park. Encircling the park, building after building of granite, marble, and glass—symbols of all he had rejected—cast shadows upon the foliage. He rubbed his eyes and turned to look around his apartment. The antique Mahal rug, the onyx table, pre-Columbian figures, European paintings, Italian Renaissance chairs—all reflected a personal, educated taste. One that he still admired but no longer felt akin to.

The clock read 3:00. One more visit. He had made many visits today, battening down the hatches, as Seth would say. His head was on the block; the directors at the bank were up in arms, and Agatha was poised with the dagger. C.W. smiled. He excelled at these eleventh-hour takeover attempts.

After plugging in the coffee machine, he jumped into the shower to wash away the day’s grime. By three-thirty he was
dressed in a conservative dark suit and drinking coffee; by four he had made two more calls and was reading the catalog of Nora’s auction. C.W. studied each item, its description and provenance. The estimated values were fair, but a few items were so spectacular in style and form as to be without a real price. He had to pause and admire their photographs.

“Not bad, old girl,” he mumbled. No doubt about it, Nora had a great eye. Under ordinary circumstances she would have an important sale. His second visit that morning, however, informed him that she had a fiasco. Sidney couldn’t keep a lid on MacKenzie’s impending bankruptcy. The dealers swarmed down and had already divvied up the goods and set the prices, knowing the MacKenzie estate could not set a minimum bid.

C.W. made a fresh pot of coffee and set out another cup. This time, the second cup was not for Nora. He wished it was. The door buzzer sounded. He glanced at his watch again: 4:25.

“Fashionably late, Agatha,” he murmured in distaste as he crossed the floor. Pressing the intercom, he ordered, “Show her up.”

C.W. held his hands behind his back as he stood before the window, reviewing his plan. Two knocks sounded on the door. He knew no more would come.

“Agatha,” he said politely after showing her in.

Agatha Blair held out her gloved hand and turned her cheek toward him. C.W. refrained from kissing it. Her eyes flashed and again their yellow hue reminded him of a snake’s.

“Son,” she said with a flourish.

C.W. cringed, as he did every time his stepmother used that endearment. She was a shrewd opponent and he’d have to be on guard.

Agatha strode past him into the drawing room, eyeing
him over her shoulder while her elaborate cane clicked on the marble tiles. “You look fit, all ruddy and tan. Mountain air?”

“Honest living.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes raked him from head to toe. She was tiny and thin and her charcoal-gray hair was swept up in a matronly bun. But he was not fooled. Beneath her petite exterior and Chanel suit lived the heart of a corporate raider. Agatha held her own against the toughest on Wall Street, and usually emerged the victor. If a deal was cut, Agatha knew about it. If a hand was shaken, she set it up, and if a secret hid in the walls of the bank, she sniffed it out. C.W. knew it and counted on it.

“Coffee?” he asked, stepping back.

“Please. Black. No sugar.”

“Nothing sweet. Of course.”

Agatha sank into a silk-upholstered chair, keeping her hands tight upon her ornate cane. “It was quite a surprise to receive your call,” she said, accepting the cup and saucer. “It’s been almost a year. We were all quite worried. The bank was in an uproar, but we managed.” She took a small sip.

“I had no doubt.”

“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.”