The Social Climber of Davenport Heights (22 page)

He was in his bed cranked up on both ends, keeping both his head and his feet high. He’d had some kind of surgery on his leg, he didn’t elaborate much, but it bothered me that I so rarely saw him dressed and seated among his treasures.

“Read me some more of that newspaper,” he said.

I was happy to comply.

“What else do you want to hear?” I asked.

“Letters to the editor, those are sometimes good.”

I found the section and scanned through the small bold-print headlines about trash recycling, national politics, potholes and police patrols.

“Oh my gosh,” I said, surprised. “There is one here about the Hattenbacher house.”

“For or against?”

“The headline reads Hattenbacher Backers.”

Chester groaned good-naturedly. “Let’s hear it,” he said.

I complied.

“‘In her recent commentary, Sandra Blake-Bunting suggests that the people of the city come up losers in the bid for preservation of the Heloise Hattenbacher House. She describes the establishment of the foundation as a precedent that sets families at war among themselves. And she calls the donation of the building to the State Parks Department an insult to private-property rights. Her contention has the surprising suggestion that the term
owner
should be expanded to include any and all family members who might have an interest in profiting from an investment. This concept will undoubtedly receive strong support from ne’er-do-well brothers-in-law statewide.’”

Chester laughed delightedly. It was pretty funny.

“‘Ms. Blake-Bunting points to the loss of valuation revenues that would have been generated by the proposed development complex, the expense to taxpayers of the upkeep and maintenance of the hundred-fifteen-year-old building, and the loss of a completely residential area, now to be burdened with the traffic and tourism of a state museum site.

“‘I find none of these arguments convincing.

“‘I have often driven by this majestic mansion with its fine proportions, Victorian detail and wraparound porches. I have sighed with pleasure at the grace and beauty of a time gone by. And wondered idly how the inside of such a lovely house must look. Like most people in this city, I was not even aware of the historical significance of the building, or of the heritage it represents.

“‘Destroying such a treasure for the sake of enriching a few already wealthy developers, and providing more high-rent housing for city dwellers who can afford to live anywhere is worse than a bad idea. It is an obscene one.

“‘Those involved in the campaign to save the house, including the city’s own Jane Lofton, should be commended as the heroes they are. At considerable expense to themselves, they are offering us a gift for future generations that can never be duplicated. The cost of which can never be too much.’”

“Oh, I like that,” Chester said.

I laughed. “At least somebody thinks I’m a hero.”

“And at ‘considerable expense to’ yourself,” Chester pointed out. “That’s what? A three-pointer? A four?”

“I’m not sure how it scores,” I said, “but I’ll take whatever I can get.”

“Who wrote it?”

I glanced back down at the newspaper.

“It’s signed Scott Robbins.” The name sounded familiar, but I didn’t know from where.

“Ah yes,” Chester said. “Good man.”

“You know him?”

“Oh no,” he answered. “But I’ve read a lot of things he’s written. He’s in ‘Letters to the Editor’ all the time.”

“Really? That’s strange.”

“Actually, it’s not,” Chester corrected me. “The majority of the letter writers are repeaters. Most of us have one good letter
to the editor in us,” Chester said. “For these folks it’s a hobby or a calling. They are in there every week or so, commenting on anything and everything. If you read regularly, you kind of get to know them.”

Never having been a regular newspaper reader, I had to take Chester’s word for it. In the past several weeks, since I realized the severity of his vision loss, I’d read the paper more often than I’d read it in the last ten years.

“Did you bring my Snickers?” he asked me.

“Of course!” I assured him, standing up to dig into my purse. “Would I forget?”

He smiled at me. It was a strange smile, almost melancholy somehow.

“No, Jane,” he said in a low voice barely above a whisper. “I can depend upon you completely.”

It was such a strange moment, I was somewhat taken aback. Then, as he took the candy from me, the indecipherable expression melted away.

“I’ll just save this for later,” he said as he secreted it in the chest beside him as he always did. “Later, when I can really enjoy it.”

The nurse walked in right at that moment. He slammed the drawer shut abruptly.

“Sorry to barge in on your visit, honey,” she said to me, “but it’s almost the end of my shift and I need to change Mr. Durbin’s surgical dressing before I leave.”

“All right, let me say goodbye then,” I said, rising to stand beside Chester’s bed.

He had a right to his privacy and I had no need to invade it. My concern for him was no excuse for prying. I leaned forward and placed a kiss on his forehead. It was a familial gesture that surprised us both.

“I hope that you recover from this surgery very quickly,” I
said. Our relationship had been as friends. Somewhere I’d crossed the line, and I realized in that moment that he was as dear to me as any member of my family. He must have sensed the change, as well.

“It’s not anything too serious, Jane,” he told me quietly. “I’m doing fine. I just had my foot amputated.”

I was shocked. I glanced down at the long length of legs hidden by blankets. It looked to me as if his
foot
had been cut off right below the knee.

“What—” I began, but he cut me off.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about, Jane,” he assured me, patting my hand in a loving, fatherlike manner. “Just an old war wound acting up.”

I nodded and left the room, almost in a daze, allowing the nurse to do her job.

I was in the car and on to the expressway before I remembered that Chester had not been in the war.

F
OR THE NEXT
two weeks, I came to the Assisted Living Center every day. Chester seemed to be recovering from the surgery very well and appeared to be rather nonchalant about the loss of his limb.

“It’s a circulation problem,” he told me.

That was hardly what could be called a satisfying answer. The more I grilled Chester as to the state of his health and the need for the operation, the less talkative he became.

I took my questions to the nursing staff with no more success. My status as friend of the resident did not entitle me to patient-care information.

“His medical condition is a protected right of privacy,” the facility director told me without even bothering to glance at his chart. “If he doesn’t want to discuss it, then I’m afraid I can’t.”

I didn’t argue or insist. There was no use antagonizing the people whom I was counting on to take care of him.

I did catch a casual comment that seemed to explain a lot.

“At least we know he won’t be running down to the highway getting his feet all cut up again,” the nurse’s aide cackled, as if it were a fine joke.

I blanched. Is that what had happened? Was the loss of his leg a long-term result of my rescue? That seemed to explain his reticence to talk about it. So I quit asking questions and just concentrated on being Chester’s frequent visitor, dependable friend and entertaining conversationalist.

My other pressing concern was Brynn, who continued to avoid my calls. If I could only talk to her, I was sure I could convince her to confide her plans. How could I be a good mother to her if I wasn’t sure what she was up to?

“There are some decisions in our lives that are ours alone to make,” Chester told me. “What other folks think or want can just be distracting.”

“But what if she is planning to go to Europe with her therapist?” I said. “I can’t let her do that.”

He shook his head. “Nothing you’ve told me about your Brynn leads me to think that the young woman is stupid or self-destructive,” he said.

“It comes down to trust, Jane Lofton. No matter how it looks to you, you’ve got to trust that she’ll know what’s the right thing for her.”

I took comfort in Chester’s advice. Under the circumstances there was really nothing else I could do, on that front or any other.

Jobless and with no opportunity for mom-related duties, I now had more time to devote to volunteer work. That was great. Of course, my financial future looked a little bit scary.

Although David and I had divided our assets, a large part of my share was the house. I had wanted the place, I’d specifically asked for it. But I found that it now seemed too large for one person. And the taxes and utilities alone could have paid for a very nice condo for me.

Still, I couldn’t really rent the place. No one who could afford a house of that size would want to forgo the tax advan
tages of owning. While I will always believe that good real estate is a commodity to hold, a residence, by its nature, doesn’t make money. I considered selling the place and investing the profits. But with the value of the stock market these days, I worried that I’d be buying high.

So I just put off making a decision. Things would work out, I supposed, somehow.

I wasn’t completely without career opportunities. There was no reason why I couldn’t continue to sell houses. I wouldn’t have the advantage of being in a large, well-respected brokerage, but my license was still perfectly valid. However, I was no longer very interested in the real estate market. And it’s not really the kind of business concern that one can care about halfway.

My final closing was on a darling little west-side home for the Guerras, the family I’d met at the low-income-housing seminar. The place they wanted was barely fifteen hundred square feet. It had four tiny bedrooms, but the kitchen was very livable and structurally it was sound. I got a high appraisal value and a fair price for the seller. The house was what they wanted, where they wanted, and not more than they could afford. In real estate they’d say you couldn’t do any better than that. But I did.

The high-interest debt that they were paying for his father’s funeral put the Guerras in a vulnerable position. It kept them from qualifying for a mortgage at most banks, and even if I managed to get a home loan through the special low-income incentive programs, they would have a difficult time, financially, for a very long time. I wanted those funeral expenses paid off, and I wanted their home loan to do it.

Fortunately, you don’t have to be a commercial lending institution to finance a mortgage. I got their money from a very unlikely source.

Gil Mullins was no one’s favorite lender. I wasn’t sure there was an altruistic bone in the man’s body. But I decided to find out.

I approached him with dread. Gil could be so obnoxious. He was, however, a likely candidate for the deal. Flush with the money his cousin, Henry, had paid him for the 51 percent share of the family business, Gil would need a good place to invest the cash. I was counting on his ability to see that making a personal decision about any part of that windfall would be a victory.

To get to that place, I knew I was going to need the confidence of high heels.

I rifled through the shoe racks in my closet until I found exactly the right pair. They were sandals, strappy, red and with five-inch stilettos. I put them on and I could hardly stand up. Walking was agony. But neither standing nor walking were going to be particularly necessary. I needed to be tall. I needed to be formidable. I needed to be Jane Lofton, at her loftiest.

My business suit was a very traditional gray, conservatively cut and almost mannish, with a little red handkerchief in the breast pocket, just to tie in with the shoes. The straight skirt had a modest hemline at midcalf. I wore no rings, no bracelets, not even my watch. My only jewelry was a delicate strand of pearls around my neck and even smaller ones at my ears.

I glanced at myself one last time in the mirror before heading out. I was absolute decorum…with killer shoes.

Gil’s office in the Mullins Trucking Company building was a fancy penthouse corner. The inscription on the door indicated that he was Executive Vice President for General Administration. It even sounded like a sham title. If I were him I would have preferred a more honest description like Founder’s Son on the Payroll for Family Relations Purposes.

My appointment was at eleven o’clock. I wanted to talk to
him in the morning, before he had a fortifying lunch of a couple of martinis. I was there at a quarter till, sitting in the outer office. Not reading, not checking my PalmPilot, not talking on the cell phone. I was sitting, obviously, purposely waiting.

I could see it unnerved his secretary, who called him twice without any prompting. Gil didn’t hurry. He came to his door to invite me in at ten after. It was just the kind of power trip I knew he’d be into.

“Jane, it’s good to see you. You haven’t been at the club lately.”

He was, of course, perfectly aware that I was no longer a member. I just smiled. Allowing him to have his little victory.

The minute I stood up in those five-inch heels, I could look him right in the eye. Which is just what I did as I brushed past him on the threshold. Twenty years of living among the hostile natives of Davenport Heights had taught me a thing or two about engaging the enemy.

The chairs in Gil’s office were plush and attractive. But they were a little bit low. I had no intention of allowing this man to look down on me. Before he could even offer a seat, I perched myself upon the wide, overstuffed arm of the chair and opened my briefcase on the edge of his personal desk.

He seated himself behind the wide expanse of expensive mahogany and looked up at me. His expression was still snide and superior.

“I was so sorry to hear about you and David,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“It’s no surprise that guys go for something younger,” he told me. “But most of us, certainly me personally—I wouldn’t marry one.”

If this line of conversation was meant to endear me to him, it wasn’t working particularly well.

“I mean, what’s the point?” Gil continued. “As soon as you
marry her she starts to get old, and in ten years you’re stuck with another woman on the decline.”

I almost laughed out load. His comment was so over-the-top, it was practically a parody of the jerk he appeared to be.

“I’m sure David and Mikki will be very happy together,” I told him. “And I intend to be happy myself.”

It was a deliberately innocuous statement. Just the sort of thing to send a guy like Gil into mental overdrive. Utterly clueless about women, he searched for code, meaning, intent that he couldn’t quite grasp. His eyes widened eagerly.

“So now that we’re not going to run into each other at the club,” he said with a self-congratulatory chuckle, “you’ve made an appointment to see me.”

His attitude, rife with insinuation, suggested he thought my presence at his office to be one of a romantic nature.

“I’m here to make you a business proposal,” I told him.

“Is that what they call it today?” he asked.

I resisted the desire to groan and roll my eyes. “I am not looking for a sugar daddy, Gil,” I assured him. “I’m looking for an investor.”

“An investor?”

“I know that your cousin, Henry, bought part of your business,” I told him, making what was undoubtedly a vote of no confidence from his father’s will sound more like an ordinary sales agreement. The elder Mr. Mullins, recently deceased, had stipulated that in order for Gil to inherit, he had to sell his 51 percent share of the family’s trucking company to his cousin, Henry, whom the old man believed was more capable than Gil of keeping the business afloat. It was the kind of unforgivable family faux pas that would engender generations of squabbling and incivility.

“You’re going to want to diversify,” I told him. “Put that
money in a lot of areas. I’ve got an excellent real estate opportunity for you.”

“A real estate opportunity?” He gave a disdainful huff and shook his head. “Barbara Jarman’s been telling everybody who’ll listen about the great deal you made for her.”

I couldn’t quite control the blush that arose naturally from his facetious statement, but I insulated myself from it as well as I could, shrugging with feigned humor.

“Well, you know Barbara,” I said, fairly certain that the two had never had a great deal of use for each other.

Gil grabbed the bait. “Yeah, that stupid bitch,” he said. “Always thinks she’s just a damn bit better.”

I deftly changed the direction of the conversation, grateful that Gil’s personal venom of self-loathing and insecurity spewed out on most of the people he encountered in the world. I hoped it might work in my favor.

“This is the deal I wanted you to take a look at,” I told him, spreading the Guerras’ file open on the desk in front of him.

It was all there in a very readable order. Gil glanced through the document casually. Not bothering to read very much or even make much attempt to understand what it was.

“You want me to buy a house on the west side?” he asked, puzzled.

“No, I don’t want you to buy it,” I told him. “I want you to lend the money.”

“What?”

“The Guerras are going to buy the house,” I told him. “They just need a mortgage lender.”

Gil snorted and, gesturing toward his elegant surroundings, said, “Do I look like a west-side savings and loan?”

“Anyone can loan money for real estate, Gil, you know that,” I said with a light laugh.

From his expression it was obvious that he hadn’t known it, but naturally he was not prepared to admit to it.

“Sure,” he said. “But why would a trucking company be interested?”

“Oh, I’m not showing this to Mullins Trucking,” I said. “I’m approaching you, Gil Mullins, as a private businessperson.”

Clearly, not many people, including Gil himself, had ever thought of the man as a private businessperson.

“I smell a scam,” he said warily.

I shook my head. “This is completely legitimate,” I assured him honestly. “You’ve got an excess of cash from Henry’s buy into the company. I’d like to see you use a portion of it for a 110 percent mortgage loan on this house.”

He looked puzzled. “110 percent? You seem to be asking more than the loan is worth.”

“The house has been assessed higher than the asking price,” I pointed out.

“Why?”

“The new light-rail transit has a proposed stop just three blocks away,” I told him with the same optimistic enthusiasm I’d used on the appraiser. “We’ve already seen in Dallas and elsewhere how much that can mean to the nearby neighborhood.”

The mass transit from the west side was still at least a decade away, and an awful lot could happen in that time.

Gil shrugged. “Great,” he said. “It’ll go up in value. But if the seller didn’t ask for more money, why is the buyer? I’ve never heard of a 110 percent loan.”

“They aren’t that uncommon,” I told him. “Admittedly they are more often used for refinancing loans used to upgrade or remodel a house.”

“Is that what these people are doing? Expanding the house?”

“No, they aren’t building on at this time,” I said. “They need to get a couple of years of payments under their belt at least.”

“Then what is this extra money? Down payment?”

“Partly,” I admitted. “And to clear up some outstanding obligations.”

Gil looked genuinely confused.

“Jane, what’s the catch here?” he said. “Why don’t you just go to a bank or a savings and loan?”

“Because they wouldn’t give it to me,” I told him honestly.

Carefully, and without any attempt at deceit, I explained the problem to him.

“The Guerras have an outstanding retail debt of six thousand dollars,” I said. “They have been paying off a funeral at a high rate of interest. They are good debtors. They’ve never missed a payment. They’ve never been late. But in the world of banking, this doesn’t work for them, it works against them. They still qualify for a home loan, but just barely.”

“Close enough is close enough,” Gil said.

“For you or me it would be,” I agreed. “But making this monthly payment and their mortgage would have them walking a very fine line. If anything went wrong, a car breaks down, a child gets sick, or one of them is injured on the job, they’d have to default on one or the other.”