Читать книгу Christmas Town - Peggy Gilchrist - Страница 10

Jordan was glad, as he drove up to the Scoville estate on the edge of Bethlehem, that he had chosen to stay in one of the family’s smaller houses near the center of the village. He could deal with the massive stone Tudor in small doses. But he didn’t feel up to coping on a daily basis with the suffocating rigidity it symbolized to him.

The circular driveway gave off impressions of darkness and isolation as he pulled the black Lincoln to a stop. The single round window in the carved wooden door glared forbiddingly and the tap of his heels on the marble entryway echoed of solitude. The feeling shivered around him and through him, the memory of his childhood.

Now thirty-four, Jordan thought he’d long since put those memories to rest. It disconcerted him to discover they merely lurked in quiet corners of his heart, waiting.

He shouldn’t have come back. He knew it. If he’d had another choice, he wouldn’t have.

Dinner hour had just begun at the Scoville estate, so Jordan joined his father and his uncle in the dining room. He’d already eaten his microwaved chicken-and-vermicelli frozen dinner while standing, the morning’s newspaper spread across the kitchen counter, open to the business pages. He read of stock options and interest rates while devouring the low-fat, low-salt, low-taste food. It had settled heavily in his tension-knotted gut, and sat there still as he accepted the glass of tea his uncle Truman offered. Truman’s hand trembled, the spout of the pitcher tinkling against the rim of the crystal goblet like chimes in the breeze.

“So, my boy, are you getting settled in?” Nerves gave Truman’s voice a quivering quality not much different from the sound of crystal against crystal.

“Yes, thank you.”

“I truly don’t understand why you feel you have to stay over there, anyway,” Mitchell added, and paused for an explanation that didn’t come. Eventually he jabbed his fork in the direction of his half-eaten veal chop. “We would have fed you, you know.”

“I’m accustomed to feeding myself,” Jordan said, and instantly despised the stuffy chill of his voice. As a little boy, how many times had he sworn he’d never let himself sound that way? He tried to soften his words, his tone, but couldn’t be sure he’d succeeded. “I don’t eat heavy dinners much anymore.”

They ate and he sat, sipping his tea, wondering how they managed to force food down their throats while waiting for the ax to drop.

You have to understand, Venita had said, they were only trying to help. It made all the sense in the world to them.

He waited for them to finish. He listened to their small talk about the men at the club he might remember, and who had broken eighty last summer. Truman rhapsodized that with the mill closing, giving him more time on the greens, perhaps he could shoot his age next summer. Jordan couldn’t keep his mind on their words. His thoughts kept straying to Venita’s revelations—and the slow-voiced, softeyed woman who wanted him to reassure her about the future of Bethlehem’s families.

The sweet tea tasted sour on Jordan’s lips.

At last they finished their meal—including an excellent trifle made from one of Grace’s original recipes, although the cook from Jordan’s childhood had passed away about fifteen years ago, before his mother, even. Jordan felt the past tug at him again. Grace, with her big, soft arms and the broad expanse of her comforting embrace, had always been fragrant with homey spices. Between Grace and Venita, he’d gotten all the hugs a little boy needed.

The feeling welled up in him again, that needy feeling that had swept over him when he’d watched Venita’s young friend, Nathan, engulfed in his mother’s hug. Needy and empty.

Shrugging it off—again—he followed Mitchell and Truman into the drawing room.

Lambs to the slaughter.

Ornate Art Deco lamps with their tasseled shades cast a soft, golden glow over the dark-paneled room. Leather-bound books and crystal growing dull beneath a film of long-standing dust set the tone for the room. Truman poured coffee. Mitchell accepted, Jordan declined.

“Well,” Mitchell began cheerfully, “I hope you and Venita resolved this whole issue of the Christmas lights. You know, people have grown concerned, but I kept telling them, wait until Jordan arrives. He will know exactly how to take care of this little situation.”

“Oh, yes,” Truman added. “Rightly said.”

“We’ve resolved the issue,” Jordan said. “The lights will be dismantled as soon as possible.”

“Dismantled?” Truman’s withered shoulders straightened a tad beneath the seersucker. “But surely not now. Not right before Christmas.”

“Oh, surely not.”

Jordan set his jaw and refused to be moved by the dismayed confusion in his relatives’ voices. “We’ve been approached by a buyer. Some sort of theme park. Some of these decorations are antiques. Quite valuable, it seems. Venita tells me if we act quickly, we can get a good price.”

“A good price? But, son, these decorations, they’re…well, they’re…priceless.”

“And lest we forget, they belong to the town, you know.”

“They belong to the mill,” Jordan corrected his uncle. “Like everything else in this town. And like everything else in this town, those decorations are going to have to be converted to cash if we’re going to keep you two out of prison.”

“Out of—!” Mitchell’s hand jerked, sloshing his coffee onto the arm of the striped velvet chair that had always been “his” chair. A Brugge lace antimacassar soaked up the brown liquid, another minor indiscretion that would go unnoticed now that his wife was gone.

“Prison? Oh, my!” Truman leaned over and very carefully, using both hands, set his china cup on the Duncan Phyfe side table that was no longer highly polished. “Surely, my boy, you don’t mean that.”

“I’m afraid that’s exactly what will happen,” Jordan said, doing his best to soften his boardroom voice. Why was he using his boardroom voice at all? Why had he found himself despising his actions so many times in these few short hours since he’d been back in Bethlehem? “Unless the two of you have a very good explanation for the four-point-six million that’s disappeared from the retirement trust fund over the last nine months.”

“Oh, that!” Mitchell looked up, his eyes much brighter now. “Why, son, that’s simple. Tell him about that, Truman.”

Truman clasped his hands between his knees and leaned forward earnestly. “Oh, of course. That was all very aboveboard. And unfortunate. I can do no more than admit it was an unfortunate circumstance. But there was nothing…I cannot stress it to you enough…there was nothing…the least bit…dishonest. I can assure you of that.”

Despite himself, Jordan felt something he could only call hope stirring beneath the dread in his heart. Perhaps Venita didn’t know the whole story. Maybe, just maybe, there was some reasonable explanation and all this potential scandal would disappear. “Where is the money, Dad?”

“Why, it’s gone, of course. It was just as Truman said. Unfortunate. Most unfortunate.”

Jordan felt his flicker of hope give way to anger. He tried to keep it in check by reminding himself that these two men were not one whit like the nearscoundrels he did business with every day. These men were not land speculators and wheeler-dealers. These men were his befuddled but kindhearted father and his bemused but sweet-tempered uncle. These men were the last of the Scovilles to live off the labor of others, and naively expect gratitude in return.

“What happened to the money, Dad?”

“Well, we met this nice young man. At the club. Last…when was that, Truman? Last spring? Was it that Easter weekend at the member-guest or was it…Yes, that was it. The member-guest. I remember because Curtis was my partner and…”

“The money, Dad.” His voice, finally, was soft, the sound of his heart breaking for two old men he still loved with the devotion of a child. Yes, this was the feeling he’d tried to shield himself against since he’d arrived—heartache. He pursed his lips to keep them from trembling.

“Yes, of course. The money. Well, he told us about this deal. Something to do with stocks, if memory serves. And, well, we knew even then that the mill was in trouble. And when he told us what kind of profit margin he expected…Well, we knew if we invested with him we could save the mill. But the only money we had…” He shrugged.

“The retirement account.”

Mitchell smiled, clearly gratified that his son could see the wisdom of this decision.

Jordan sighed, but willed his face to remain composed and expressionless. Why hadn’t someone told him the senior Scovilles had reached such a state of irresponsibility? Why had they been allowed to go on? Why hadn’t Venita realized, and called him?

When he’d asked her that very question earlier in the day, she had stared hard at him through narrowed eyes. “How many times have you been home in the last ten years, Jordie? How many times have you even returned their calls when they left messages for you?”

And the answers to all his questions were clear to him. The responsibility had been his. Venita had little, if any, real authority over the senior Scovilles. And the retirement account wasn’t under her jurisdiction, anyway. Saving Mitchell and Truman from themselves wasn’t her job, although she’d done it more times than any of them knew, of that Jordan was certain.

No, saving the family honor was Jordan’s job. And if he hadn’t been willing to do it at the right time, then it fell to him to figure out how to do it after the fact.

He must keep his father and his uncle out of prison. He must make sure no one ever knew the real story—especially the woman with the precocious son and the baseball cap, who was determined to gain an audience with him. Yes, he must save the family name. He must stay away from Joella Ratchford. And he must find four-point-six million to cover the loss. At exactly the time when he was on the verge of losing every penny of his own in a risky scheme.

The very idea was almost laughable.

Ho! Ho! Ho!

Joella knew there must be a law against stalking, but she didn’t see where Jordan Scoville was leaving her much choice.

He’d been in town almost an entire week now. Six days, to be precise, since she’d met him unexpectedly in Venita’s office the day she went after Nathan. In those six days she’d called the Scoville executive offices and asked for an appointment with him no less than twelve times. Once the first day. Twice the second and again the third. Three times on the fourth day and…Well, at any rate, the calls added up. And had accomplished absolutely nothing.

Jordan Scoville thought he could ignore her. To him, Joella—and every single soul in Bethlehem, she’d be willing to bet—was no more than an ant in his picnic.

Joella had never been one to believe the Scovilles thought themselves high and mighty, although plenty in Bethlehem did. The old gentlemen were always gracious and friendly whenever she chanced to see them at the Independence Day fireworks or the Labor Day pig-pickin’. But now that Jordan Scoville had taken over the big office, she might be changing her mind on the matter of the high-andmighty Scovilles.

She would pray for patience. But first, she would remember that God helped those who helped themselves.

The first place she tracked him to was the grocery store. Thompson’s SuperMart stayed open late on Tuesday and Thursday nights and she followed him there after he left his office.

A man in a suit was such a rarity in Bethlehem that it wasn’t hard to keep track of him, even in the busy store. Even though the workday had ended for a man like Jordan Scoville, he didn’t take his suit coat off. He didn’t loosen his tie. Not one single thing about the man relaxed a bit. He even grabbed his cart and plowed down the aisles like a man on a deadline. He also walked with a sure stride, like a man who owned everything in his path. Which, come to think of it, was pretty much the case.

Joella bypassed a cart for herself and followed along, wondering if anyone would see anything strange in her actions. If so, it would be all over town tomorrow, sure as sunup, that she’d been seen skulking around behind Mr. Scoville like some country girl with a crush. Still, she kept her eyes on his broad back and moved a little faster. She even pretended not to hear when Mavelle Lingerfelt called out a greeting, because Mavelle did not know how to exchange two words when two hundred could be swapped instead.

He didn’t pause until he got to the long refrigerator cases in the middle of the store. Then he stopped and began to toss frozen dinners into his cart. A Yankee pot roast and a sweet-and-sour chicken and a linguini with clam sauce. Then breakfasts. Joella wrinkled her nose at the thought of frozen scrambled eggs and link sausage, then felt herself overcome with something a lot like pity for a man who cared no more for himself than to indulge in a steady diet of frozen dinners.

The image of him standing in front of a microwave, waiting for it to ding at him, almost made her turn away.

Goose! she chided herself. He’s got the money to cater in a gourmet dinner every night if he wants to. He doesn’t need your sympathy.

So she marched right up to him just as he put his hands on frozen doughnuts. It would be neighborly to tell him about the fresh ones at the diner every Wednesday and Saturday morning. Instead, she stood smack in front of his cart and chased every notion of neighborliness right out of her head. “Mr. Scoville, you’ve been avoiding me.”

He dropped the carton into his cart. “Have I?”

“Yes, you have. I’ve called you twelve times this week and you haven’t called back yet.”

He put his hands on the handle of his cart and backed away. Right here under her nose, he was trying to get away!

“I intend to see you, Mr. Scoville.”

“You’re seeing me now, Mrs. Ratchford.” And he began moving down the aisle. Toward the checkout. “If you have something to say, why don’t you do it now?”

“I don’t think you understand.” She scampered along to catch up, trying to stay ahead of him so she could look back and stare him straight in the eye. “The people of this town have elected me to represent them. And I intend to do that.”

“Isn’t it a little late to start a union, Mrs. Ratchford?”

He pushed his cart up to the checkout line and started unloading his frozen cartons. She glared at his back.

“I think you’d better take this seriously, Mr. Scoville.”

He stopped long enough to turn and look her straight in the eye. His eyes were dark and bottomless and set her heart scurrying. It was that intimidation thing Nathan had mentioned, of course.

“I do take it seriously. Seriously enough that I know it’s only going to slow things down having a woman who doesn’t know anything about law or finance questioning every step we take. We want this to be as painless as possible for everybody, Mrs. Ratchford. Don’t make it any more complicated than it has to be.”

She felt short of breath, but she would not let him see it. “When do you meet with the lawyers again, Mr. Scoville?”

“I don’t think you’re listening to me, Mrs. Ratchford. It’s really none of your concern when I’m meeting with the company lawyers.”

“You’re the one who isn’t listening. I want an audience with you. And if you don’t play nice with us poor, dumb mill workers, you’ll find out we know how to play dirty.”

Joella had no idea what she meant by that, but it sounded good and she knew it was time to talk tough, despite her racing heart and wobbly knees. Besides, Nathan had already warned her that would be the only way to get Mr. High-and-Mighty’s attention.

“Are you threatening me, Mrs. Ratchford?” He turned and put his hands on his hips. He looked about as intimidating as anything Joella had ever seen and she figured she was melting a lot faster than the stuff in all his little cartons. “Threatening me, right here in plain view of half the town?”

With that, he waved his arms and Joella realized a fair-sized crowd of folks had rolled their grocery carts around for a better view of the ruckus.

“No,” Joella said, putting her hands on her hips and knowing full well her faded jeans and sweatshirt were no match, intimidation-wise, for his charcoal suit and red-striped tie. She sent up a silent prayer for courage and for a voice that wouldn’t wobble and give her away. “I wouldn’t dream of threatening one of the powerful Scovilles. All I’m doing is appealing to you as a gentleman. I know all the Scovilles are gentlemen. So, I’ll be in your office one hour before first shift starts tomorrow, to discuss how you’re going to include me in your planning from now on.”

Then she saw the frown crease his forehead and she smiled. “A fine gentleman like you wouldn’t dream of disappointing a lady, now, would you?”

He sighed and pulled out a money clip, passing on a stack of bills to the cashier. “Okay. How’s this, Mrs. Ratchford? I’ll keep you informed. In writing. Formal memos, every week.”

Joella’s heart pounded. He was negotiating. With her. “Every day.”

He took his change without glancing at it, shoved it into his pocket and hoisted two bags into his arms. “Tuesdays and Fridays,” he countered, walking away.

She followed. “Okay. It’s a deal.”

“Good.” He dropped the bags into the front seat of his car and slid into the driver’s seat. He moved with a grace that men in pickup trucks didn’t seem to have. As if money somehow oiled his joints, smoothed the rough edges.

She put a hand on the car door before he could close it. “And you’ll talk to me before you make any major decisions.”

He looked exasperated. “Mrs. Ratchford—”

“If you’ll just agree to talk to us ahead of time, I’ll promise not to make a pest out of myself.”

She could tell right away that was her trump card and she’d played it just in time.

“We have a deal, Mrs. Ratchford.”

She took her hand off the door to shake on their deal, but he slammed the door instead and drove off before she could open her mouth.

But they had a deal and she couldn’t wait to tell Fred Roseforte that Jordan Scoville would be forwarding memos on the bankruptcy proceedings every Tuesday and Friday. With God’s help, she’d stood her ground. David against Goliath.

She had to remind herself that smugness wasn’t an admirable trait.