by Beth Hoffman
When the man opened the door, I smiled and said, “Hello. My name’s Teddi Overman. I used to work here when Mr. Palmer owned it. I’d like to talk to you about renting this building.”
He eyed me up and down, taking in my baggy waitress uniform and scuffed-up shoes. I had barely begun explaining what I wanted to do when he interrupted me. “What kind of collateral do you have?”
That question brought me up short. “Well, I . . . I have a car, and I’ve saved up almost seven thousand dollars.”
He shook his head and closed the door.
After working my shift, I ran home, changed into my best dress, and set off for the bank where I had my savings account. I pleaded my case to the manager, a bald little man who looked disarmingly like a mole. When I believed I had his interest, I told him I’d need about thirty thousand dollars. The moment that number left my lips, he avoided my eyes and began shuffling papers on his desk. “I’m sorry, Miss Overman. We couldn’t possibly loan you that amount of money . . .”
I left the bank feeling emptied of hope.
Months passed, and still the For Rent sign remained in the window of Mr. Palmer’s old shop. The lettering had faded from the sun, and its edges were starting to curl.
Most days I felt lost, and sometimes I was scared, yet I believed I could run my own business if somebody would just give me a chance. But I didn’t know who that somebody was. It wasn’t until I was in the pharmacy and began talking with Miz Tedra Calhoun in the checkout line that I got an idea.
“You know, Teddi, I had a lovely fund-raising luncheon at my home a few weeks ago, and everyone raved about the decoupage you did on that chest.”
“Thank you. I loved doing it.”
“I’m so sorry Mr. Palmer passed away. This town won’t be the same without him. So how are you doing, Teddi? Where are you working now?”
I felt ashamed when I answered, “Marty’s Diner. But only until I find a job working with furniture.”
Miz Calhoun reached out and patted my hand, “Well, with all your talent I’m sure someone will snap you up in no time. It was nice chatting with you, honey. You take good care.” She gathered her purchase, and with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand she walked out the door.
Tedra Calhoun had something special that was hard to define. I guessed she was in her mid-fifties—one of those women who knew exactly how to apply makeup and dress to perfection. She wasn’t a natural-born beauty, yet she exuded the illusion of beauty, which, as far as I was concerned, was a kind of beauty unto itself. As I watched her move down the sidewalk in a graceful stride, wearing her lime green suit and creamy pearls, I set off after her.
“Miz Calhoun,” I said, running up to her side. “Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to tell you about an idea I have . . .”
We walked slowly as I told her how much I’d learned while working for Mr. Palmer and why I believed I could be a successful shop owner. “I’m a hard worker, Miz Calhoun. Mr. Palmer said I had a real eye for knowing what had value. And I’m patient, too. I never rush my work. I figure you know just about everyone in Charleston, so I was wondering if you might put in a good word for me at one of the banks. If somebody would only give me a chance . . .”
My words bumped into one another, and though I heard desperation in my voice, I couldn’t control myself.
Miz Calhoun stopped walking and turned to face me. “Dreams are powerful, aren’t they? When I was a girl, I dreamed of becoming a prima ballerina. I was a wonderful dancer, but I lacked the one crucial ingredient you need to have at the highest level of dance: courage. Right after I lost the lead role in the most important audition of my career, I met Preston. And when he asked me to marry him, I knew it was what I wanted. But I never danced again.”
Her lips formed a sad smile. “Not that I have any regrets, but there are days when I wonder what might have been if I’d just reached a little deeper and believed in myself more.”
Right when I had started to wonder where this conversation was going, she said, “So you have a dream, and it certainly seems like you have the courage to go after it. But what you don’t have is the capital. Is that it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She tilted her head, and what I saw in her eyes wasn’t a wealthy woman taking pity on a farm girl. It was kindness. “Why don’t you come to my home this evening? Preston is a very clever businessman. Maybe he’ll have some ideas for you. He likes to relax with a drink before dinner. If you could come by around six o’clock, he’d talk with you then.”
“Oh, thank you, Miz Calhoun.”
She smiled and gave a slight shrug. “I can’t presume to know what my darling Preston will say or do. But I know he’ll listen to your ideas and give you sound advice. That much I can promise. Now, I’ve got to run. See you tonight.”
It took me more than an hour to get dressed and fix my hair. Wanting to look mature and professional, I chose a simple black skirt and a soft white sweater with tiny pearl buttons. After several failed attempts, I managed to get my thick hair up into a stylish knot with about a hundred bobby pins and so much hair spray that I nearly asphyxiated myself.
When I parked in front of the Calhouns’ home, I closed my eyes and tried to calm the thunderous beating of my heart. As I stepped to the sidewalk and opened the wrought-iron gate, I wondered, Is my outfit too simple? Does it look cheap? Oh, Lord, of course it looks cheap. I bought it at a thrift shop. I should have polished my shoes one more time . . .
Just as I rang the doorbell, several bobby pins sprang from my hair and my knot began to loosen. I tried to quickly fix it, but the door swung open and I was facing a broad-shouldered gentleman with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses perched on an unfortunate nose.
“Well, I’ll bet you’re Teddi,” he said, offering me his hand. “I’m Preston Calhoun. Please, come in. Lets go into my office and have a chat, shall we?”
My stomach tightened and my hair inched down the back of my head as I followed him down the hallway and into a room lined with mahogany bookcases. The rug was Persian, and the furniture was well-worn brown leather. In the middle of the room sat a double-pedestal desk of solid burled walnut. It was nearly the size of my kitchen.
I smoothed my fingers along its edge and said, “This is English, from the Victorian era, right?”
“You know your antiques. This desk belonged to my great-grandfather. Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”
“No thank you. I’m fine.”
Mr. Calhoun sat down at his desk and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. “My lovely wife says you have an idea for a business. So why don’t you tell me about it?”
I couldn’t stop my knees from shaking as I explained what I wanted to do. Mr. Calhoun listened, taking notes on a yellow legal pad and asking all sorts of questions. If he noticed my hair migrating down my neck and bobby pins shooting across the room, he never revealed as much. But it was hard to ignore.
We talked for nearly an hour, and then he leaned back in his chair. “Your ideas sound good, Teddi. Real good. You’ll have start-up costs, rent, utilities, inventory, and more. By my calculations, you’ll need a minimum of eighty thousand dollars.”
I gasped. “That’s a lot of money!”
“Yes, it surely is. But if you’re going to start this business and do it right, you’ll need every penny of it. Though without collateral, I doubt you’ll get a loan of this size without a cosigner.”
Cosigner?
I sank deeper into the chair. “I don’t have one. I could ask Daddy. He’s the best farmer in Powell County. But last year’s crops weren’t very good . . .” My voice trailed off. I knew that this meeting had just taken a bad turn.
Mr. Calhoun had a sip of his drink and thought for a moment. “All right, young lady. I’ll study these notes and formulate our strategy. We’ll have to be ready for any questions a bank
er will throw across the table—and believe me, there’ll be a lot of them. So while I’m thinking, what I need you to do is type out your business plan and drop it off to me when you’re done.”
Mama would just love this. I could see her shaking her head and pointing to the Smith-Corona I’d left behind.
I was too embarrassed to make eye contact with Mr. Calhoun when I said, “I don’t have a typewriter.”
Slowly he stood and looked out the window with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. I knew I’d made a perfect fool of myself, so I rose to my feet and gathered my handbag. I tried to discreetly pluck the bobby pins from the rug, but he turned and saw me. I straightened up, barely able to look at him. “Mr. Calhoun, I’m sorry for wasting your time. I guess I didn’t think things through very well.”
I felt the sting of tears in my eyes.
Don’t cry. Shake his hand and walk out of here with some semblance of dignity.
With a slight lift to his chin, Mr. Calhoun squinted and studied me. “Teddi, there are two things I’ve learned in business that have served me well. One, we get what we negotiate. And two, never show weakness. Those two things will help you more than anything I know. Now, I can see that you believe in your talent, but you’ve got a whole lot to learn about negotiation. The minute you show a sign of weakness, you’ve taken the first step toward losing the game. And that’s what negotiation is—a game.”
He tapped the legal pad with his finger and raised his eyebrows into high arches. “Tell you what. I’ll have my secretary type up your business plan, and I’ll meet you at Charleston First Bank & Trust on Monday morning. Nine o’clock sharp. We’ll show them what you’ve got and see what they say.”
I thought my legs might buckle for the gratitude I felt. “Mr. Calhoun, thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Now, bear in mind, it’s a long shot. But you’ll never know unless you give it a try.”
Right then another bobby pin sprang free and landed on the floor, and gentleman that he was, Mr. Calhoun pretended not to notice.
As promised, Mr. Calhoun met me at the bank bright and early on Monday morning. In his hands was a perfectly typed business plan on the finest linen stationery I’d ever seen. We were led to a wood-paneled office where the bank manager was waiting—a tall, skinny man named John Hamilton.
Mr. Calhoun and I worked as a team, pointing out the highlights of my ideas and giving solid reasons that my business plan was sound. When the manager leaned back in his red leather chair and agreed to present my business plan to the loan committee, I swelled with so much happiness I thought I might pop. But that feeling of euphoria ended as fast as it had come when Mr. Hamilton said that he would do so only if I had a cosigner. Though Mr. Calhoun had warned me of this, I had honestly believed that if a banker heard my ideas, he’d jump at the opportunity to write me a big, fat check.
With my dream deflated and my ego in shreds, I rose from the chair. It was all I could do to shake Mr. Hamilton’s hand. When Mr. Calhoun and I left the bank, I stopped outside the front door and looked at him. “Thank you for trying to help me, Mr. Calhoun. I was wondering—do you think if I asked Mr. Hamilton for less money, he’d give me a loan?”
“Less money would only ensure your failure. If you don’t start a business out right, you’re doomed, Teddi. Remember what I told you about negotiating?”
“You mean about how it’s a game?”
“That’s right. This is only the first quarter.”
I fought back tears. “But if I can’t start a business with less money and I can’t get a loan for what I need, then how do I play this game?”
That question seemed to draw him up short. He studied me for the longest time. “I’ll give it more thought and see what I come up with. And you keep thinking, too.”
I shook his hand and walked across the parking lot. Plopping down inside my car, I let out a groan of frustration and pressed my forehead to the steering wheel.
For the next two weeks, I trudged through my job at the diner. I forced a smile with each cup of coffee I poured, knowing that my survival depended on the tips my smile might bring. The way I calculated it, every smile was worth about seventy-eight cents, a little more on Sundays. At the rate I was going, it would take over ninety thousand smiles to earn enough money to open my own shop.
There weren’t enough cups of coffee in my future to keep my dream alive.
Each day when my shift was through, I’d toss my apron into the hamper and head out the door with the newspaper tucked beneath my arm. I’d sit at the tiny kitchen table in my apartment and devour the employment ads, which were always filled with positions for bookkeepers, nurses, and of course secretaries, all of them offering Mama’s most coveted prize—fringe benefits.
On a windy Tuesday morning, I was busy waiting tables when Mr. Calhoun walked in the door. I’d never seen him in the diner before, and as I watched him take a seat at a table against the wall, I prayed he’d come up with an idea of how I could get a loan.
Taking a deep breath and smoothing my apron, I approached his table. He smiled real friendly, but all he said was, “Good morning, Teddi. Two eggs over easy, wheat toast, and black coffee, please.” Then he snapped open his newspaper.
I served his breakfast, hesitating for a moment after I set down his plate, but still he said nothing. When he paid his bill at the register and left without talking to me, I knew it was over—there was no plan, no game to be played.
From the front window, I watched Mr. Calhoun cross the street and get into his car, and when he pulled away from the curb, I felt sick to my stomach. Slowly, I began clearing his table. He hadn’t left me a tip, not so much as a lousy dime. I piled his coffee cup and silverware onto the plate, and when I picked the plate up, an envelope with my name typed on the front was peeking out from beneath the paper place mat. I shoved it into my apron pocket, and when the breakfast rush wound down, I ran into the restroom, locked the door, and ripped open the envelope. Expecting to see a new business plan spelled out, one that would make my idea more appealing to a banker, I couldn’t unfold the papers fast enough. But when I saw what those papers really were, stillness settled around me—the kind of stillness that comes when you’re reminded of the powerful force that exists beyond your understanding.
I leaned against the wall and stared at the last page. On the bottom was a line with the name “Theodora Grace Overman” typed beneath it. To the right was another line. In a bold flourish above the word “Guarantor” was the signature of a man who would forever change my life: Preston J. Calhoun.
And now here I sat: Albert doing his repairs—slower than he used to but still with his trademark precision—and me in my small office that had once been Mr. Palmer’s. The shop no longer had the wooden sign above the door that read: PALMER’S FINE ANTIQUES. Instead there were slender gold letters painted on the front window that simply read . . . TEDDI’S.
NINE
Though I had every intention of visiting my grandmother after work, I was still tired from my Kentucky trip. Deciding to take a quick nap on the sofa, I kicked off my shoes and closed my eyes. Just a few minutes of rest, I told myself. Just a few . . .
I woke with a start. My skirt was bunched around my waist, and threads of morning sun were weaving through my lace curtains. I sat up, feeling sweaty and disoriented when I looked at my watch. I’d slept for nearly ten hours. Eddie’s bladder was surely about to explode. After taking him for a long walk, I showered and fussed with my hair before climbing into my car.
Traffic was light, and within fifteen minutes the entrance appeared on my left. A pair of old oaks stretched their twisted branches over the lawn, and the border gardens were well tended. The grounds were lovely and serene, but no amount of beauty could ease the sadness I felt each time I pulled in to the driveway. This was the Audrey Clayton Home—last stop for a handful of Charleston’s most elderly citizens.
&
nbsp; I never dreamed my grandmother would be one of them.
In the late summer of 1985, I had visited my family for a long weekend. On the morning of my departure, Daddy and Mama left the house for a Sunday breakfast meeting with neighboring farmers. When I lugged my suitcase out to the car, I saw Grammy sitting in the passenger seat. Attached to her glasses was a pair of oversize clip-on sunshades, and perched on her head was a red felt hat. I remembered the hat from an Easter when I was a child. It had been old then.
I leaned down and peered into the open window. “What are you doing, Grammy?”
“Well, not long ago I got to thinkin’ that in all my years I’d never set foot outside Kentucky. Last night at supper, you said how much you wished we’d come for a visit. So here I am.”
She was serious. In the backseat were a small suitcase and a tote bag filled with her favorite gardening tools.
My grandmother had loved Charleston so much that she stayed, claiming she didn’t want to go home until Christmastime. But in November she fell, breaking her hip and femur, neither of which had properly healed. Grammy shocked everyone by deciding to live in Charleston.
That’s when I found the Audrey Clayton Home. Italianate in style and built in the late 1880s, the house had been converted to an elder-care facility back in the 1960s. The main house offered the residents a feeling of home with its high ceilings, thick moldings, and arched doorways, but there was no mistaking the ever-present medicinal aroma.
I headed toward the yellow room, named for its sun-soaked walls and tall windows framed by floral chintz draperies. Miz Olson and Miz Fitzwater were sitting at a table having their morning tea. Though it was twenty past seven and both gals were still wearing robes, they were weighted down with multiple layers of jewelry: rhinestones, diamonds, and colorful gem treasures.
