The Long Road Home

by Mary Alice Monroe

  C.W.’s head swung sharply around. “Those are old papers and letters of Mike’s?” He kept the urgency from his voice. Stepping closer, he peered over her shoulder. “What’s in them?”

  “Some are personal—his journal, letters and such. He described various deals, loans… It gets pretty complex.” Nora sighed and dropped her handful of papers on the desktop.

  “Deals and loans? Anything curious or interesting.”

  “Mike keeps referring to someone named Agatha.”

  C.W. lost all caution and swooped down to stare at the littered desk.

  “Where?” he demanded, forcing back his rising excitement.

  Nora lazily shuffled the papers. “Here,” she said, handing him a memo, “and here, and those over there. I wonder who she is.”

  C.W. didn’t answer. He studied the memos, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the information. A faint blush spread along his ears as he pored over the memos. When he bent to search through the letters, his fingers began to shake. He couldn’t believe it. It was all here: deals, loans, illegal banking activities—all in cahoots with Agatha Blair. He had the proof he needed! And it was better than he had hoped. He had to hold himself from laughing out loud.

  C.W. pounded his fist in his cupped hand like a baseball pitcher about to throw the winning pitch. Nora recognized that glint of triumph and slowly straightened in her seat.

  “What’s going on here?”

  He paced the floor, still rubbing his hands. Lady luck had at last surfaced; the final piece was in place. All he needed to do now was get to New York and start the game.

  “C.W.?” Nora’s voice was more insistent.

  He stopped his pacing and stood before her, searching for the words to reassure her. No matter what excuse he came up with, it wouldn’t suffice. At this point, he had to open the window to truth. Running his hand through his hair, C.W. walked to her and squeezed her shoulder.

  She raised her beautiful eyes to his; small worry lines pinched at their corners.

  “I think I have a way to ease your difficulties at the bank.”

  Nora stiffened in surprise.

  C.W. swung around another chair to face hers and clasped his palms together, leaning forward on his knees. “Some of Mike’s bank activities were clearly illegal.”

  “Good God, what’s next?”

  “A lot, if this is uncovered. He dealt with one bank in particular, one person in that bank. And these—” he grabbed a handful of papers “—are the proof.”

  “It has to be the Blair Bank,” she exclaimed. “And Charles Blair…I knew he was connected with this! Is this Agatha connected with Blair? If so, let’s go after them.”

  C.W. lowered her back into her seat with a gentle pressure from his hand. “Slow down. This is extremely delicate. It could all backfire, and with Mike’s implication, the authorities could seize all your personal assets. That would include this farm.”

  He saw confusion then alarm register on Nora’s features and he inched his chair closer till their knees touched. “I’ve told you before that I’m working on this farm while I sort out my life. I’m not a farmer or a hired hand.”

  “That much I figured out.”

  “I thought as much.” He patted her knee. “I worked at a bank. Yes.” He nodded. “I knew of your husband—who didn’t? I left New York and I never wanted to return. But I will. I must. I know people in the business and have connections.”

  “But how will any of this help me?”

  “Silence is a precious commodity, Nora. You owe the Blair Bank tons of bucks. These papers can buy plenty. Could save you this farm.”

  Dawning slowly reflected in her eyes. “Silence is golden.”

  “Exactly. I’ll need to bring these papers to the right people and negotiate for you. Trust me, Nora. This is my bailiwick, I know what I’m doing.”

  “I should come with you. It’s my problem.”

  “No. You’re too vulnerable, and frankly, I’d do better alone. Will you let me take these papers?”

  Nora could not quite believe what he was asking. Take Mike’s personal papers to his New York connections? She always suspected that C.W. was educated, sophisticated. But a New York banker—with connections?

  “Lord, Mr. Walker. You certainly know how to drop a few bombs. This is a lot to swallow all at once.”

  “I know. It’s not by choice, but time is of the essence here.”

  “Was that one of your ‘connections’ on the phone?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I see.” Part of her was glad he admitted that much. “You really think you can do this…without my help? After all, I am Mrs. MacKenzie. Mike’s name still opens doors.”

  Slams them, more likely, he thought. “I’m quite sure.”

  Nora looked at her hands. Mr. Walker, the banker, wanted her to hand over the only protection she had: Mike’s papers. By doing that she gave him custody of her future.

  “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.

  31

  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, know
ing 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.”