“Never a good idea.” Price pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. “You should have contacted us as soon as you knew you’d have a problem making the payments.”
“She did,” Sara said, then explained the bills had been sent to a post-office box Mrs. Feldman didn’t know about until after her husband’s death. “But you raised a good point. Why did your bank give the Feldmans a loan when it was clear they’d have trouble making the payments?”
“I can’t enlighten you on decisions that were made before I started working here,” Price said. “It’s water under the bridge anyway. All I can do is speak to the current situation.”
“We’d like you to refinance the loan, with the missed payments being folded into the new loan,” Sara stated. “If you need to extend the terms of the new loan so the payments are manageable, that’s fine.”
Price peered at her over the top of his glasses. “Would you, now?”
“Yes,” Sara said, undeterred. “We’d also like you to reduce the closing costs and cut the interest rate as a courtesy to Mrs. Feldman since she’s been banking here for years.”
“You’re asking for an awful lot considering I haven’t agreed to refinance,” Price said. “You must realize this isn’t standard procedure.”
“Neither is letting longtime customers put up their home for collateral on a loan they can barely afford, yet that’s exactly what happened.”
“Mr. Feldman must have been advised of the disadvantages.”
“We don’t know that for sure, do we?” Sara smiled to soften the sting in her words. “So I’d think a bank as reputable as yours would be eager to keep a customer like Mrs. Feldman happy.”
“Touché, Ms. Brenneman.” Art Price’s eyes twinkled with admiration. “I’d like to see what you can do in a courtroom some day, as long as I’m not on the opposing side.”
“Right now, Mr. Price, I’d very much like to get you on our side.”
He chuckled, although she meant every word. Until she’d picked up Mrs. Feldman this morning, Sara had viewed the situation from a purely practical standpoint. If the bank foreclosed, Mrs. Feldman would be dealt a severe financial hit from which she might never recover.
The silent tears that had clouded Mrs. Feldman’s eyes during the drive to the bank had brought home to Sara that a lot more than money was at stake. Losing her house would mean losing her sanctuary, the only place she’d ever felt she belonged.
“I can’t give you an answer immediately,” Price said. “I need to run this up the ladder, then get my loan officer to work out the details of a new loan.”
“When will we know your decision?” Sara asked.
“Possibly the end of business today, more likely some time on Monday.” He tapped the business card she’d given him. “I’ll give you a call as soon as I know.”
The sun was shining when they exited the bank, which Sara thought was appropriate. If she’d read the signals correctly, it looked as though Mrs. Feldman would keep her house.
“I thought it went okay,” Mrs. Feldman said, echoing her thoughts. She cast an anxious glance at Sara. “How did you think it went?”
“You never can tell about these things, so let’s just say I’m cautiously optimistic,” Sara said carefully, then pressed the crosswalk button at the intersection containing one of the town’s two red lights. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
Mrs. Feldman had parked across the street in front of Jimmy’s Diner. As they waited for the light to turn green, Quincy Coleman exited the restaurant. He turned as though intending to head south on the sidewalk, then looked directly at them. After a loaded pause, he changed directions, stopping on the opposite curb.
“What do you think of Quincy Coleman?” Sara asked under her breath.
“I don’t like him.” Mrs. Feldman stated her opinion with uncharacteristic force. “Never have. He’s probably the one who gave Murray the loan. He always did have too much influence over him.”
“Coleman and Murray were friends?”
“Close friends. Why do you think Murray disliked Michael so much?”
The light changed to green, temporarily preventing them from continuing the discussion as they stepped into the street. Coleman walked toward them, dressed as usual in business attire, this time a tan sports coat and navy slacks.
“Good morning, Felicia, Ms. Brenneman.” He greeted them in the crosswalk, his smiled forced. The false friendliness made Sara suspicious, as though he were up to something, a notion that strengthened when he disappeared inside the bank.
“I don’t trust that man,” Sara remarked when they reached the opposite side of the street. “What did you mean by Coleman having influence over Murray?”
“He’s the one who convinced Murray to kick Michael out of the house.” Mrs. Feldman wouldn’t meet Sara’s eyes as they walked the few steps to her car. “Michael’s never forgiven me for allowing that to happen.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“What would I say?” she asked miserably, the bright sun illuminating the regret on her face. “That I was a rotten aunt?”
“You could say you were sorry.”
“It’s too late for that. It wouldn’t change the past.”
“It’s never too late,” Sara said, although when the phone call from the bank came through at just before five o’clock she doubted her own words.
Once his aunt’s problem was solved and Michael left town, Mrs. Feldman would lose her chance to make peace with him. And Sara would lose Michael.
There she went again, she chided herself. She couldn’t lose a man she’d never had in the first place.
She ignored the regret that swept through her and clicked on the phone, adopting her most professional voice. “Sara Brenneman.”
“Ms. Brenneman. It’s Mr. Price. I have bad news. That new loan we talked about didn’t go through.”
Sara would have been surprised had the bank refinanced under the terms she had requested. In her experience, though, it was always best to ask for too much than settle for too little.
“Then I’ll come in first thing Monday and see if we can come up with alternate terms agreeable to both of us,” she said.
“I’m afraid you don’t understand.” His voice was firm and businesslike, the levity of this morning gone. “We can’t refinance her loan at all.”
“What! Why?” she asked, even as she flashed to Quincy Coleman going into the bank that morning after they’d left.
“We ran her credit report and it’s not a good risk for us.”
“But her late husband was responsible for ruining her credit,” Sara said. “Mrs. Feldman had nothing to do with it.”
“The credit report reflects equally on both of them, Ms. Brenneman,” he said in a scholarly tone. “You know that.”
Sara also knew Price had been perfectly amenable to refinancing this morning. “Can you at least extend the deadline?”
She heard the sound of the branch manager’s throat clearing. “I’m sorry, but no. Please tell Mrs. Feldman if she doesn’t pay the amount, she’s in default, and we’ll be forced to initiate foreclosure proceedings. I recommend putting the house up for sale.”
Every instinct Sara possessed screamed that Quincy Coleman was behind the reversal, but she’d been a lawyer long enough to refrain from leveling an accusation without proof. If she was wrong—and, possibly, even if she wasn’t—she risked making an enemy.
She had no choice but to accept Mr. Price’s decision.
For now.
Once she turned the matter over in her head, she’d decide what she could do about it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SARA HAD NEVER BEEN one to prolong the agony.
She thought it better to tear the Band-Aid from a wound in one quick motion than to peel it off gradually. If the water in a pool was too cold, she’d rather dive in and absorb the shock all at once than descend a ladder and wade into the deep end.
But by Saturday morning, she still h
adn’t relayed the bank’s bad news to Felicia Feldman.
It was easy to justify the delay as a consequence of her busy life.
After getting the call from Art Price, she’d accepted a last-minute invitation to grab some dinner with the receptionist who worked next door. This morning she’d been recruited to help the Friends of the Indigo Springs Library with their semi-annual used-book sale.
But the real reason Sara hadn’t yet accepted failure was that all indications had pointed to success.
It was as though she was waiting for Quincy Coleman to come into the library and apologize for sabotaging Sara’s efforts. While he was at it, he might even offer to reverse the damage.
Like that was going to happen.
Sara straightened the paperbacks in the rapidly dwindling romance section, then reached into the cardboard box under the table to add more books.
“How are you doing?” Marie Dombrowski bustled over to her table, her smile as friendly as it had been at the wedding where they’d met.
Sara smiled. “Business is brisk. I can hardly keep the table stocked.”
“I’m so glad we have a volunteer who’s a romance reader.” Marie patted her hand. “But then I’m just glad to have another volunteer. We’re having such a great turnout we need all the bodies we can get.”
A steady stream of people pored over books, videos and old magazines laid out by genre on tables in a meeting room barely big enough to hold the sale.
The library itself was rich in charm but lacking in space. Housed in a small brick building that sat atop a grassy knoll, it had been built at the turn of the twentieth century.
“Keep them moving,” Marie said. “The more money we take in, the closer we get to paying for an addition.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” Sara saluted, earning her a laugh.
Time passed swiftly. Sara had agreed to help because she loved books, but she was meeting so many people it was turning into a fabulous networking opportunity. Half of them asked for her business card, the other half for recommendations.
“Depends on whether you want to laugh or cry,” Sara told a young woman with curly white-blond hair and freckles. She seemed familiar but Sara couldn’t place her.
“Laugh,” the young woman said instantly.
“Try Crusie or Philips, unless you’re into vampires or werewolves. Then you might want to give Maryjanice Davidson a shot.”
“Vampires are way hotter than werewolves. I personally can’t get excited by a hero with back hair.” The romance reader spoke enthusiastically, then giggled. “I’m Dee Dee Powlaski. I know I sound like a nut, but I’m actually respectable. I even work at a bank.”
“That’s where I’ve seen you before. You’re a teller at Indigo Springs Bank, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Dee Dee said, smiling.
Sara introduced herself, taking another opportunity to hand out a business card. “I was in your bank yesterday.”
Dee Dee nodded. “I know. I saw you with Mr. Price.”
Sara’s heartbeat quickened. Here, when she least expected it, was her chance to get some insider information about what had gone wrong with Mrs. Feldman’s refinancing request. She made her tone casual. “Were you working at the bank when Quincy Coleman was president?”
“Yes, I was. In fact, he hired me.” Dee Dee tucked some strands of blond hair behind her ear. “Do you know Mr. Coleman?”
“Not well.”
“Me neither,” Dee Dee said. “He retired after I’d been at the bank a few months.”
“How long ago was that?”
Dee Dee paused to think. “Let’s see. I started working there a year ago in March. So it must have been last May.”
Sara remembered Mr. Price confiding that he’d been employed at the bank for about a year and immediately connected the dots. “So Mr. Coleman hired Mr. Price.”
“That’s right. It was kind of surprising with Mr. Price being from out of town, but Mr. Coleman took a liking to him right away. Mr. Coleman still comes in three or four times a week to visit. He was at the bank only yesterday.”
“He wasn’t there to do his banking?”
“Oh, no. He went right to Mr. Price’s office and closed the door.” Dee Dee lowered her voice, as though confiding a secret. “I think he likes to keep up on what’s happening. Why are you asking all these questions anyway?”
To confirm my suspicions, Sara thought.
“No particular reason,” Sara said. “I’m just trying to get to know the people in town.”
“Then maybe you’ll want to join my book club,” Dee Dee said. “There are seven of us. We all like different kinds of books so it’s a great way to explore new authors.”
“I’d like that,” Sara said, her mind still on Quincy Coleman.
By the time the book sale ended, she still couldn’t figure out how to use what she’d learned about the man to her advantage.
After stopping by her office to check out the painted walls, which were drying nicely, she figured it was time to brief Michael’s aunt on the unhappy status of her case.
Except it wasn’t Mrs. Feldman she encountered when she got to the house on Oak Street. Michael looked up from where he was hammering a new board into place on the porch steps, his face damp with sweat. His body tensed as though bracing himself for her to do something as stupid as she’d done the other night when she’d walked into his arms.
Well, that was too bad.
She had business with his aunt and she wasn’t about to turn tail just because she made him uncomfortable.
She wouldn’t walk into his arms, either. If there was a next move, which she seriously doubted at this point, it would have to come from him.
“I had a look at the office.” She willed herself to keep the conversation impersonal, businesswoman to businessman. “You did a great job.”
“Thank you,” he said. That was it, just thank you.
His grayish-blue eyes seemed to bore into her, asking questions she didn’t dare answer.
“I’m not here to see you,” she blurted.
“I didn’t think you were.”
“Good. I’m glad that’s settled.” She strove to hide her bubbling anger, upset with herself for letting it form.
“My aunt won’t be back until tomorrow morning. She’s staying with a friend who had cataract surgery.” He wiped his brow with the back of one sleeve. “Is this about her loan?”
Since technically Michael was the one who’d hired her, she might as well tell him. “Yes. The bank called to say they won’t refinance.”
He put down his hammer and gave her his full attention, his brow knitted.
“The branch manager recommended she try to sell the house before they foreclose, but I’d like to avoid that.” She outlined the strategy she’d worked out. “I’ll continue to contact other lenders to see if they’re more open to refinancing, but it’s a tough road because of her poor credit.”
“Hold on.” He held up a hand. “I thought her best chance to refinance was at the bank where people know her. She said you were optimistic things would work out.”
“I was,” she said.
“Then what happened?”
An image formed of Quincy Coleman entering the bank minutes after they’d exited. “I can’t say for sure.”
“But you suspect something.” He kept his sharp gaze on her, waiting for her to continue.
“You’re right, I do,” she finally said. It was pointless to keep the information from him when he might help her figure out how to act on her suspicions. “Quincy Coleman visited the bank yesterday.”
He stiffened. “And?”
“And today I found out he was behind closed doors with the branch manager, who, by the way, he hired.”
“You think Coleman convinced the branch manager not to refinance my aunt’s loan?” Michael asked, arriving at the same conclusion she had. His barely leashed anger made her question whether she should have told him, but it was too late to backtrack.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Son of a bitch,” he bit out, letting the anger flow. “His problem is with me, not my aunt.”
“It’s just a theory, Michael.” She personally believed the assumption had teeth but felt compelled to offer another explanation. “It’s possible Mr. Coleman’s visit was coincidental. The bank could have turned down our request because your aunt’s late husband ruined her credit.”
“That’s not the reason,” he said, through clenched teeth.
“The reason doesn’t matter.” She voiced the conclusion she’d reluctantly reached a few hours ago. “The bank turned us down and we can’t do anything about it.”
“I don’t agree.”
He stood up, dusting off his jeans. Without another word, he disappeared into the house and reappeared a moment later with car keys. His face was set, his expression determined.
“What are you going to do?” she asked
“What I should have done a long time ago,” he said. “It’s time Quincy Coleman and I had this out.”
FOR THE second time in his life, Michael waited on the doorstep of the large, elegant Victorian house where Quincy Coleman lived alone.
The first time, Michael had been a nervous seventeen-year-old kid, Mr. Coleman’s wife hadn’t yet left him and Chrissy had been a pretty girl Michael wanted to know better.
Mr. Coleman had answered the door, dressed in a suit as though he’d just come from work. Michael remembered stammering when he introduced himself and not mustering enough poise to offer the older man his hand.
Coleman wouldn’t have taken it anyway.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming around my daughter,” Coleman had said through clenched teeth. “You don’t belong here. Just leave and don’t come back.”
Before Michael could say a word, Coleman had slammed the door in his face.
The chilly reception hadn’t come entirely as a surprise. Chrissy had warned him her father was a snob who vehemently opposed her dating a high-school kid straight out of juvenile detention.
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