“Spitfire,” that’s what my dad called women like her, and it was not meant as a compliment. Too ambitious and brash. But I’m enamored. There’s a photograph at the end of the exhibit of her in front of an easel set up in the living room of the house, along with a caption: “Agatha Lawrence died in the Lawrence House at the age of sixty-seven. She was the last surviving member of the family.” I stand in front of it for a long time, transfixed by the curious expression on her face, the bright red hair; wondering if she felt afraid the day she died, alone in her study.
The alarm on my watch chimes loudly, my reminder that happy hour with Sam starts in forty-five minutes. I head for the door, eager to go home and see him. He’ll want to hear all about my day.
Chapter 9
Sam takes a step forward in line, giddy, the paperwork signed by his mother on Rushing Waters letterhead tucked under his arm. There’s one bank teller—a girl in her twenties with auburn curls and a face full of freckles. She chews her bottom lip as she waits for the woman at the counter to fish her ATM card out of her wallet. Sam shifts back and forth, impatient. The bell rings. He steps forward and clears his throat.
“I’m here to close an account and place it in my name. I have this document—” He slides the letter toward her.
“I can help you with that,” she says, shooting him a bright smile. He keeps his eyes on her face, away from her blouse, where the buttons are battling it out in a magnificent tug-of-war across her breasts. Don’t do it, Sam. Don’t look down. She scans the paperwork, turns to her keyboard. “You got your Halloween costume ready?” she asks, her long pink fingernails click-clacking across her keyboard.
Sam smiles, the response he would have once offered on the tip of his tongue. No, but I like yours. Hot bank teller. Very clever.
“Not yet,” he says instead. In his mind he’s already on his way to the Parlor, where he’s scheduled to meet Annie in twenty minutes. She doesn’t know that the letter arrived. She wasn’t home when the mail came, and he opened the letter standing at the mailbox, feeling the weight lifting. Finally. A letter was included from a physician on staff, saying he had deemed Margaret of sound mind. Relieved, Sam went inside and wrote checks to the credit card companies before calling the Parlor to reserve the table in the back and a bottle of the 2009 Chateau Palmer Margaux with notes of graphite and licorice and a $150 price tag.
Sam reaches for a mini Snickers from the bowl next to the cup of pens as a piece of paper shoots out of the printer. The girl sets it down in front of him. He feels obscenely awkward; surely she’s not accustomed to people walking in here worth $2 million. But her expression is immobile, and he has to hand it to her. She’s a real pro.
“Okay,” she says with a wink when he finishes signing. “You want this in cash?”
He laughs. “Definitely. Maybe you can dump it all into a few large trash bags?”
She laughs along and then hesitates, unsure. “You serious? You want cash?”
“No,” he says. “Cashier’s check is fine.”
She taps the keyboard again as he feels a rise of excitement.
“All set,” the girl says, sliding a check toward him.
$274.18.
“This isn’t right.” He looks up at her, panic surging through his body like a jolt of adrenaline. “It’s um . . . more.”
She returns to the screen. “Let me see.” She traces a finger down the screen, checking the tally. “Sorry, you’re right.” He exhales, relieved. “I should have explained that we recently started charging four dollars to close an account. Wish there was something I could do, but it’s programmed in here automatically.” She leans forward and lowers her voice. “Banks, man. They sure do know how to screw the little guy. Anyway, that explains the discrepancy.” She shoots him a bright smile. “Anything else we can help you with today? We’re offering a pretty good deal on a new Visa.”
“No, I think that’s it,” he says, his voice wobbly.
“Well, thank you for banking at NorthStar, and oh—here.” She pulls a Tootsie Pop from a drawer and slides it to him. “It’s my birthday. I’m giving these out.”
“Thank you.” He takes the lollipop and turns around, barely making it to a chair in the waiting area. He’s having a hard time breathing and his palms are tingly and he has to remind himself that the impending sense of death isn’t real. He’s experiencing the symptoms of a panic attack. Which is unnecessary, because there’s an explanation for this. There has to be. Another account with a different number, maybe. Something in his father’s name.