word
out
.
I said, “Doesn’t he know?”
“He knows, I know. Nobody else. The board gave him two weeks this morning. I don’t know anything about the new guy, but he’s got something of a reputation as a shark. Thirty-seven.” Bart was in his fifties. I drew my chair toward him and leaned in. I thought we were good enough friends for me to say, “What about you? Did they—uh, pass over you?”
He leaned even closer to me. He said, “Thank God they did.” He shook his head and put his finger to his lips. I sat back. I have to say I was surprised, because we never heard a single rumor about Portsmouth Savings. He said, “Anyway, bring me the papers before you go anywhere else. I’d like to see them, and there’s a long lead time.”
“And we could sell it to someone from California and get rich.”
“I’d like to be in on that too,” said Bart.
I decided afterward that his gloom had nothing to do with me or the farm. He had worked with Frank Perkins for seventeen years, a nice man who was on every charitable board in the county. Frank had brought Portsmouth Savings through the Carter years intact. It was just another example of how you never knew.
In the meantime, I had three units of Glamorgan Close, Phase Four, presold, one two-bedroom on Mary Crescent, a three-bedroom on Elizabeth Court, and another three-bedroom on Anne Court. The buyers had seen the plans, walked around the property, and put a little money down. I had promised that they would be walking through the models by the first of July and picking carpet colors and paint shortly thereafter. I advertised Phase Four in the
Marlboro County Shopper
and the
Portsmouth Herald
.
Felicity had called me at the office several days after our first encounter, asked how I was feeling, apologized for perhaps taking advantage of my good nature, and said she found the idea of a closer friendship with me very appealing. She was utterly matter-of-fact. She said, “You know, I do what I want most of the time, and I don’t investigate my own motives very well, but I do recognize that the world we live in requires me to cover my tracks as the price of freedom. I’m willing to do that. Hank says I am a building block of nature: can’t be controlled, can’t be divided, can’t be understood, can only be observed.” Right then, standing in my office, listening to her voice and gazing out the window at my picket fence and the traffic passing on the other side of it, I had a true experience of freedom, which I can only describe as a physical sensation of release without any previous sensation of tightness. I felt myself breathe and smile without knowing I had not been breathing or smiling. There was nothing I was obliged to do about Felicity.
I said, “I would like to observe you more closely myself, Felicity.”
“There we go. Agreed. Days and times random, possibly infrequent, though.”
“That’s fine.” And it was. That was our contract. Sometimes lunch, sometimes a chat on the phone, sometimes a visit in the office when Bobby wasn’t around. Once she came along when I went out to look at some houses, and that was the best time, driving around the countryside in perfect weather for four or five hours. We didn’t stop or visit any beauty spots or do anything romantic. We lunched on sandwiches and Cokes that I bought at a country deli, and we conversed: Sherry, Bobby, her sons, Sally, Gordon, Betty, the job she had had until the place (a framing gallery) had closed and she hadn’t bothered to find another one. She had a knack for telling funny stories on herself—how she bought a bikini without trying it on, and when she went to wear it she put one leg through the waist and another through a leg hole, and then when she pulled it up, she couldn’t figure out why it was so tight and lopsided until she came out of the locker room and one of her sons told her she had it on sideways. How when she and Hank had been dating for over a year, he shaved his
out
.
I said, “Doesn’t he know?”
“He knows, I know. Nobody else. The board gave him two weeks this morning. I don’t know anything about the new guy, but he’s got something of a reputation as a shark. Thirty-seven.” Bart was in his fifties. I drew my chair toward him and leaned in. I thought we were good enough friends for me to say, “What about you? Did they—uh, pass over you?”
He leaned even closer to me. He said, “Thank God they did.” He shook his head and put his finger to his lips. I sat back. I have to say I was surprised, because we never heard a single rumor about Portsmouth Savings. He said, “Anyway, bring me the papers before you go anywhere else. I’d like to see them, and there’s a long lead time.”
“And we could sell it to someone from California and get rich.”
“I’d like to be in on that too,” said Bart.
I decided afterward that his gloom had nothing to do with me or the farm. He had worked with Frank Perkins for seventeen years, a nice man who was on every charitable board in the county. Frank had brought Portsmouth Savings through the Carter years intact. It was just another example of how you never knew.
In the meantime, I had three units of Glamorgan Close, Phase Four, presold, one two-bedroom on Mary Crescent, a three-bedroom on Elizabeth Court, and another three-bedroom on Anne Court. The buyers had seen the plans, walked around the property, and put a little money down. I had promised that they would be walking through the models by the first of July and picking carpet colors and paint shortly thereafter. I advertised Phase Four in the
Marlboro County Shopper
and the
Portsmouth Herald
.
Felicity had called me at the office several days after our first encounter, asked how I was feeling, apologized for perhaps taking advantage of my good nature, and said she found the idea of a closer friendship with me very appealing. She was utterly matter-of-fact. She said, “You know, I do what I want most of the time, and I don’t investigate my own motives very well, but I do recognize that the world we live in requires me to cover my tracks as the price of freedom. I’m willing to do that. Hank says I am a building block of nature: can’t be controlled, can’t be divided, can’t be understood, can only be observed.” Right then, standing in my office, listening to her voice and gazing out the window at my picket fence and the traffic passing on the other side of it, I had a true experience of freedom, which I can only describe as a physical sensation of release without any previous sensation of tightness. I felt myself breathe and smile without knowing I had not been breathing or smiling. There was nothing I was obliged to do about Felicity.
I said, “I would like to observe you more closely myself, Felicity.”
“There we go. Agreed. Days and times random, possibly infrequent, though.”
“That’s fine.” And it was. That was our contract. Sometimes lunch, sometimes a chat on the phone, sometimes a visit in the office when Bobby wasn’t around. Once she came along when I went out to look at some houses, and that was the best time, driving around the countryside in perfect weather for four or five hours. We didn’t stop or visit any beauty spots or do anything romantic. We lunched on sandwiches and Cokes that I bought at a country deli, and we conversed: Sherry, Bobby, her sons, Sally, Gordon, Betty, the job she had had until the place (a framing gallery) had closed and she hadn’t bothered to find another one. She had a knack for telling funny stories on herself—how she bought a bikini without trying it on, and when she went to wear it she put one leg through the waist and another through a leg hole, and then when she pulled it up, she couldn’t figure out why it was so tight and lopsided until she came out of the locker room and one of her sons told her she had it on sideways. How when she and Hank had been dating for over a year, he shaved his
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