The Blackstone Chronicles - By John Saul Page 0,34
vanishing from his voice. “I’ve always felt that this is more than just a bank, Ed. To me, and to my father, and to my grandfather, this bank has been a trust. We never thought it existed just for us. It’s not just a business, like any other. This bank has always been part of the community. A vital, life-giving part. And to keep Blackstone alive over the years, I’ve made a lot of loans that a lot of other bankers might not have made. But I know the people I loan money to, Ed.” He picked up one of the stacks of papers from his desk.
“These are not bad loans.”
The lawyer’s eyes met those of the banker. “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you? It sounds like you should give the auditors what they’re asking for before they start issuing subpoenas.”
Hartwick’s face paled slightly. “They’re talking about subpoenas?”
“Of course they are.”
Hartwick stood up. “I’ll think about it,” he said, but the reluctance was evident in his voice. The material the auditors wanted would show no criminal behavior on his part, but certainly it could be used by anyone who wished to make a case that his banking methods did not always conform to the standards that were currently considered prudent. That, he knew, could easily shift the balance on his Board of Directors, a majority of whom might finally be convinced that it was time that First National of Blackstone—like practically every other little bank in the country—sold out to one of the interstates.
If that happened, rich though he may be, he would no longer be in possession of the one thing he loved most.
Under no circumstances would Jules Hartwick allow that to happen.
He would find a way to keep his bank—and his life—intact.
Oliver Metcalf checked himself in the mirror one last time. It had been years since the last time he’d put on a necktie for dinner—only the very fanciest restaurants down in Boston and New York still required them—but Madeline Hartwick had been very specific. Tonight’s dinner was going to be a throwback to days gone by—all the women were dressing, and all the men were expected to wear jackets and ties. Since he knew as well as everyone else that this was the night Celeste Hartwick and Andrew Sterling were announcing their engagement, he’d been more than happy to comply. His tie—the only one he owned—was more than a little out of date, and even his jacket—a tweed affair that had struck him as very “editorial” when he’d bought it—was starting to look just a bit shabby, now that it was entering its twentieth year. Still, it should all pass muster, and if Madeline began needling him about how a wife might be able to do wonders with his wardrobe, he’d simply smile and threaten to woo Celeste away from Andrew.
Leaving the house, he considered whether it was too cold to walk across the Asylum grounds and follow the path that wound through the woods down to the top of Harvard Street, where the Hartwicks lived. Then, remembering that he’d left the gift he’d found for Celeste and Andrew in his office, he abandoned any idea of walking and got into his car—a Volvo almost as ancient as his tweed jacket.
Five minutes later he slid the car into an empty slot in front of the Blackstone Chronicle and left the engine idling while he dashed inside to pick up the antique silver tray he’d come across last weekend, and which Lois Martin had insisted on rewrapping for him this afternoon. Peering into the large shopping bag where Lois left the tray, Oliver had to admit she’d done a far better job than he: the leftover red and green Christmas paper he’d used had been replaced with a silver and blue design printed with wedding bells, and no ragged edges showed anywhere, despite the cumbersome oval shape of the tray. Scribbling a quick thank-you note that Lois would find first thing in the morning, he relocked the office door, got back in his car, and headed toward Harvard Street. As he slowed to make at least a pretense of obeying the stop sign at the next corner, he saw Rebecca Morrison coming out of the library, and pulled over to the curb.
“Give you a lift?” he asked.
Rebecca seemed almost startled by the offer, but came over to the car. “Oh, Oliver, it’s so far out of your way. I can walk.”