A Month at the Shore (12 page)

"We'll get more. Remember
Rhode Island
." Laura was sitting on the counter's edge, swinging her feet and watching her sister
count
. "So—how'd we do, coach?"

Corinne looked up
grinning and
waved a fistful of cash at her. "We scored. This keeps up, we're going to have a blowout of a Founders Week sale. Laura, honestly—we can
make
it," she said excitedly.

"You bet your petunias."

Next up: Kendall Barclay.

"I'm nervous."

"Why? The guy puts his pants on one leg at a time, same as everyone else."

"Oh, Laura. You know what I mean. What if Kendall says no to a loan again? He did once, when Dad asked."

"Then why would he make a point of seeking you out and asking whether you needed help?"

Corinne had no answer to that, so she settled for a pessimistic sigh. She was that kind of woman: one with infinite faith in her own ability to work hard and get the job done, but with little confidence that anyone else would see that strength in her.

They climbed down from the pickup in their Sunday best: Laura was wearing her pretty blue dress with the covered buttons, and Corinne, a simple shift of lavender which flattered the deep tan that came inevitably with the late spring season.

Of the dozen historic buildings that comprised the town center, Chepaquit Savings Bank was the crown jewel: a historic clapboard house, p
ainted barn red and with a gam
brel roof, that two centuries earlier had served as a country tavern.

Its cobbled parking lot was now dotted with cherry trees that were a day or so past their peak bloom, evidenced by the blanket of pink petals that eddied and swirled around the sisters' ankles as they walked up to the paneled front door of the building. It looked like such a friendly bank; it was natural to assume that its officers would be kind.

Laura and Corinne were about to find out. "Here goes nuttin'," Laura said, squeezing down on the heavy brass doorlatch.

Her heart had begun to beat at a different rhythm altogether, and her emotions were a soup mix of fear and fury, regret and longing. When she was thirteen, Kendall Barclay had been her knight, and then he'd pushed her away and had galloped off. Twenty years later, here she was, forced to seek his services again: he was the only knight in town.

Inside, a too-cool woman wearing a forties-look rayon dress, and with a retro hairdo that was parted and kinked and falling over one eye, came out from a small office and asked them if she could be of assistance. She looked like something out of a Hepburn-Tracy film.

"We have an appointment to see Kendall Barclay," said Laura, filling in for her tongue-tied sister.

The assistant's smile was immediate and deferential; apparently not everyone got to see the bank president. She led them through a narrow hall, still floored with wide
, original
planks
the color of butterscotch
and overlaid with a subdued oriental rug, and ushered them through a small anteroom directly into the office of Kendall Barclay himself.

It threw Laura off balance, somehow. She hadn't expected to skip right past the wait-and-be-seated phase.

The bank's president was at a mahogany desk and looking hard at work: the sleeves of his pale blue shirt were rolled up, and his red tie, printed with colorful hot-air balloons, was loosened to allow room for the opened buttons of his shirt.

His smile included them both, but it seemed to Laura that it came back and settled on her, lingering over her dress. She was convinced that he'd been expecting to greet two clodhoppers in overalls and carrying pitchforks.

He came around to the front of his desk to shake their hands. Laura, who had scrubbed her nails during her shower until her skin hurt, was caught and held in his warm, callused grasp. Again she was surprised: he had the grip of a lumberjack.

"Have a seat," he said to her, snatching up the navy blazer that had been thrown across the chair nearest his desk. "The air-conditioning's on the fritz
again. Historic building, lousy systems," he explained. "It's like a sauna in here, I know; sorry about that."

Laura was glad to hear that she wasn't the only one feeling the heat.

Nerdy, geeky, skinny Kendall Barclay. What
happened?
From his squared jaw to his broad, easy grin, he was nothing—nothing!—like the kid who'd gone to her school. She had to force herself not to stare at the new and improved version of him, so she glanced around the room as if she were considering making an offer on its contents, leaving her sister to open with whatever small talk she could scrape together.

In a scarily eager voice, Corinne said, "Y'know
... I remember back when the o
utside of the bank was mustard-
colored! But
... I like the red much better!"

"Thanks for your vote," Barclay said amiably. "After my father died and I took over his desk, I thought it would be useful to do something dramatic—but not too dramatic—to announce it. A color change was all I dared," he added with a wry smile. "I dropped the idea of building a new facility; Chepaquit would never have stood for it. Hence today's sauna."

"Oh, that's all right; we'd rather sweat buckets and have our old bank," Corinne quipped, and then slapped her hand over her mouth, obviously afraid that she'd already said something wrong.

Still smiling, Barclay said smoothly, "I assume that
you'd
like to keep things just the way they are, as well. Keep the nursery a nursery, in other words."

"Yes! And we're doing that, only better. You should see the main shop now. Laura has a real gift. She just
... well! If you could just see
... it's nothing like
... everywhere you look, it's just so really, really
...
full,"
she said, slowing down but nowhere near a halt. "We've
never
looked like that before. Ever! I don't know why. Maybe because we were there so long and couldn't really step back and see. Because you have to have a fresh eye, and Laura went off—I mean, she didn't
really
run off, that's not what I meant, it's more like she just moved—and when she came back, well, she just had a really, really
... fresh
... eye."

She looked ready to burst into tears.

Yikes.

"What I think my sister recognizes is that my brother and I have brought a huge amount of enthusiasm with us to revitalize the nursery," Laura said in a monumental lie. "We have an excellent facility, a perfect location, and we're a brand name in the area." (They were more like a branded name, but never mind.) "All Shore Gardens really needs," she said, "is some simple updating. And then it'll be a landmark facility."

"It's interesting to hear you say that. I've been wondering what would happen now that Mr. Shore has
... passed on," Barclay said, using the old-fashioned phrase.

It annoyed Laura. Did he think they didn't understand that all living things died? They worked in a nursery, for crying out loud. They could handle the word "die."

Turning to Corinne, he said, "I thought maybe you'd be feeling overwhelmed, having so much responsibility now. I didn't realize that your brother and your sister were both returning to help you run the business."

Back to Laura he came, with brows upraised in mild query.

Ah, shit
. Was he just calling her bluff?

"Well, we're here for the foreseeable future, anyway," she said pleasantly. A month was foreseeable enough for her.

She was impatient with their back-and-forthing. If Kendall Barclay was going to kick them out on their butts, she'd rather it were sooner than later. Still in a breezy tone, she said, "We have absolutely no problem generating enough income for the day-to-day running of the business."

The statement made Corinne's eyes pop open, but she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut.

Laura crossed one leg over the other, batted her eyes at the man, and gave him a hint of an ironic smile.

He knew why they were there, obviously, and he was waiting for them to beg. Well, too bad. She'd rather show him her knees than fall on them.

She continued. "There's just one thing that we haven't
quite
got on top of yet."

"The loan from Great River Finance?"

Aha! So he
was
aware of it. She knew it: he was in cahoots with them.

"How did you know about the loan?" Corinne blurted.

Barclay didn't flinch. In fact, his smile seemed completely sympathetic, which Laura also found annoying.

"Can I speak candidly?" he asked.

Corinne nodded almost violently, and he said, "Great River is what's known in the bank business as a predatory lender. We were aware a few years ago that they were going literally from door to door on properties that—I'll be frank—looked as if they could use cash. They offered easy credit but brutal terms.

"Since that time, several properties in the area have defaulted and have had their loans called in. A couple of the owners have come to us to bail them out; but one or two of them just gave up and surrendered their holdings. I wish they hadn't," he added.

I'll bet,
thought Laura. "And yet," she said grimly, "you denied my father a loan when he came to you for one."

Barclay leaned back in his chair and locked his blue gaze on hers. "Yes. I did. I had no choice. Your father refused to have his property appraised, a formality that was required for any loan to be approved."

"Why would he refuse something like that?" asked Corinne, dumbfounded.

Barclay shrugged with his eyebrows. "He was offended that I even dared ask, I think. He lit into me and then stormed out of here."

"My father? Not possible," Laura said dryly.

Barclay's tone was just as dry as he said, "My assistant remembers the day not fondly, but well. As do the tellers. And the security guard."

"I'm sorry," said poor Corinne, bowing her head.

He laughed softly and said, "Good Lord, why? You're not the one who threatened to blow up the bank and teach us all a lesson."

Corinne sucked in her breath. "He
didn't."

But Laura could easily imagine the scene; she had faced the withering blast of her father's temper too many times to be shocked by it. "I'm surprised you didn't have him thrown in jail," she said evenly.

"Oh, I admit I considered it," Barclay said, leaning back a little farther and tapping his fingers on his grand mahogany desk.

He was watching her now, assessing her as carefully as she was him. Their gazes locked. They were in some kind of contest, but Laura had no idea how the game was played or what the prize for winning was. She tried not to notice his square chin, or the faint shadow of his beard, or the way his dark hair threatened to go unruly if he gave it the chance. She tried to see a heartless snob, but all she could see was a rock-solid and very sexy man.

Over a galloping pulse, she said, "You considered having him arrested—but?"

"He was a Shore," Barclay said simply.

Laura started to say something, then saw her sister's warning look and stopped herself.

Ever so briefly. "Ye
s
, well, I remember
your
father," she blurted, picturing the aloof banker as he cut various ribbons at various town functions. "
He
would've called the cops in a heartbeat."

"You may be right. But I'm not my father."

"I can see that. Let me
just
get this straight. You didn't give my father a loan although he was a Shore, but you didn't have him arrested
because
he was a Shore."

"
That's right. Make sense?"

"None at all."

"What can I say?" he said with a sigh. "I try."

"I'm sorry," she said in stiff apology. "I suppose I still have issues where my father is concerned."

"Don't we all."

Was he being snotty or simply candid? Laura couldn't tell. She only knew that she hated borrowing money from this man. It made her feel not only beneath him but beholden to him. She hadn't realized how hard it would be to come to him hat in hand. Until now.

She tried to make it seem as if she were doing him a favor by throwing some business his way. "I assume that your rates are competitive?" she asked.

"As low as a point over prime."

Which was a competitive rate indeed. "Well!
You're
not predatory," she acknowledged with a grudging smile.

His look was both amused and suggestive. "Not usually."

You don't have to be; women must hunt you down,
she couldn't help thinking—because she was damn sure that they weren't talking about money anymore. She wondered
who he was seeing, and then instantly wondered why she was wondering.