He returned the Thomaston file to the Maine Authentic drawer and decided to treat himself to a brandy, though it was hardly ten a.m. Not that the hour mattered. Virgil liked inventing his own rules, however quietly he might do so. As he always thought, stealth has its advantages. It might not be a strategy they teach in business school (just as well, else it wouldn’t be stealth), but alas, let the race be to those who accumulate the marbles while others pay fees and rates.
Things were falling into place and Virgil was feeling ever more bold this morning. There was the Warren business to suffer through, but he wouldn’t be letting it get under his skin and it would pass. One more call—just to be certain—then he’d leave to be with Beatrice when the call came from the bank. But first, the brandy (and another, if he felt like it) because he was certain the bank would carry the note. How could they not? Everyone would benefit, and the strings were neatly tied. York National would make money, he and Beatrice would make money, and the note would be paid off in five years—while the contract with the state (to be sure) was renewable. A no-lose deal all the way around. He had stitched it together himself just before leaving office, and the key innovation was that note and contract would be held by Beatrice. She would be entirely on her own and would fly ever higher. Could anyone have had a more successful apprentice, or been more fulfilled as a mentor? Besides all else she was to him, Beatrice was like a fond offspring being handed the reins of a family enterprise. Virgil admired legendary families that built empires lasting generations, and only wished, here in his own senior years, that their names were the same. Had fate been on their side, he and Beatrice would be priming children of their own to assume roles in such a family. Imagine the lineage they might have produced! That it wasn’t so was one of his deepest disappointments.
His offices were above Kittery Pizza on Route 1 with a wall of canopied windows framing a wide-angled view of Portsmouth Harbor and the Route 1 Memorial Bridge to the south. The offices might be described as modest at best. But for the graphite Mercedes in the four-space lot outside, the view of the wide river mouth between Maine and New Hampshire was the only suggestion of privilege, though the square footage—above an aromatic pizza parlor or not—might appear excessive for what Virgil occasionally referred to as a one-man operation.
One man and one or two extraordinary women, he thought, sipping his drink and gazing over his small corner of the world. Give him an extraordinary woman every time as a secret weapon. It was immigrants in the past; now it was women surfacing after having been suppressed for years. Ordinary looking, dedicated, smart. More than just willing, they worked three times as hard as others. That was Beatrice, for sure, though for the moment he was thinking of Janet Derocher, presently in the outer office with its lesser view of Route 1 and the seafood wholesaler across the road. Janet was also worth her weight in gold. They were women of such competence and personality that, set loose, they could compete with the cream of the crop in any brand-name corporation. (Not Marian, he was afraid, nor his wife or daughters, nor most of the women coming and going in the world around them.) Still, there was an untapped resource in those who were gifted because men, and women, too, had for so long measured them through narrow lenses. They were women who were often modest and unaware themselves of the gifts with which they had been blessed. The self-important among them usually proved foolish, while the diamonds-in-the-rough, the Beatrices and Janets, were usually self-effacing. Stealth and boldness were rarely in their quivers, and maybe there was a reason for the glass ceiling, but pound for pound those certain unassuming women would leave many executives scrambling to add up yesterday’s bottom line. It was a little secret that wasn’t necessarily dirty and one he should point out to Beatrice for the future—though how might he do so without indicating her own daughter might not have the goods? (Unless he was wrong about Marian, which he wished he was.)
Champagne—of course! He’d sneak a bottle into the store and when the call came from the bank, he’d rally Marian, and others, and toast Beatrice for gaining the unique new inventory. What could be more authentic, he’d say, than hand-crafted breadboards, toys, salad bowls, bagel racks, laminated birdhouses, and utensils made of pine, spruce, cedar, and made—exclusively—within the Maine state prison system! Who could be more authentic than Beatrice Hudon with her exclusive contract!
She’d be thrilled by a champagne toast and deserved to be, Virgil thought. It was an amazing coup and would bring in thousands down through the years. Tens of thousands. The ash/maple, red/blond bookends alone would become heirlooms, and it was clear already that customers would not be able to resist what Beatrice was calling “melodies in wood grain carved by the hands of stricken souls.”
On the telephone with Jay Shute, Virgil liked how the young banker addressed him: “Senator, the board gave unanimous approval without hesitation.” Virgil gave a little fist pump with his free hand.
“Mr. Shute, could you do me a small favor?” he asked. “Wait forty minutes before you call Mrs. Hudon with the news. I’d like to be there for a little celebration when the call comes in. Then, sometime after lunch, we’ll pick up the paperwork. This is something she’s worked hard for.”
“No problem, Senator. I’ll call Mrs. Hudon at eleven, how would that be?”
“Excellent.”
Life can be a treat, Virgil thought as he inventoried his schedule before leaving. Do your work, maintain your mind-set, keep your ducks in a row—have sense enough to enjoy small successes—and life can be a bowl of truffles. He finished his second brandy, rinsed the glass in the adjoining washroom, and told Janet on the way out that he should be back by around three-thirty.
“Remind me to give you a raise before the end of the year—would you?” he said.
Her face angled his way. “Mr. Pound, thank you.”
“You deserve it. Every investment and property on the books is looking great this year, and it’s due in no small part to your sharp eye.”
“That is nice to hear.”
“After the first of the year we’ll get you started in some accounts of your own, so you can be building a future, too.”
“I’d like that, Mr. Pound. Thanks for thinking of me like that. I’d like that a great deal.”
“Want to keep you around,” Virgil said, on which note, smiling, he closed the door and went on his way. He certainly did want to keep her around, he thought as he clipped down the outdoor stairway. As with Beatrice, few things gave him so much satisfaction anymore as having a hand in someone catching on in life. Especially a woman coming into awareness of untapped skills and intelligence—another of his little secrets that was in no way dirty. In twenty years’ time Janet could be on her own, too, and down through the years everyone in her family might realize the benefits of her industry and good sense.
Given the luck of a certain mentor, he reminded himself.
Spotting Marian behind a cash register, Virgil entertained his old doubts about her. He saw her try to smile at an oblivious customer and realized she was half-stricken. Noticing him, she indicated with a nod that her mother was in the office to the rear. The time of the call from the bank was ten minutes away, and Virgil signaled to Marian to confer with him to the side, while a thought entering his mind was to bypass Marian altogether—her problems were already wearying—and proceed with the toasting of her mother on his own. He didn’t; without making eye contact, looking past her hair, he told of the loan going through, the call being on its way and, indicating his parcel, having champagne with which to make a toast. “Imported,” he said.
“She’ll love that,” Marian said. “Only there’s something else that has to be dealt with—but it’s okay.”
Virgil knew at once that it had to be more news of Warren, and his heart sank. “Did you talk to the doctor?”
“He’s got lung cancer. He may have only weeks or days. He’s done nothing. No, I haven’t talked to the doctor.”
“You all right?”
“I’m trying, I’m doing okay.”
“It’s that far along? How’s your mother doing?”
Marian made an expression, and Virgil could see a darkness in her eyes from weeping. “She’s okay,” Marian said. “I’m supposed to see him tonight. Maybe I’ll get a better handle on what’s happening.”
“Well, the account’s gone through—I have this champagne for a little celebration. Should we go ahead with it? It may be awkward timing, but it’s something your mother’s worked on for two years.”
“We should do it. As for my father, he wants to meet with her, to ask some favor—to meet with you, too, I guess—and she’s worried.”
“Well, let’s do what we have to do. C’mon back in a minute, and we’ll drink a little toast. You didn’t tell Ron?” he added.
Marian shook her head, appearing undone by the question, and Virgil patted her shoulder. “Poor thing, you’ve had a lot coming your way, haven’t you,” he said.