CHAPTER THREE

 

The room spun dizzily as Claire gripped the paper, trying to make sense of it. The notice had been sent two weeks ago. Why hadn’t her father taken care of it? "How can they foreclose? We own Bellefleur!” At the housekeeper’s silence, Claire looked up. “Isn’t that true?”

"Your father, God rest his soul," Mrs. Parks said, pausing to dab her eyes, "took out a mortgage to pay his debts. But he hadn't made a payment in six months.”

"There can’t be debts,” Claire argued. “He had money. He always had money."

Mrs. Parks shook her head. “There hasn’t been any money for a long time, dear.”

"Then how could he afford to pay for my college, or Emily's school?” Claire demanded. “How could he afford to pay the farmhands?"

"From the loan, but that money is long gone."

Mrs. Parks had to be wrong. Claire marched straight to her father's study, sat in his leather chair, and began to rummage through the desk drawer. Pulling out his ledger, she opened it to the last page and scanned the entries. "This can't be right," she said aloud.

She found his bank book and opened it, then let it drop into her lap. Closing her eyes, she took slow breaths, forcing herself not to panic.

When she opened them again, Mrs. Parks stood in the doorway, leaning on her cane. “What are we going to do, Claire?”

"There has to be a mistake," Claire said. “Surely he has money someplace.”

"He lost it all," the housekeeper replied sadly. "Promoters came through last summer looking for investors for oil wells. That’s when your father took out the mortgage, even though he knew it was purely speculation. When they didn’t find oil, he lost the money.”

"It’s not possible," Claire stated, trying to stem her rising hysteria, "that he lost all his money that way. He was too smart to invest everything he had on mere speculation."

Her strength waning, Mrs. Parks found a chair and sat down. "Your father was never the same after your mother died. And when you girls left home, it was like losing Marie all over again. He was lonely, and he took risks he shouldn’t have.”

“But he had to have known the bank would foreclose if he didn’t make payments. Surely they sent him letters warning him about missing payments.”

“They did, but he wouldn’t open them. You know how he hated that Reginald Boothe. He said the banker was plotting against him.” Fresh tears began to fall. "Where am I going to live, Claire? I’m too old to find a new position.”

“You won’t need a new position,” Claire insisted sharply. “Your home is with us. And our home is here. No one is going to take it away from us.”

“But how are we going to keep it?”

Claire propped her elbows on the big cherry desk and rested her aching head in her hands. She couldn’t think what to do. Why wasn’t her father there? How dare he leave her this mess!

The letter! Claire lifted her head to stare out the window, trying to remember what her father had said in his last letter. But all she could remember was that he had discovered something that would secure their future. She began to search through the papers scattered about his desk. There had to be a document that would tell her what the discovery was.

An envelope caught her eye, but it was from Emily's school. "What is this about?" she asked, and pulled it closer.

The housekeeper looked confused. "I don’t remember."

Claire pulled out a letter, scanned it, then looked up at Mrs. Parks in shock. "Hawkins won't take Emily back unless we pay her tuition. Wasn't it paid?"

"Oh, mercy me. Emily’s tuition was paid only through last December. Your father hasn't been able to make a payment since then."

“Then Emily can’t go back to school.” Claire stared blankly at the window. Hawkins School for the Blind had been a life-saver for Emily. Though she loved her sister dearly, the girl was a handful. Blindness did not deter her once her mind was made up. But at Hawkins, Emily was safe. There she was studying Braille, learning to be self-sufficient and to behave like a lady. What would she do if she couldn’t go back?

Claire pushed up on unsteady legs and headed for the kitchen. "I'll make tea," she said numbly.

 

Sitting across the desk from the bank president, Tyler studied Reginald Boothe's plans for a private dock. So far he liked what he saw, as well as what Boothe had to say. He glanced at Jonas, who seemed unusually dour.

"Gentlemen, what do you think?" Boothe asked.

Tyler let his gaze move slowly from the rolled out blueprints to Boothe's face. Though the banker appeared quite calm, Tyler's skill at poker had taught him how to read eyes, and right now he knew Boothe was nearly panting for his approval. But Tyler held all the aces and he intended to keep it that way.

"It seems adequate," Tyler replied in a noncommittal voice. "When do we get to look at this property?"

"Right now if you'd like," the banker told him.

Tyler glanced at Jonas, got his nod of approval, then rolled up the plans and got to his feet. "Let's go."

Outside, they had to wait for a funeral procession to pass before they could cross to Boothe's buggy. It occurred to Tyler that the funeral was probably for Claire's father – but he was about to make the most crucial business decision of his life; Claire's problems did not concern him.

As they drove north through town, Tyler noted that most businesses were situated along Grand: the bank, a pawn shop, a telegraph office, the general store, a barber shop, a ladies’ clothier, and two churches. Smaller businesses were located on the two main cross streets. On the outskirts of town they turned west on River Road, heading down to the river.

"I own this parcel of land on the left," Boothe explained. "It used to be part of the Bellefleur estate, but the owner sold it to pay off debts. As you can see, the land doesn't extend down to the water. Per the deal, I'd deed it to you. You can build a house on it, if you'd like."

Most of Tyler’s time was spent on the LADY LUCK since he had never been able to tolerate being tied to one place. Yet he wouldn’t mind having a winter home, and one close to the new docks would be handy. "I'll take that into consideration," he replied.

Boothe stopped the buggy at the river and stepped down. Tyler and Jonas followed him onto a small dock used for shipping crops. "Imagine, if you will," Boothe said, turning to face them, "what you saw in the plans: slips for twenty boats, a large dock, and plenty of space for buggies to park or turn around."

Tyler studied the terrain. The flat bottom land stretched for a good half mile along the river, perfect for his needs. From there it rose steadily in a sweep of green to a summit where a large, elegant limestone house stood. "What about the house?"

"It would make a perfect inn," Boothe declared. "I'd put a fine restaurant in it, too. Down here, near the docks, I'd build a row of shops for the tourists."

"Does anyone live there?"

"Just an old woman and two girls," Boothe assured him, "but they'll be moving out soon."

Tyler turned back to the water, envisioning his boat moored along a new dock. He’d never felt so close to fulfilling his dream. His excitement bubbled just below the surface, where no one could see it.

"Do we have a deal?" Boothe asked.

Tyler looked at Jonas, keeping his tone casual. "Any questions or comments?"

Turning slightly, Jonas said in a low voice, "I’ve got an uneasy feeling about this, Ty."

“Boothe is a savvy banker,” Tyler quietly assured him. “He wouldn’t sink his own money into a frivolous pursuit.” Then again, all Tyler really knew about the man was that he had the money to put into the project and that he ran the most profitable bank in the county. He had heard the banker was ruthless in his business dealings, but what successful businessman wasn’t? Tyler looked back at the large home on the hill. His common sense told him to sign the agreement. Yet he knew if he didn’t heed Jonas’s warning, he’d never hear the end of it. Turning to the banker, Tyler said, "We'll need another day. I want to look over the agreement again."

Boothe's thin lips stretched into a semblance of a smile. "I'm afraid I’ll need to know today. I have someone willing to accept the deal right now as it stands. I'd hate to lose him while you're trying to make up your mind and then have you back out."

Tyler returned the smile. "I'll let you know tomorrow before noon."

Boothe rubbed his chin, as though pondering the offer. Tyler calmly held his ground. The banker was too eager for this deal to haggle over a few more hours.

"All right," Boothe said at last. "I'll wait until noon. Shall we head back?"

Tyler took a last look around and, with a smile of satisfaction, started back for the buggy. Bellefleur was perfect. If all went well, he’d realize his dream before the year was over.

 

Claire heard the cocks crowing and slowly came awake. For a moment she half expected Mrs. Parks to come in and tell her that her father was already at the breakfast table. But then she remembered: he had been buried yesterday.

She turned her head toward the dressing table against the wall, where she kept a portrait of her mother and father. They were together now. Her father was happy at last.

But she was alone, with a blind sister and an elderly woman depending on her to save their home. And if she managed to save it, how would she run it? She pressed her fingers to her temples. Why didn’t you teach me, Papa? Didn’t you trust me?

The truth was that Arthur Cavanaugh had trusted very few people. He had run the entire estate himself, including the bookkeeping, refusing to rely on foremen or land managers.

Yet Claire knew it wasn’t that her father hadn’t trusted her. He had merely wanted to take care of her, to insulate her from ever again having to worry about finances. Indeed, the sum total of her responsibilities had been to graduate from college. After that it had been presumed she would marry, when her husband would assume the role as provider.

Ask Lance for help, she could hear her father saying. He’ll take care of you.

That thought should have reassured her. Instead, it stirred something inside her, something foreign and rebellious, that felt oddly like resentment. But Lance was her fiancé. Why shouldn’t he help her?

She recalled the conversation they’d had before she’d left to go home. After packing hurriedly, Claire had rushed to see Lance, holding the telegram tightly in her hand.

“What happened?” he’d asked in alarm.

Claire had showed him the message. She’d spoken quickly, her throat aching from holding back her grief. “My father has died. I have to leave.”

“Before finals? You won’t graduate.”

“I’ll have to come back for the summer session. It doesn’t matter if I graduate in May or in August. I have to go home.”

“What does this mean?” Lance had pointed to the second line. “Is your house to be sold?”

“That has to be a mistake.”

“Your inheritance isn’t in jeopardy, is it?” he’d asked.

“No! My father has always provided for me, and always will.”

He had seemed to relax then. “That’s a relief - - for you.”

“I wish you could come with me.”

Lance had smiled and put an arm around her shoulders. “You’ll be fine; you’re a strong woman. And as soon as graduation is over, I’ll come out.”

Claire frowned at the ceiling in her bedroom. For the first time, she began to wonder whether it was she or her inheritance that had attracted him.

Startled, she flung back the covers and slid out of bed. Why was she questioning Lance’s feelings now? She had no time to waste on such foolish doubts. Only four days remained in which to stop the foreclosure. Her first priority was to find a document or letter that would tell her what her father had discovered. She chose a serviceable gray plaid dress, washed and changed quickly, and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

The coldness and emptiness of the once-cheerful room stunned her. Yellow-and-white calico curtains still hung at the windows, and a yellow checked cloth still covered the long table in the center of the large room. But no fire crackled in the big black stove, no slices of juicy ham sizzled in the frying pan, no pungent coffee permeated the air. Instead the stove was cold, and the chill morning air smelled only of rain.

Claire looked around. Where did Mrs. Parks keep the coffee? She opened the pantry just as the housekeeper hobbled slowly into the kitchen, leaning heavily on her cane.

"I'll see to breakfast," the woman assured her. "Sit yourself down, dear."

From years of habit, Claire started to pull out a chair. But Mrs. Parks was in no condition to wait on her. “I’ll help you,” she offered. She would have to see about hiring kitchen help.

After a quick breakfast, Claire began a thorough search of the study. When that proved futile, she investigated her father’s bedroom. Finding nothing in his bureau, she opened the door of his closet and stepped inside. Standing on her toes to see the very top shelf, Claire spied the mahogany jewelry box she was looking for. Stretching as high as she could, she inched it off the shelf and took it to the bed. Inside she found the four gray cases containing her mother’s jewelry: diamond earbobs, a long strand of pearls, an amethyst brooch, and a large emerald-and-diamond pendant on a glittering gold chain.

Claire dangled the pendant between her fingers, watching the diamonds sparkle in the morning light. Her father had given it to her mother as a gift when Emily had been born. The diamond earbobs had belonged to her Grandmother Cavanaugh, and mama had worn the pearls at her wedding.

Now they were hers -- but she had to be practical. The emerald-and-diamond pendant alone would provide enough money to pay off the mortgage. The other pieces would keep the farmhands paid until after the crops were in. If she couldn’t find out what her father had discovered, she would have to sell the jewelry.

"Cee Cee, what are you doing?" Emily asked, as she came across the room

"Looking at Mama's jewelry," Claire replied guiltily.

Emily picked up each piece, examining it with her fingers. “They must be very beautiful.” She rubbed the smooth stone of the brooch against her cheek. "How cold this stone feels,” she said with a shiver. “It makes me sad. Why are you looking at them?"

"I - I'd forgotten what they looked like."

"I wonder why Pa never showed them to me?" Emily asked.

"Perhaps it was too painful a reminder." Claire packed the jewelry away, hoping to put an end to the subject.

"I'll bet Pa would want you to wear the pearls and earbobs at your wedding," Emily said, "as long as Rancid Lanced keeps his paws off them."

Claire shoved the box onto the closet shelf. "Stop calling him that."

“He reminds me of a skunk.”

“You haven’t given him a fair chance. Lance is charming and handsome and --” She turned around, only to find her sister had gone.

Although Emily had insight far keener than most people’s, Claire disagreed with her assessment of Lance and chalked it up to jealousy.

She agreed with her sister about one thing, however. She should wear the pearls and earbobs at her wedding, and Claire hoped she wouldn’t have to sell such treasures. Hoping for a clue to her father’s mysterious discovery, she returned to her room and took his letter out of her valise. Her eyes welled with tears as she read it.

My dearest Cee Cee,

How I wish you and Emily were here now to share the joy of my discovery with me. I dare not share it with anyone until I confirm it, so I will save the news as a surprise for your graduation, for it directly benefits your future. I will only say that the discovery is incredible good luck. Little did my forefathers know how fortuitous their land acquisition would be. God bless you and keep you safe until I see you again.

Your loving father”

She was sure that it was connected to their land. After another search of the house proved futile, all Claire could think to do was to plead with the bank for more time. She prayed she could do it without having to see Reginald Boothe.

 

"I'm sorry, Claire." Charlie Dibkins, a clerk at the bank, gave her a sympathetic smile. "Once the notice of foreclosure is sent out, there's no reprieve. It's Mr. Boothe's policy."

Of course it would be Mr. Boothe's policy, Claire thought angrily. The man had a heart of stone. She sat in the straight-backed wooden chair opposite Charlie’s small desk in the enormous lobby of the Fortune Farmer’s Bank and slowly tapped her shoe against the oak floor. What would her father do in such a situation? He wouldn't give up, that was for sure -- especially when Reginald Boothe was involved. She studied Charlie, thinking hard.

She and Charlie had been schoolmates; he'd even had a crush on her at one time. Surely a little feminine persuasion could convince him to intercede on her behalf. "Charlie," she said softly, "you know I came back for my father's funeral yesterday. If the bank takes away our home, Emily and I will have nowhere to go. Won't you please help us?"

The young man gazed at her with large, limpid eyes. "I wish I could, Claire, but I don't have the authority. The most I can do is get you in to talk to Mr. Boothe -- though it won't do any good." Charlie leaned close to whisper, "A colder man I've never met."

The last person she wanted to see was Reginald Boothe. Yet she had to have more time. "I'd like to see Mr. Boothe now please."

"Now?" Charlie ran a finger underneath his collar. "I don't know if he can see you right now, Claire."

“It has to be now.” Before I lose courage. Rising, Claire sailed toward the staircase.

"Wait!" Charlie called, scurrying after her. "You can't just walk into Mr. Boothe's office!"

Claire started up the stairs with her former schoolmate on her heels. He passed her at the top and barricaded her from his employer's door with outspread arms.

"I can't let you do this, Claire. He'll be furious with me for letting you up here."

"Stand out of my way, Charlie."

"All right, all right! I'll ask him if he'll see you."

"Don't ask, tell. It’s imperative that I see him now! And I won't take no for an answer."

Charlie put out both hands as if to ward her off. "Stay right here, Claire. And promise me you won't do anything rash."

She nodded, then let out her breath, proud of herself for taking a stand. I’m not the only Cavanaugh who can be ornery, she thought, lifting her chin high in the air.

She hoped her newfound courage worked as well on Reginald Boothe.