The Long Road Home (34 page)

Walton focused on Agatha Blair. She sat stiffly in her seat; only her hands moved while they squeezed the ball of her cane. Nora looked from Cornelia to Agatha, then back to Cornelia.

Agatha Blair raised her cane. Cornelia smiled and bid again. The murmurs of the crowd rose in volume. Up came the cane, up again came Cornelia’s hand. Up went the bid. Agatha was
visibly upset. The skin on her face was as taut as a drum. When Agatha raised her cane to make the record bid, she looked ready to club someone with it.

Walton looked to Cornelia. Cornelia Blair Teller gave her head a discreet shake no.

“Sold!” Walton announced with a tremendous pound of his gavel.

The crowd erupted in surprise and delight. People were on their feet, clapping their hands, slapping backs. What a good show; there would be fodder for the gossip mill for months. Men and women who had ignored Nora the day before rushed over to congratulate her now. Nora was in a daze, totally unprepared for the tumult.

Between the squeezing of her palm and the cool kisses on her cheek, she followed with her eyes Cornelia’s path to her husband. No one stood in Cornelia’s way as she wound through the aisles to where Sidney stood, silent and transfixed. Husband and wife met hands and without a word exchanged, walked together, uninterrupted, from the riotous room. Agatha Blair was gone.

Buffeted by well-wishers and gladhanders, Nora finally made her way up to Walton. He hugged her and led her from the throng into the privacy of his office. There, sitting like vultures upon the tapestry chairs, sat her lawyers. Ralph Bellows was noticeably absent.

“Well, gentlemen,” Nora began as she proffered a steely gaze. “Let’s settle our accounts, shall we?”

Agatha strode past Mrs. Baldwin’s odious expression into C.W.’s office with the attitude of a victor surveying her spoils. She paused to study the Rothko abstract on the wall, ran her hand over the Rodin sculpture, then sauntered her way toward C.W., her cane clicking on the wooden floor. Finally, she
settled herself with a satisfied grunt in the deep leather chair opposite his desk, keeping her hands tight upon her ornate cane.

“Son,” she began.

C.W. was sitting in a dark leather chair before the large expanse of his polished mahogany desk. The wood was void of even a single sheet of paper. His eyes coldly swept over her, then he nodded.

“Isn’t it a tad dark in here?” Agatha asked. “Why are the drapes drawn?”

“There’s light enough for this afternoon’s work.”

She smacked her lips, savoring the moment. “I do hope you are not too disappointed that I won the van Gogh instead of Sidney. It was foolish of you to waste your time offering him the same deal. Even though you did send your sister in reserve.”

His eyes narrowed, but he did not move a muscle.

Agatha’s cane lightly tapped the floor. “Yes, yes. Thought you had me there, didn’t you? But the three of you combined could never outwit me.”

C.W. saw the glimmer in her eyes. She was truly enjoying this. He wasn’t. “Let’s get on with the business at hand,” he said wearily.

“Don’t take it so hard,” she said as she pulled out the auction papers from her bag and set them on his desk. After a dramatic pause, she inched the papers toward him with the tip of her polished finger. “You offered your controlling interest of the Blair Bank in exchange for the van Gogh. That was the deal. The deal is done. Here is the van Gogh. Now…”

C.W. leaned back in his chair and brought his fingertips to his lips. Staring over them, he impassively studied her greed and malice.

“Why do you hate me so much?” he asked calmly.

She cocked her head, obviously surprised, perhaps even amused by his question. Then she slowly spoke.

“I hate you because you always had my number. Even as a child, you were lurking, hawking my every move. You even tried to talk your father into divorcing me—of course I knew about that.” Agatha’s fingers tightened around her cane as if she were strangling it. “You never accepted me. Neither did your sister. None of the Blairs did.” She stomped her cane. “Hah! Who needs you?”

Agatha resettled herself in her seat, gathering herself as she looked to her left and her right, finally raising her nose in a haughty stare.

“Enough of this mother-son banter. Here is your painting,” she said, reaching out with her cane and tapping the auction papers atop his desk. “I want
my
stock.”

C.W. slowly ran his finger along his jawline. “The bank, the house, the name if I can help it—nothing will be yours. Nor will it ever be.”

The smile froze on Agatha’s face. “You wouldn’t go back on your word. Not you. Not a Blair.”

C.W. slowly shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t.” Sitting up abruptly, he opened his desk with a sharp pull, took out a pile of papers, and set them in a neat pile atop his desk.

“I had in mind a trade.”

“A trade? What trade!”

“Instead of controlling interest in the bank, I thought you might like to buy my silence instead.”

Like a flustered crow, Agatha spread out her elbows, then brought them tightly back to her sides. “Silence for
what?
” she shrieked.

He took one memo from the top of his pile and eased it toward her. She grasped it from the desk to her face. He saw her eyes widen, then narrow. He watched as her jaw clenched
and her fingers whitened on her cane. She reminded him of a gargoyle he had once seen in Paris.

“Where did you get this,” she hissed.

“Does it matter? What matters, dear stepmother, is that I am in possession of Michael MacKenzie’s private papers and journal. You thought they existed, didn’t you? Sent your minions to search. But they never found them. They were never discovered because MacKenzie’s wife was too smart for the lot of you. She suspected foul play all along and took them as her only protection against your backstabbing maneuvers.”

He flattened his palms upon the papers as he leaned forward. “You led MacKenzie on, creating a web so intricate that neither he nor I knew what was going on. Then, like the black widow you are, when you were done with him, you took everything he had and killed him.”

“He committed suicide.”

“There are many ways to kill a man. I know.”

He leaned back in his chair, but he was clearly angry now. He studied Agatha’s pale face closely.

“You have been caught in your own web, Agatha. What I have here—” he tapped the papers with the tip of his finger “—will not only take everything you have, but it will put you in prison for a very long time.”

“You do that and it will ruin your bank!”

“I doubt it. Shake it up a bit, perhaps. But ruin it? No.”

“But the van Gogh!” she shrieked. “Why the game?”

“Ah…the game. As I said, it wasn’t a game. I knew I would win. You are incredibly avaricious, Agatha. I knew it, and I counted on it to set my strategy.”

Agatha’s voice lowered to a husky whisper. “What strategy?”

“You do play chess, don’t you? Sidney wanted control of the bank. Desperately. He bid up the painting enough to ensure
a fair auction; he was my knight. Cornelia then moved in to push the bidding higher, and the auction into a success; she was my bishop. And Nora, my queen, will now step forward and repay the bank loans, clearing both her name, and my own.”

C.W. leaned far forward over the desk and stared deep into Agatha’s gray eyes. “You do remember those loans, don’t you? The ones you forged my name to?”

Agatha paled and her lips parted.

“It seemed only fitting that you should pay back the money you stole,” C.W. continued, sitting back and screwing the cap to his black fountain pen with quick twists of his wrist. His business was almost completed.

“So now the accounts are balanced, MacKenzie’s debt has been repaid and you, dear Agatha, have purchased a fine painting.”

“My money!” she cried, rising.

“Why, Agatha. You never liked cheap art.”

She began to rail against him, calling him names from the gutter and cursing him, his family, and MacKenzie. But when her slurs turned to Nora, he cut it short.

“Enough!” he called sharply, fixing her with his famous cold stare. She shrank back against the wall.

“Don’t you ever refer to Mrs. MacKenzie in those terms again,” he warned. “In fact, I don’t want her name to be fouled by so much as crossing your lips.”

C.W. paused to collect himself. He was very, very angry and ready to lash out. After a slow breath and straightening his tie, C.W. gathered Agatha’s purse and cane and, politely taking her elbow, steered her across the room. He waited until they reached the door before speaking again in a low voice, careful to enunciate clearly.

“I will not press charges if I have your resignation on my
desk by six tonight. You’re out of the bank. You’re off the board. And, you have one month to clear out of my family home.” He swung wide the door, handing her the auction papers. “Your painting, madam. Study its message well.”

Agatha, seeming dazed, turned slowly and, without another word, left. He heard the faint
click, click, click
of her cane dissipate down the hall, then the velvety swoosh of the elevator, and she was gone.

C.W. lowered his head and released a deep sigh. The deed was done. Yet, he felt no joy in this victory. Revenge was not sweet. God, he thought bitterly. Was he cursed to live out this routine again and again?

He remembered Seth’s words: “God gave us each a field. It’s our job to find a way to live in it.”

C.W. tightened his fist. He’d come too far to return to despair. He’d found his field, and it wasn’t this one. His business here was done—the lot of it. Sidney had been put to the test and passed with flying colors. His sister had proven herself a Blair and stood by his side. She would stand by the bank. Everyone, even old Abe, all had come through. Family and loyalty—that was all that mattered. The rest he could sign away, with a smile on his face. He wanted to go home.

He almost ran to the phone, picked it up, and dialed his sister’s number. Sidney answered.

“Sid, I know it’s short notice. May I come over?”

There was a pained pause. “You’re always welcome in our home.”

“I’ll be right over. Brother.”

C.W. scooped up Mike’s papers and shoved them in his briefcase, grabbed his coat, and raced out the door. He never looked back.

A NOVEMBER RAIN PELTED the windows of Nora’s hotel room, a mean, cold kind of rain that she felt even indoors. Nora rubbed her arms and turned away from the window.
Let the world cry,
she thought bitterly to herself.
I’ve cried enough.

The morning’s weather suited her mood. She closed her suitcase, clicked the latch, and with a heave, hoisted her suitcase from the bed. Then she rang for the bellboy. One more bill to pay, and she was out of New York for good.

The last two weeks had been purgatory, with no heaven in sight. The auction had ended well, thanks to the van Gogh, but not well enough. Her debts were paid and she’d come out of the skirmish with her head high. Yet, personal honor came at a high cost.

That thought brought back to mind the farm and the fifty-two ewes that hadn’t survived. Those that had were unfit to breed. Even a number of her “babies” had died of pneumonia during that freak storm. They just hadn’t made it. Neither had she.

Nora slumped upon the bed and rested her arms upon her
knees. The carpet blurred, yet there were no more tears to fall. The farm felt so far away now. A distant place in another time. Nora understood that life was difficult. Yet she’d always believed that somehow she’d save the farm. She’d believed that she’d found a place, at last, that she could call home. That dream was hard to let go of.

And she had to let it go. The auction hadn’t brought enough capital to cover the looming farm losses. When she could admit it, she didn’t have the heart to start again from scratch without C.W. So she had put the farm on the market and it sold quickly.

It almost killed her to sign the deed. She was glad Seth hadn’t lived to see the sheep dead and the farm sold. Frank and Junior could make arrangements with the new owner; they’d make out all right. Yet, from some deep recess in her mind, Nora knew the old shepherd wouldn’t have quit. Seth would have tried again. “Life is like that,” he would have said with a shrug.

Nora’s cheeks burned. What choice did she have? She had done her best at the farm, and she was through being sorry. It was time to face facts. Without the dream, the farm was just geography. She’d find some place to live—any place—it didn’t matter. She’d get some job. Her life would go on, without childish dreams.

Nora brushed away a lock of hair from her face, along with the thought that the dream had lived with C.W.

“You don’t love him,” she told herself. “You don’t even hate him. You feel nothing for him. Nothing.” She repeated it again and again like a mantra, hoping to convince herself of its truth. But the void left by his absence these past two weeks proved her a liar.

Three knocks sounded on the door. Startled from her bleak
ness, she shot upright. “Come in,” Nora called, wiping her cheeks.

The bellboy stepped in. He seemed so young. She felt so old.

“Here for your bags, ma’am. And,” he added, handing her a large padded envelope, “this came for you.”

“I thought I was finished with all these legal papers,” she muttered, tipping him and taking the package. Reading the return address, she stopped midstride.

“Where did you get this?” she demanded.

“From the front desk,” he answered defensively.

It was from Charles Walker Blair. She ripped it open, spilling out a small green-and-red tin. Bag Balm.

She stared at the tin with wide, disbelieving eyes. Was this some kind of sick joke? Attached by a piece of tape was a small, heavy calling card. She twisted it over, recognizing at once his tight, scrawling script. “Thought you might need this. I do.”

“Should I take these down, Mrs. MacKenzie?” The bellboy’s voice filtered through the layers of her confusion.

“What?” she asked, her voice distant.

“The bags. Should I take them to the lobby?”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Here,” she said, giving him another tip. She looked again at the tin in her hands. “Bring them to the front desk. And please, watch them for me.”

The bellboy left, shaking his head at the dizzy blond. When he counted his tip, however, he called out, “Thanks again!” and whistled down the hall.

“Why is he doing this?” Nora asked herself as she fingered the tin. She refused to believe he might be sincere. He had to be after something. What more could he want from her? She opened the envelope and reached through bits of
torn padding searching for something…anything. Her fingers brushed against a thick fold of paper. Yanking the plain envelope out, she unsealed it and, hands shaking, scanned the papers it held.

Her mouth went dry as she read the papers. It was the deed to her farm, purchased in her name.

Nora tapped the papers against her hand. Thoughts were racing in her head so fast she couldn’t make sense of them, so she had to physically burn off the confusion. A few laps around the peach carpet and she caught hold of one idea—and it stuck fast.

Charles Walker Blair was paying her off. That had to be it. This was her little stipend for a job well done. No strings attached.

In a rush of self-righteous fury she threw the Bag Balm across the room. The little tin bounced from the wall, clattering loudly, popping its lid. Instantly the room reeked of its antiseptic odor.

“Well, Mr. High and Mighty Blair. This is one girl who can’t be paid off. If you think you can ease your conscience this easily, you’ve got another thing coming!”

As Nora drove up to the huge black iron gates of Stoneridge, the edge slipped off her nerve. In the center of the gates, one on each side, the initials C.B. were embellished in an elaborate script. These had to be the initials of the founding father of this dynasty, she thought. Another Charles Blair, no doubt. And now here she was, off to do battle with his heir and namesake. Sitting in her dented Volvo, relatively penniless, she felt shut out by the power and wealth on the other side of those gates. And to think she’d believed Charles Walker Blair was a drifter. He must have had a lark playing the role.

She felt her anger boil again and she stoked the fire. Anger was good now; it gave her courage.

The two imposing letters separated as the gates opened. “Remember who I am,” the bold initials seemed to call in the squeak of moving iron.

“Oh, yes, I remember who you are,” she whispered as she maneuvered past. Her hands tightened on the wheel.

The driveway was not nearly as long or as winding as her road to the big house on the farm. But it was paved and neatly edged by a labor force only considerable wealth could afford. The parade of trees, lined straight and tall like silent sentinels, were bare now. Beyond them, acres and acres of rolling pastures, dotted with horses and cattle, lay exposed to her view. It was incredible that here in the heart of New Jersey, where a small plot of land cost more than most houses alone, rolled a vast tract of prime real estate. The discreet yet significant display of wealth fed her disquiet. It was as though the long, winding driveway was designed to confirm the real distance between the powerful Blairs and the common man.

The gravel changed from gray to red as the drive circled before a stately brick Georgian colonial. The house stood alone. Not a tree or shrub dared to interrupt its isolation. Only in the center of the driveway circle did an immense flower bed hint at life. Yet even this mound was covered now with brittle flower stalks and molded leaves. Nora found the effect mournful. The aura of the whole estate was like the garden: a place of beauty long past its peak of color and vibrancy.

She shuddered in the November wind and clutched at her thin coat, looking again at the frost-bitten landscape. How fitting that she should end her relationship with Charles Blair while the earth lay barren and spent.

The engine was off, the deed was in her hand—there was nothing left to do but confront C.W. for the last time.

“Yes?” asked the waxen-faced, faultlessly neat butler at the stately front door.

“I’m here to see Mr. Charles Walker Blair on personal business. I am Mrs. Michael MacKenzie.”

The butler raised his nose. “I am sorry, madam. But Mr. Blair is not in residence at present.”

Nora chewed her lip. Her phone call to the Blair Bank had confirmed that Mr. Blair had returned home. She was not to be put off by the elusive Mr. Blair again.

“We shall see,” she said through gritted teeth as she pushed past the butler and stomped into the marbled foyer. This was becoming a familiar scene, and as such, she was more bold.

“C.W.! Come out of hiding! Charles Walker Blair, you come face me!” she called, wending through the rooms, head turning and eyes searching. All the while, the butler chased her about like a shadow, not really speaking but muttering something about “most unusual,” and how she’d “really have to leave.” Nora pressed on, striding through the elaborate rooms, calling for C.W.

When she came face-to-face with his visage at the end of a long row of portraits, Nora’s voice caught in her throat. She stood silently before the gilt-framed portrait, gulping back the sudden tears as she gazed upon the likeness of the man she had once loved more than herself. The artist had caught the gentleness that lay behind the steel blue eyes. Only the nose was different. It was as yet unbroken.

“Peacham, who is making such an ungodly racket?”

Nora heard the husky, slurred voice of an old woman echo from the hall, then the tight reply of the butler. “I’m sorry you were disturbed, madam. I’ve already called security. Some woman is here for Mr. Blair.”

Click, click, click.
A cane sounded along the marble, followed
by a shuffling of padded feet. Nora did not move, save for the squaring of her shoulders. As she gazed at C.W.’s portrait, she calmed her nerves, gathered her resolve, and prepared to meet the dread Agatha Blair.

“That won’t be necessary, Peacham. I’ll see the woman.”

“Very good, madam.”

“Well, well, well,” came the heavy voice from behind her. “If it isn’t the indomitable Mrs. MacKenzie.”

Nora’s stomach tightened as she slowly turned toward the voice. She couldn’t abide drunks; their belligerence and vulgarity turned her to stone. Facing Agatha, she saw an old woman stooped at the entry, swaying slightly over her cane. Her cloying perfume filled Nora’s nose, but that scent was overwhelmed by the bitter smell of gin.

“I’m here to see Charles,” Nora said.

“First-name basis, is it? But of course it is,” Agatha slurred with a wobbly wave of her hand. Then her eyes formed two thin crevices on her deeply lined face. “Well, your lover isn’t here. You’ll have to do your gloating elsewhere!” she spat out.

Nora stiffened and marched toward the door.

“Does your revenge taste sweet?” Agatha cried after her. “You got your lover to avenge your husband. Not bad, not bad. I underestimated you.”

Nora stopped dead in her tracks and slowly turned on her heel. Agatha was still facing the portrait of C.W. and seemed to be talking more to him than to her.

“What do you mean?”

“Once you found out that I used your husband, you lured a bigger fish for your rescue. Hah! Even the lofty Charles was a sucker for a blonde.” She shook her head in a drunken swing before rambling on to the portrait.

“I thought MacKenzie’s suicide finished you off. I was a fool.” She spat out the word, ignoring the spittle on her chin. “Well, you got me, you son of a whore. You got me good. And you!” She swung around fast, nearly losing her balance, to face Nora.

“You spurred him on, didn’t you? Showed him those papers against me. Did you whimper and cry? Or did you seduce him first?” Her voice attempted a singsong tone, but it came out like a macabre wail.

“You got your money back from
me
—damn you. Paid your loans back with
my
money. I suppose you think that’s only justice, right?” Her face constricted. “Well, it’s lousy.”

Realization set in. The weight of it caused Nora’s knees to weaken and a fine sweat to form along her brow. “Why Mike?” she asked, breathless.

Agatha turned her head and stared with gimlet eyes.

“Why Mike? Why not?” Agatha snorted. “The Big Mac…Hah! He lost all caution in his lust for power.” She waved her cane around the elaborate, richly appointed room. “He wanted all this! I saw it all over his face, and I used it.

“He was convenient,” she said with a lift of her protruding shoulder blades. “I didn’t care about MacKenzie, you fool. He was cannon fodder for my campaign against Charles. To make the bank mine.”

Her lips lifted to form a sinister smile that sent a chill down Nora’s spine. “And the beauty of it all was that Charles didn’t trust your husband. He saw him for the high roller that he was. Refused him all loans. Oh…” She groaned like one starved before a feast. “I set it all up soooo beautifully. It would have been so perfect.”

Agatha traveled slowly to the sofa and dropped into the deep upholstery. Swinging her ivory-headed cane from left to right between her bony knees, she moaned again, then
muttered to herself in an alcoholic slur, “He took it all away. He took the bank from me. He took this house from me.” Her face hardened, and in that glimmer Nora saw the depth of her hatred for Charles.

“I should have strangled him in the cradle.”

Nora stepped back, so appalled was she by the woman’s bald-faced evil. What C.W. must have endured living with her, growing up with her, calling her Mother.

Nora’s heart lurched. She now heard C.W.’s words to her from a different perspective. “Trust me.” She saw his actions from a new angle. “Trust me.”

My God, she thought in stunned horror. What had she done? He was her knight in shining armor—her champion. He picked up her glove while all others trampled upon it, and she threw it back in his face.

He had signed over the farm to her. This was no act of conscience. It was an act of faith. And of love. She remembered the Bag Balm. She remembered the note. Was there some hope after all?

Nora cast a final glance at Agatha. She looked wizened and spent, sitting there rambling, awash in self-pity. Nora could almost pity her, but then remembered Mike and C.W. and the countless others who had suffered by her quenchless thirst for power.

“Good things come to good people,” Oma had always said. It was true, she knew now. For in the end, Agatha’s spiteful tirade brought Nora her greatest triumph: she knew that C.W. had been trustworthy. She felt free from the worries about money, success or failure that had plagued her all her life. The only thing that grounded her in this life was one man.