were ready to close up shop, the shop itself had been transformed. Flowers, houseplants, tools, seeds, wreaths, planters, ribbons, garden markers, cachepots, stepping stones, sundials, little frogs and turtles, even a couple of verdigris-finish birdbaths: every available wall, shelf, nook, cranny, and counter was filled. The only thing missing was Sylvia behind a counter, creating her typically whimsical and wonderful floral arrangements in keeping with the season.
"Of course, we've skimmed the best of everything to create this illusion of plenty," said Corinne, counting their money. "In the greenhouses, we've got bupkis."
"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.
Chapt e r 9
"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
"Of course, we've skimmed the best of everything to create this illusion of plenty," said Corinne, counting their money. "In the greenhouses, we've got bupkis."
"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.
Chapt e r 9
"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
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