legs, crossed them at the ankles. “We don’t know what sort of a thing either of us has in mind at this stage. Me, I enjoy a meal now and again, and find I enjoy one more in good company.”
“I don’t date.”
“Is that a religious obligation or a societal preference?”
“It’s a personal choice. Now …” Because he looked to be settling in, entirely too comfortably, she got to her feet. “I’m sorry, but I have to get started on my day. I’m already behind schedule.”
He rose, watched her eyes go wide and watchful when he shifted just an inch closer. “Somebody roughed you up plenty, didn’t they?”
“Don’t.”
“That’s just the point, Tory.” Because he didn’t care to have her flinch away from him, he eased back. “I wouldn’t. Thanks for the coffee.”
He walked to his truck, pausing to turn back when he’d opened the door. He gave her a good long stare, figuring it would do them both good for her to get used to it. “I was wrong,” he called out as he climbed in the cab. “You’re just as pretty today.”
She smiled before she could help herself, watched him grin before he backed out of the lane.
Alone, she sat back down. “Oh hell,” she muttered, and stuffed more cake into her mouth.
6
I ndependent small-town banks were a dying breed. Tory knew this because her uncle, who’d managed Progress Bank and Trust for twelve years, rarely failed to mention it. Even without the family connection, she would have chosen it for her business. It was just good politics.
It sat on the east side of Market, two blocks down from her shop. That added convenience. The old redbrick building had been carefully and lovingly preserved. That added charm. The Lavelles had established it in 1853, and maintained a proprietary interest.
There, she thought, as she turned toward the front door, was the politics. If you wanted to do business successfully in Progress, South Carolina, you did business with the Lavelles.
It was a rare pie their fingers weren’t dipped in.
The interior of the bank had changed. She could remember visiting her grandmother and thinking the tellers worked in cages, like exotic animals in the zoo. Now the lobby area was open, almost airy, and four tellers manned a long, high counter.
They’d added a drive-through window in the back, and behind a waist-high wooden rail and gate two employees sat at lovely old desks topped with sharp and efficient-looking computers. There were several nicely executed paintings of South Carolinian land and seascapes adorning the walls.
Someone, she mused, had figured out how to modernize without deleting the soul. She wondered if she could gently nudge her uncle into one of the paintings or wall hangings she’d soon have for sale.
“Tory Bodeen, is that you?”
With a little jolt, Tory turned her attention to the woman behind the rail. She worked up a smile as she tried to place the face, and came up blank.
“Yes, hello.”
“Well, it’s just so nice to see you again, and all grownup, too.” The woman was tiny, could barely have topped five feet. She came through the gate, held out both hands. “Always knew you’d be a pretty thing. You won’t remember me.”
It felt so rude not to in the face of such sincere delight. For a moment, Tory was tempted to use the connection, grab on to a name. But she couldn’t break a vow over something so trivial. “I’m sorry.”
“Now, there’s no need for that. You were just a bit of a thing last I saw you. I’m Betsy Gluck. Your grandma trained me when I was just out of high school. I remember how you used to come in now and again and sit quiet as a mouse.”
“You gave me lollipops.” It was such a relief to remember, to have that quick, sweet taste of cherry on her tongue.
“Why, imagine you remembering that after all this time.” Betsy’s green eyes sparkled as she gave Tory’s hands a squeeze. “Now, you’re here to see J.R.”
“If he’s busy, I can
“I don’t date.”
“Is that a religious obligation or a societal preference?”
“It’s a personal choice. Now …” Because he looked to be settling in, entirely too comfortably, she got to her feet. “I’m sorry, but I have to get started on my day. I’m already behind schedule.”
He rose, watched her eyes go wide and watchful when he shifted just an inch closer. “Somebody roughed you up plenty, didn’t they?”
“Don’t.”
“That’s just the point, Tory.” Because he didn’t care to have her flinch away from him, he eased back. “I wouldn’t. Thanks for the coffee.”
He walked to his truck, pausing to turn back when he’d opened the door. He gave her a good long stare, figuring it would do them both good for her to get used to it. “I was wrong,” he called out as he climbed in the cab. “You’re just as pretty today.”
She smiled before she could help herself, watched him grin before he backed out of the lane.
Alone, she sat back down. “Oh hell,” she muttered, and stuffed more cake into her mouth.
6
I ndependent small-town banks were a dying breed. Tory knew this because her uncle, who’d managed Progress Bank and Trust for twelve years, rarely failed to mention it. Even without the family connection, she would have chosen it for her business. It was just good politics.
It sat on the east side of Market, two blocks down from her shop. That added convenience. The old redbrick building had been carefully and lovingly preserved. That added charm. The Lavelles had established it in 1853, and maintained a proprietary interest.
There, she thought, as she turned toward the front door, was the politics. If you wanted to do business successfully in Progress, South Carolina, you did business with the Lavelles.
It was a rare pie their fingers weren’t dipped in.
The interior of the bank had changed. She could remember visiting her grandmother and thinking the tellers worked in cages, like exotic animals in the zoo. Now the lobby area was open, almost airy, and four tellers manned a long, high counter.
They’d added a drive-through window in the back, and behind a waist-high wooden rail and gate two employees sat at lovely old desks topped with sharp and efficient-looking computers. There were several nicely executed paintings of South Carolinian land and seascapes adorning the walls.
Someone, she mused, had figured out how to modernize without deleting the soul. She wondered if she could gently nudge her uncle into one of the paintings or wall hangings she’d soon have for sale.
“Tory Bodeen, is that you?”
With a little jolt, Tory turned her attention to the woman behind the rail. She worked up a smile as she tried to place the face, and came up blank.
“Yes, hello.”
“Well, it’s just so nice to see you again, and all grownup, too.” The woman was tiny, could barely have topped five feet. She came through the gate, held out both hands. “Always knew you’d be a pretty thing. You won’t remember me.”
It felt so rude not to in the face of such sincere delight. For a moment, Tory was tempted to use the connection, grab on to a name. But she couldn’t break a vow over something so trivial. “I’m sorry.”
“Now, there’s no need for that. You were just a bit of a thing last I saw you. I’m Betsy Gluck. Your grandma trained me when I was just out of high school. I remember how you used to come in now and again and sit quiet as a mouse.”
“You gave me lollipops.” It was such a relief to remember, to have that quick, sweet taste of cherry on her tongue.
“Why, imagine you remembering that after all this time.” Betsy’s green eyes sparkled as she gave Tory’s hands a squeeze. “Now, you’re here to see J.R.”
“If he’s busy, I can
Similar Books
