Sea Glass by Anita Shreve

Franklin by four, which is when he told Norton he would be there. It’s a risky plan, and in odd moments it takes Sexton’s breath away, but it’s the only way Sexton can see to raise the money for the house. Besides, the deception is a minor one, isn’t it? Merely a matter of dates.
    And Sexton wants the house. He wants it so much that it sometimes makes his hands shake. He can’t explain the feeling to himself rationally. Rationally, the house is no bargain. It’s too big, too hard to heat, and in a community that virtually shuts down during the winter. And yet, if he can just secure this one thing, have this one possession, he will feel that somehow he’s ahead of the game. That he’s gotten the jump on life.
    The stone entryway to the bank feels cool, and for a moment Sexton savors the sensation. He slips his jacket on over his shirt, nearly soaked through with sweat. He tucks in his shirttails and sets his hat on his head at an angle. As he opens the large glass door to the bank’s lobby, he has a sharp and visceral memory of opening the door of the Taft Savings and Loan last March and seeing Honora across the room. Her shiny walnut-colored hair snagged his attention, and he found himself moving in her direction, even though another teller was closer to the door. Her hair was cut in a neat shingle that seemed to elongate her long white neck. He took out the roll of tens and fives and put it in the trough under the grille, and he watched her hands, the skin like smooth white silk, as she counted out the money. The urge to touch those hands shuddered through him like a punch. He left only reluctantly, knowing for a certainty that he would soon be back.
    “Hello there,” he says to the secretary who once brought him an iced coffee and to whom he has sold three of his machines. “How’s the Number Eight?”
    “It’s just fine,” Miss Alexander says. The secretary has on a green sleeveless dress today that shows the chicken wattles under her arms.
    “And the Copiograph machine?”
    “It’s made my job a lot easier.”
    “Well, that’s what I like to hear. Say, that’s a pretty dress you have on there.”
    “Oh. Well,” she says, blushing. “Thank you.”
    “I think I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Rowley,” Sexton says, putting his face close to hers. Miss Alexander, flustered, consults her book. Needlessly, Sexton thinks. How many appointments can Rowley possibly have on a Friday afternoon before Labor Day weekend?
    “He’ll see you now,” she says.
    “Thank you very kindly,” Sexton says, winking.
    As he opens the door to Rowley’s office, Sexton catches the briefest movement on the desk, a neat stack of papers quickly centered, a pen raised. But Sexton can see that the stack is too neat, the cap still on the pen.
    “Mr. Beecher,” Rowley says, looking up and then standing, pretending to be caught in the middle of his paperwork. He holds out his hand.
    “Mr. Rowley,” Sexton says.
    “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Take a seat, take a seat. How have you been?”
    Sexton listens for — hopes for — a slight slurring of words. “Just fine, Mr. Rowley. And yourself?”
    “Excellent, Mr. Beecher. Excellent. Apart from this infernal heat, that is.”
    And there it is.
Thisinfernal.
    “This room isn’t too bad, though,” Sexton says.
    “No, it’s not,” Rowley says, moving the stack of papers to one side of his desk. “So what brings you out this way? Hey, by the way, my girl says that accounting-writing machine you sold us is just the ticket.”

    “Glad to hear it,” Sexton says, reflecting that the girl is fortyfive if she’s a day. “No trouble with it, I trust?”
    “Not a hint of trouble far as I can tell. Of course it’s my girl who uses it. That’s her department, don’t you know.”
    And doesn’t Sexton just know. If it weren’t for the girls in the outside offices, Sexton would be out of a job.
    “So what can I do for you?” Rowley asks.
    Sexton sits