“Get any word on the E-mail today?” Venita asked and the sound of her voice seemed to say it was truly insignificant whether he had or not. Nathan was glad of that, because then he could pretend it didn’t matter, too.
“Nah.” He shook his head and unfolded his bony legs. “I think I’m going to have to plan another strategy.”
She nodded and dropped her files onto her desk. But before she could reply, the front door from the street opened and Nathan’s mom walked in. Forgetting for a minute all about what kind of impression he would be making on Mr. Bad-to-the-Bone Jordan Scoville, Nathan dashed into her arms.
“Mom!”
And she gave him that big, old hug that made it not even matter whether his dad hated his guts for the rest of his life.
Jordan felt that hitch in his heart again when Nathan Ratchford and his mom lost themselves in a hug. Once more he blamed his truck-stop lunch, because that was easier than admitting what he was witnessing struck at something vulnerable inside him.
He’d had a lot of hugs from Venita when he was that age, but not too many from his mother.
He wondered, as he watched mother and son, what it would be like to have a mother who was tender and welcoming instead of regal and imposing. Apparently Nathan Ratchford thought it was pretty cool, the way he pressed his oversize ear against his mother’s red flannel shirt. Jordan tapped the file Venita had given him and busied himself stuffing it into his briefcase.
Thank goodness he wasn’t a lonely little outsider any longer.
He glanced up in time to see the boy’s mother peer in his direction. It was then he really looked at her, and saw the short, dark curls peeking out from beneath a red baseball cap. The woman at the center of the brouhaha on Main Street.
Her arms loosened their hold on her son, while the rest of her stiffened visibly. “Oh. Come on, Nathan. Venita’s got important work to do.”
Jordan watched the soft expression on her face change as she took him in. No doubt she knew exactly who he was—little escaped the gossip mill in Bethlehem, unless things had changed drastically since he was a kid. Although the expression on her heart-shaped face grew a little timid, he also saw a certain pride. He studied her as Venita made the introductions. Joella Ratchford’s sharp, dark eyes issued a challenge. Her chin came to a determined-looking point. Color rose in her smooth ivory cheeks.
“I’m glad for the opportunity to meet you, Mrs. Ratchford.” He hated the way he sounded when he said it, like the king of the hill talking down to one of his subjects. His mother’s voice. The one that kept everyone in town at arm’s length.
“You mean before we all get put out on the street, Mr. Scoville?”
Jordan saw Venita’s eyebrows rise as she turned to study the effects of Joella Ratchford’s comment. He saw Nathan punch his glasses higher on his nose and stare at his mother in surprise. Jordan hoped he revealed nothing, because what he had to reveal was an enormous well of guilt and anxiety. It was hard to remember that he didn’t have a thing to be guilty about. This mess wasn’t his fault.
In fact, he was as inconvenienced by this as anyone else. Here he was, every penny he had tied up buying property that would—that might—be the location for a football stadium, if the National Football League ever got off dead center and made up its mind. And with all that going on, he had to drag himself away from the action to baby-sit the family business. He’d fought against being dragged into the family business all his life and now, with his future hanging in the balance, here he was. Back in Bethlehem. And finding out that everything was way more complicated than he’d imagined.
Mrs. Ratchford and her friends weren’t the only ones unhappy with the way things were going.
“I understand your dismay over the closing of Scoville Mill, Mrs. Ratchford,” he said, knowing how cool and heartless he must sound to a woman who was afraid of finding her family on the street. He wondered if anyone in town had any way of knowing just how realistic such a fear might be. If he’d been a praying man, he would have been praying for all he was worth right this minute that Joella Ratchford and her neighbors had no idea what was going on behind closed doors at Scoville Mill.
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Scoville.” If Jordan could have closed his eyes, he could almost imagine this mill hand dressed in a power suit and shaking a leather briefcase at him. She had a firmer voice than that initial hint of timidity had indicated. “I might as well let you know now that the townfolk have asked me to represent them in these bankruptcy proceedings. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to sit down with you and see what we can expect to happen this next month.”
A lesser man might have choked on apprehension, but not Jordan. “I can assure you, that won’t be necessary. The interests of all our employees will be first and foremost in our minds. I promise you that.”
He could see right away that she was no more ready to have him push her around than she’d been to have those townspeople push her around earlier in the afternoon.
Her eyes narrowed as she said, “I appreciate that, Mr. Scoville. But the townfolk have asked and I figure I owe it to them to do what I can to set their minds at ease. Don’t you believe that’s so, Mr. Scoville?”
Jordan’s grip tightened on his briefcase. He knew only one thing. There was no way anybody from the mill was going to sit in on meetings about closing the mill. Not until Jordan had figured out a way to cover up the things that needed covering up.
Otherwise, Mitchell and Truman Scoville would spend their last years in prison. And that was not going to happen while Jordan had any say about it.
“I’ll certainly do all I can to keep everyone apprised of our progress in this matter,” he said. “I’m certain no one expects you to spend your valuable time listening to a roomful of lawyers and businessmen throwing around legal and financial jargon, Mrs. Ratchford.”
“I appreciate the fact you’re thinking about my valuable time, Mr. Scoville. I really do.” Based on her tone of voice, Jordan doubted she appreciated a word he’d said. “But these folks—I’ve known most of them all my life, you know—have trusted me with something and I guess I’ll do the best I can. Even if it means having to listen to a bunch of fasttalking lawyers.”
Then she took her son by the hand. “Come on, Nathan. We’ve got to get supper on the table. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Scoville. So long, Venita.”
And they walked out the front door.
Venita let out a low whistle. “You’ve got problems, Jordan Scoville.”
“I can handle it,” he said.
Venita just grunted.
Joella had to call Nathan twice after she set the butter beans and cornbread on the table, he was so engrossed in lettering his signs for the grocery-delivery business he wanted to launch. Joella had tried to dissuade him, gently explaining that money would be tight in Bethlehem over the coming weeks. People might not have money for extras.
But he was that much like his father. Blind to anything but his own confidence in whatever he set out to achieve. Andrew Ratchford had gone far that way; no reason to suppose Nathan couldn’t do the same. Although it did bother her sometimes to think of sweet, serious Nathan turning into a hard-edged, unfeeling businessman. People like that—like Jordan Scoville, for example—scared her.
She smiled as she peered into the tiny living room and saw Nathan’s dark head bent over his poster board, a bold purple crayon clutched in his fingers. “Even budding entrepreneurs have to eat, Nathan.”
“Just let me—”
“Now.”
His shoulders slumped and he released his grip on the purple crayon. He dragged himself to his feet and headed for the table, making sure his disappointment was eminently readable