Truman clasped his hands between his knees and leaned forward earnestly. “Oh, of course. That was all very aboveboard. And unfortunate. I can do no more than admit it was an unfortunate circumstance. But there was nothing…I cannot stress it to you enough…there was nothing…the least bit…dishonest. I can assure you of that.”
Despite himself, Jordan felt something he could only call hope stirring beneath the dread in his heart. Perhaps Venita didn’t know the whole story. Maybe, just maybe, there was some reasonable explanation and all this potential scandal would disappear. “Where is the money, Dad?”
“Why, it’s gone, of course. It was just as Truman said. Unfortunate. Most unfortunate.”
Jordan felt his flicker of hope give way to anger. He tried to keep it in check by reminding himself that these two men were not one whit like the nearscoundrels he did business with every day. These men were not land speculators and wheeler-dealers. These men were his befuddled but kindhearted father and his bemused but sweet-tempered uncle. These men were the last of the Scovilles to live off the labor of others, and naively expect gratitude in return.
“What happened to the money, Dad?”
“Well, we met this nice young man. At the club. Last…when was that, Truman? Last spring? Was it that Easter weekend at the member-guest or was it…Yes, that was it. The member-guest. I remember because Curtis was my partner and…”
“The money, Dad.” His voice, finally, was soft, the sound of his heart breaking for two old men he still loved with the devotion of a child. Yes, this was the feeling he’d tried to shield himself against since he’d arrived—heartache. He pursed his lips to keep them from trembling.
“Yes, of course. The money. Well, he told us about this deal. Something to do with stocks, if memory serves. And, well, we knew even then that the mill was in trouble. And when he told us what kind of profit margin he expected…Well, we knew if we invested with him we could save the mill. But the only money we had…” He shrugged.
“The retirement account.”
Mitchell smiled, clearly gratified that his son could see the wisdom of this decision.
Jordan sighed, but willed his face to remain composed and expressionless. Why hadn’t someone told him the senior Scovilles had reached such a state of irresponsibility? Why had they been allowed to go on? Why hadn’t Venita realized, and called him?
When he’d asked her that very question earlier in the day, she had stared hard at him through narrowed eyes. “How many times have you been home in the last ten years, Jordie? How many times have you even returned their calls when they left messages for you?”
And the answers to all his questions were clear to him. The responsibility had been his. Venita had little, if any, real authority over the senior Scovilles. And the retirement account wasn’t under her jurisdiction, anyway. Saving Mitchell and Truman from themselves wasn’t her job, although she’d done it more times than any of them knew, of that Jordan was certain.
No, saving the family honor was Jordan’s job. And if he hadn’t been willing to do it at the right time, then it fell to him to figure out how to do it after the fact.
He must keep his father and his uncle out of prison. He must make sure no one ever knew the real story—especially the woman with the precocious son and the baseball cap, who was determined to gain an audience with him. Yes, he must save the family name. He must stay away from Joella Ratchford. And he must find four-point-six million to cover the loss. At exactly the time when he was on the verge of losing every penny of his own in a risky scheme.
The very idea was almost laughable.
Ho! Ho! Ho!
Joella knew there must be a law against stalking, but she didn’t see where Jordan Scoville was leaving her much choice.
He’d been in town almost an entire week now. Six days, to be precise, since she’d met him unexpectedly in Venita’s office the day she went after Nathan. In those six days she’d called the Scoville executive offices and asked for an appointment with him no less than twelve times. Once the first day. Twice the second and again the third. Three times on the fourth day and…Well, at any rate, the calls added up. And had accomplished absolutely nothing.
Jordan Scoville thought he could ignore her. To him, Joella—and every single soul in Bethlehem, she’d be willing to bet—was no more than an ant in his picnic.
Joella had never been one to believe the Scovilles thought themselves high and mighty, although plenty in Bethlehem did. The old gentlemen were always gracious and friendly whenever she chanced to see them at the Independence Day fireworks or the Labor Day pig-pickin’. But now that Jordan Scoville had taken over the big office, she might be changing her mind on the matter of the high-andmighty Scovilles.
She would pray for patience. But first, she would remember that God helped those who helped themselves.
The first place she tracked him to was the grocery store. Thompson’s SuperMart stayed open late on Tuesday and Thursday nights and she followed him there after he left his office.
A man in a suit was such a rarity in Bethlehem that it wasn’t hard to keep track of him, even in the busy store. Even though the workday had ended for a man like Jordan Scoville, he didn’t take his suit coat off. He didn’t loosen his tie. Not one single thing about the man relaxed a bit. He even grabbed his cart and plowed down the aisles like a man on a deadline. He also walked with a sure stride, like a man who owned everything in his path. Which, come to think of it, was pretty much the case.
Joella bypassed a cart for herself and followed along, wondering if anyone would see anything strange in her actions. If so, it would be all over town tomorrow, sure as sunup, that she’d been seen skulking around behind Mr. Scoville like some country girl with a crush. Still, she kept her eyes on his broad back and moved a little faster. She even pretended not to hear when Mavelle Lingerfelt called out a greeting, because Mavelle did not know how to exchange two words when two hundred could be swapped instead.
He didn’t pause until he got to the long refrigerator cases in the middle of the store. Then he stopped and began to toss frozen dinners into his cart. A Yankee pot roast and a sweet-and-sour chicken and a linguini with clam sauce. Then breakfasts. Joella wrinkled her nose at the thought of frozen scrambled eggs and link sausage, then felt herself overcome with something a lot like pity for a man who cared no more for himself than to indulge in a steady diet of frozen dinners.
The image of him standing in front of a microwave, waiting for it to ding at him, almost made her turn away.
Goose! she chided herself. He’s got the money to cater in a gourmet dinner every night if he wants to. He doesn’t need your sympathy.
So she marched right up to him just as he put his hands on frozen doughnuts. It would be neighborly to tell him about the fresh ones at the diner every Wednesday and Saturday morning. Instead, she stood smack in front of his cart and chased every notion of neighborliness right out of her head. “Mr. Scoville, you’ve been avoiding me.”
He dropped the carton into his cart. “Have I?”
“Yes, you have. I’ve called you twelve times this week and you haven’t called back yet.”
He put his hands on the handle of his cart and backed away. Right here under her nose, he was trying to get away!
“I intend to see you, Mr. Scoville.”
“You’re seeing me now, Mrs. Ratchford.” And he began moving down the aisle. Toward the checkout. “If you have something to say, why don’t you do it now?”
“I don’t think you understand.” She scampered along to catch up, trying to stay ahead of him so she could look back and stare him straight in the eye. “The people of this town have elected me to represent them. And I intend to do that.”
“Isn’t it a little late to start a