“You should have called,” he said, his voice quiet and dry. “I would have met you at the deli.”
“What was that bill?” I asked, my voice barely louder than the hum of his desk lamp. “It said past due.”
“An old invoice from a consultant,” he said, placing his hand flat on the blueprint to smooth the crease. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“We don’t owe Oak Ridge Bank anything, do we?” I asked, watching his fingers.
“No,” Jordan said. “We don’t.”
“Then why are they sending past-due notices to your office?” I asked.
“They aren’t,” Jordan said. “It’s a commercial file I’m reviewing for a client.”
“Which client?” I asked.
“A holding company,” Jordan said. “They are looking at properties near the marina.”
“The marina is where my parents live,” I said.
“I know where they live, Claire,” Jordan said. “It’s a small town.”
He did not look at the deli bag. He just stood there with his hand on the blueprint, his silver drafting scale visible in his breast pocket, until I turned toward the door.
At five in the afternoon, the clay on my pottery wheel had gone cold and stiff. My hands were coated in dry gray dust, the grey slip drying in the creases of my palms, when the landline in the corner of my studio rang, its bell loud against the concrete walls.
I wiped my palms on my canvas apron, leaving white streaks across the dark fabric, and picked up the receiver.
“Claire, it’s Martha,” my sister said.
Her voice had the flat, bureaucratic edge she used when she was sitting behind her mahogany desk at Oak Ridge Bank, but she was breathing too quickly, her words clipping together.
“Martha, I’m right in the middle of a batch of mugs,” I said.
“Listen to me,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that buzzed in the receiver. “I’m calling from the bank’s back hallway on my personal phone. I just saw two men in grey suits leaving the commercial recovery office with a file on Mom and Dad’s condo.”
“The marina condo?” I asked, adjusting my silver wedding band with my thumb. “Why would anyone be looking at their file?”
