– he was overextended everyplace around.’
‘I remember,’ Carson said.
‘But something turned around for him, and I found out just what when I was over to the co-op last week,’ his dad said, turning to continue their walk. ‘Dave Zimmerman pulls me aside. He says, “Hey, what do you know about Spencer Powell?” And I say, “Well, we been neighbors for thirty-some years, till about two weeks ago.” And Dave says, “Then you probably know all about the business with the money.”’
‘What business?’ Carson asked, more to be polite than because he cared.
‘Well, that’s what I said.’ Cause I never heard anything – but you know, I don’t, always; Spencer never let on about the details of things, and I got better things to do than hang around the co-op and gossip like them retired guys. So Dave tells me, “This is all in confidence – I trust you, Jim, not to get me in trouble,” and he starts telling me about the sale of the farm there. Seems that Dave’s wife – you remember Linda, she’s the real estate lawyer – made out a pretty sizeable check when she was putting together all the paperwork – $387,000, which was a little more’n a third of what Spencer got for the place.’
‘So I guess he found some way to borrow against the farm, and that solved his problems.’
‘You’d think. But that’s the funny thing. He didn’t have any sort of mortgage. Hadn’t, according to the title record, since ’89.’
‘Okay … he owed for something else,’ Carson said, curbing his impatience.
‘Nope. No record on his credit of any debt that size – or so says Dave. But get this: the check was made out to Bruce Hamilton personally.’
So, Carson thought, this was what their walk was all about. Something was going on between Meg’s father and father-in-law, and his dad hadn’t wanted to bring it up around Val, believing that anything Megrelated might yet be a touchy subject. It felt a little ridiculous, his dad still trying to protect his feelings about that long-ago trouble; he was done with it, moving past, moving on. To prove it, he would talk about Meg plainly, show that the topic wasn’t worth tip-toeing around.
‘This money stuff ’s not so hard to figure – do you think?’ he said. ‘After Meg married Brian, they must’ve lent Spencer the money to pay the mortgage off the books, you know? A friendly loan between in-laws.’
His dad nodded, one eyebrow raised slightly in what Carson knew was silent acknowledgement of this shift in Meg-related communication. ‘Sure, maybe, but it’s hard to imagine that kind of generosity – Hamilton giving over the title of the land and no guarantee Spencer’d ever pay it back. I mean, we’re talking Spencer Powell here.’
Carson pushed his hand through his hair. Why did they have to keep at this, anyway? Not that he’d admit it after his show of bravado, but all this talk was raising his hackles in a way he couldn’t explain. He said, ‘I bet it just amounts to some shady bookwork on Hamilton’s part – wouldn’t surprise me any.’
His dad nodded. ‘Maybe so. But if that’s the case, I wonder why Spencer paid it back like he did, in a regular check made out to Hamilton personally. That’s a big chunk of income to get all at once – Hamilton’ll get hit hard on his taxes, and it might flag an IRS audit.’
‘Maybe Spencer wasn’t thinking about that, or figured it’s not his problem,’ Carson said.
‘Maybe. I can’t help wondering, though, why Spencer’d pay it back at all, if he didn’t have to.’ His dad scratched his cheek and looked over at the horses, still puzzled by the behavior of a man who’d once been a close friend.
Carson tried to ignore the prod that said there was more to this money thing than what he and his dad could suss out. He was ready to be done with the subject for good.
He said, ‘You know, I always figured Meg married Hamilton for his money, and now it’s obvious Spencer got good mileage out of it, too. I don’t know what’s up with all that, but none of it really matters, does it? I mean, what any of them did or do hasn’t been our business for a long time. And we have better stuff to think about, don’t we?’ He put his hands on his dad’s shoulders and smiled. ‘For example, getting you fitted for a tux.’
‘Good job,’ Ms Henry said Wednesday, handing Savannah her graded world history test. The score, in purple ink at the top right corner, read 104 – an A+, short only one of the possible five extra-credit points.
Savannah looked over at Rachel’s test. ‘Eighty-two,’ Rachel said, holding up the paper. ‘Your fault, for not letting me come over and study with you.’
‘Your fault, for not studying enough on your own.’
Rachel, dressed today in a tight yellow shirt that made her look chubby – which she was, a little – scooted her chair closer to the aisle and leaned toward Savannah to whisper, ‘When are you going to tell me who was keeping you so busy last night that I couldn’t even bribe you with peanut-butter cup ice cream?’
It had been a good offer; Savannah was usually glad to hang out with Rachel, and she loved that flavor of ice cream, one of many foods they never kept in her own house because her dad was severely allergic to peanuts in addition to dogs. But she had something else more important to do: finalizing her plans for Miami. ‘It’s not just a “who”,’ she whispered back. ‘It’s a “what” too. And I can’t tell you yet – but I will, I promise.’ At the very last minute, so there’d be no chance of Rachel leaking the plan and screwing things up. Well-meaning as Rachel might be, she was too close to her sister, Angela. While Angela could usually be trusted on small stuff, something like this might bring out her righteous-older-sister side. Savannah couldn’t take that risk.
‘Okay, fine,’ Rachel said, leaning back. ‘Whatever.’
Caitlin Janecke, the most spoiled of all the spoiled girls Savannah knew, said from the desk at Savannah’s left, ‘What’s her problem? Is she pissed about her grade?’
Savannah looked at Caitlin’s pink cashmere-blend shirt and belted khaki Hollister shorts, the matching pink ribbon in her perfect blond hair; Caitlin was perfect down to her slim tanned legs and calfskin boaters. No, Savannah wanted to say, she didn’t want to believe you gave blow jobs to three different guys last weekend – a story that had come from a reliable source: Caitlin’s sister Riley, a freshman in Savannah’s gym class. Riley, by contrast, had been at the same party but done it to only one guy, she said, and ‘Ohmigod, it was the most awful, bizarre thing you could imagine!’ As slutty as the sisters’ actions seemed, Savannah wished Riley had elaborated just a little more.
Now was not the time to get into any of it, so she just nodded and said, ‘She didn’t study.’
‘Did you?’
Savannah lifted one shoulder. ‘Not really.’
‘God. My parents make me study every night, and I only got a ninety-one. Must be nice to be so brainy.’ The compliment, even delivered so grudgingly, surprised Savannah.
‘I guess,’ she said, suddenly chagrined. Maybe Caitlin wasn’t so bad … and having someone so popular envy her out loud pleased her. Brainy was okay, brainy was good – better than her usual tag of ‘hippie girl’, usually delivered with a sneer as though she was smelly and unwashed. This school, filled by girls whose parents had too much money, was made for Caitlin clones. As great a prep school as the place was, originality, unless it was in the pursuit of the finer arts like painting or classical composition, was not so welcome here.
And she still had two more years to endure. If she could somehow make things work out with Kyle – eventually she’d have to confess her true age and hope he’d stick with her – the