©Robert M. (Bob) Leahy
2110 E. Crosby Road
Carrollton, TX 75006
(972) 416 - 6098

Approximate Word Count: 23,040

Chapter One

Theodore Vincent winced in pain, limping out across College Avenue away from the bank--his bank--feeling all of his sixty-five years. His doctor told him he needed to use the leg more or the leg would get worse. He might become unable to walk. Vincent had to admit the soreness and tightness went away more quickly each day since he started walking the mile to and from the bank.

The morning was crisp. Vincent pulled the collar of his tan coat shut, trying to button it with his gloved hands. Much of the Snow which had covered St. Croix since October melted during the past few days, except along the streets and walks where it had been piled. Green grass glittered as frost warmed in the bright sun shining in a cloudless March sky. Vincent loved this time of year. The air was cold and fresh, stinging on the morning breeze.

Because Vincent had an hour before the College of St. Croix Board of Regents meeting, he decided to walk through Alumni Park. It was only a mile-and-a-half from the bank to the administration building at the college, along the west side of the St. Croix River. As he wandered along the blacktop path through the Campus Woods, he scoured the bare aspens, hoping to catch sight of deer. Although deer were a rarity on this side of the river, he had seen a young doe well off the trail darting through a wall of conifers on a walk just a few weeks ago.

He planned to rest at the Founders’ Gazebo, built out over the heights where the slow moving St. Croix River bent around the campus. It was one of his favorite spots on the college grounds. The structure stood in the middle of a large glade. Just across the river, a pair of bald eagles built a nest in the tall pines. In the spring, osprey could be seen soaring above the water. Warblers sang in the encircling trees.

The gazebo held both bitter and sweet memories for the aging bank president. His wife, Doris, dead nearly nine months since losing her three-year struggle with cancer, made the tiles that decorated the benches and comprised the mosaic on the gazebo floor. Vincent never tired of looking at that mosaic, at the intricate weaving of vines that encircled the college’s seal. The benches, on six of the eight sides of the octagonal structure, featured silhouettes of the founders of the school and a brief biography. Colonel Herbert Melrose, Doris’ great grandfather, was featured on the west bench. His claim to fame came from his military service with Grant during the Civil War. Doris’ father, one of the school’s major benefactors due to success with the area’s first paper mill, had secured the land for Alumni Park to ensure that the college always had an unobstructed view of the river.

The north and south ends of the gazebo were open archways through which entrance was gained. Vincent entered from the south, sat on his wife’s great grandfather’s bench and caught his breath. He rubbed his left leg after his mile-long walk. Lost in thought, gazing out toward the river, he was surprised to hear someone call out his name.

"Ted?"

Dr. Chester Hickerson stood in the north archway. The barrel-chested, bearded head of the department of social sciences studied the banker. "I’m not intruding?"

"No, Chet. I’m just catching my breath."

"Kind of a cold place to do it," Hickerson laughed.

"Old Doc Livermore told me I needed to exercise my leg more, so I decided to walk to the board meeting this morning. But I think I may have overdone just a bit, especially since I walked to work this morning."

"Carlyle Phelps," Hickerson said, taking the bench on the northwest wall, "forgive me for blocking your view of the river."

"What?" Vincent asked.

"Oh," Hickerson replied, "just one of my little rituals when I come and sit out here. Today I am sitting on Mr. Phelps. It’s one of those signs that shows what people say about psychologists is true. We are all nuts."

Vincent smiled. "What brings you out this way?"

"Loneliness, I guess. Did you know I first met Mary here?"

Vincent shook his head, studying the curly, gray bearded relic. Hickerson was one of the last of the faculty hired in the early sixties. One of the few who saw the college triple in size in the early seventies.

"I did. And every now and then, when I need to talk to her, this seems like the best place to do it."

Vincent nodded. Mary Hickerson died from a rare bone disease about a month after his Doris died from breast cancer. Vincent remembered Chet Hickerson’s coming by one evening, a day or two after Doris’ funeral. How much it meant to have someone take him out to eat and just let him talk about his loss. Hickerson saw him almost twice a week for the next several months. And until the day of Mary’s funeral, Vincent had been unaware of Hickerson’s situation. One of just so many things Vincent had failed to attend to. One of so many things he regretted.

"For me, too," Vincent admitted. "So much of Doris is here." He sat, studying the mosaic. He was disappointed to see that some of the 7/8th-inch octagonal tiles were missing from the floor. When he looked around the gazebo, he noted that the ionic columns needed paint. The entire structure was in disrepair. Vincent made a mental note to tell Dr. DeWitt Hamilton, the president of the college, about the problem before the regents meeting. After all, there was a fund at the bank that covered the maintenance of the gazebo and its grounds. And, Vincent knew full well, there was plenty of money to keep things in tip-top shape.

"I never did thank you," Vincent started to say.

"No need," Hickerson interrupted.

"But you did so much for me. And I did so little…." His voice trailed off.

"We handle our grief in different ways," Hickerson replied.

"I don’t know how you do it."

"I don’t really know either," Hickerson admitted. "I just go on and focus on what I need to do. That’s what Mary would tell me to do. I can hear her say it."

"That’s what I need to do." The aging banker sighed as he looked at his watch. He must focus on what needed to be done. The gazebo was just one of the many signs that the college was not being tended to properly. And, as chairman of the college’s board, he took some of the blame. He had been too distracted by Doris’ deteriorating health. Her death. He went through the motions of work at the bank, with the regents. But he had not been focused.

"Let’s have dinner again this Friday," Vincent said as he stood to leave.

"Fine," Hickerson replied. "I would love it." He stuck his bare hand out and shook Vincent’s gloved one as the banker limped by. "I’m glad we ran into each other."

From the gazebo, Vincent headed West along a path winding through a small stand of trees, what was left of the original forest’s western edge and into the dormant rose garden. From the garden, one could see the Greek Revival portico of the Melrose Hall, the administration building. The east and west faces of the building were identical; on the east, which Vincent approached, the building opened onto a broad lawn adjacent to the rose garden. On the west, the building lost some of its charm, opening onto the concrete of a wide sidewalk, a parking lot, and Academy Boulevard. Vincent loved to approach the building from the river. The three-story, white pillars against the dark red brick looked so much more inviting rising from the green of the lawn than the gray of the concrete on the other side. So, even though the walk was almost three times as long from the bank through the park, it was always worth it.

As he walked up the curved stairway leading to the main entrance, he slipped slightly on the last step. He looked down to see the surface had been eaten away by heavy salting. Here, too, the grandeur of the first view gave way to the reality of the closer inspection. There were so many little problems. None of them amounted to much. All--or most--were easily fixed. But they were being ignored. And, soon, if they were left untreated, they would become big problems. Some of them might become untreatable. "A wise man never lets his little problems get away from him," he remembered his dad saying. It was time to heed that advice.

As he stepped into the muralled rotunda of the administration building, Melvin Tipton, another long-time regent, greeted him. "Ted," he asked, crossing toward him, "did you walk over?"

"Sure did," Vincent sighed, regretting a chance to study the St. Croix narrative, from the Jesuit discovery of the river through the growth of the fur trade to the beginnings of the paper industry. Only recently had he become aware of the absence of Indians in any of the progressing scenes. The art teacher, Coombes, mentioned it one day. Coombes explained that during the 1880’s, when the painting was done, the Amerindians were thought to be more nuisance than heritage.

Tipton’s heavy car coat swirled across Vincent’s line of sight, bringing him back to the present. "This is my favorite time of year, when the snow melts and the air starts to warm," he said.

"It’s been a long time coming," Tipton replied, smoothing out his non-existent hair by running his hand across the top of his baldhead. Vincent found himself watching as Tipton’s white eyebrows bobbed above his glasses in cadence to the insurance man’s speech.

"I just hope the snow is over," Vincent added.

"Me, too," Tipton agreed. "I’m getting too old for this weather. And last year, the pile of snow in the square didn’t melt until the end of May."

"Gentlemen," Margie Sullivan, the president’s secretary said, as she came down the hallway toward them, "if you would like, you can go into the boardroom now. I just checked it, and everything is ready. Even the coffee. It’s been a long time since it arrived before any of the regents did," she laughed.

"Thank you, Margie," Vincent said. Then, putting a friendly hand on Tipton’s shoulder, he steered his slightly shorter fellow board member down the hallway and into the Regency Room. The room was remodeled ten years earlier. The black walnut wainscoting and heavy chocolate drapes had been removed in favor of apple wood details and sheer, gathered curtains hanging from royal blue valences.

"I just never get over how much nicer this room is since the remodeling," Tipton remarked as he took his customary seat along the window side of the table. One of the student waiters was already pouring him coffee.

"I’ve been thinking I need to do the same thing to my insurance offices," Tipton continued. "That dark paneling just wears me out."

Vincent nodded, sitting down at the head of the table. As he pulled his chair in, he noted the small tear in the blue leather of the armrest and a missing, decorative brass upholstery nail. Before Vincent had a chance to say anything, Dr. DeWitt Hamilton, St. Croix College’s president for the past ten years, entered the room. He pushed at the unruly shock of gray hair that fell across his forehead. Vincent remembered how Hamilton had kept it slicked back for years. Doris had said he looked more his age when he made the change. Vincent thought Hamilton looked good for sixty, although he was putting on the weight.

Behind Hamilton came Bidwell and Wilson, the other gray suits. Harry Bidwell, the academic vice president, was the shortest of the three at five feet seven inches. He carried all of his extra weight in a ball just above his belt. Avery Wilson, the administrative vice president, was almost as tall as Hamilton but carried about twice the weight. Wilson stopped in the hallway to say something to Mrs. Sullivan.

Vincent remembered what his secretary, JoAnn Newsome, said the last time she saw Vice President Wilson at the bank. She slipped into the office and closed the door before she started laughing. "It’s those beady eyes and the upturned nose more than his overall weight," she said. "But Porky is just so perfect. And since Mrs. Crawford told me that was his nickname, I can’t help but laugh when I see him."

Vincent had admonished her lack of professionalism. But only gently. And now he smiled as the rotund administrator, adjusting his tie, turned sideways to ease through the door. Vincent patted his own stomach unconsciously. He had thickened over the years, but his stomach was firm. He pushed the pecan pie sitting to the left of his napkin away from his place at the table.

By the time Vincent had finished stirring the three packets of artificial sweetener into his tea, all of the regents had taken their seats. Vincent noted that he, Tipton, and Gault, the governor’s man, all wore brown suits. The other two regents wore sports coats—Ford in a green/brown plaid and Mundale in a navy blue. The gray suits, sitting together on his left opposite the windows, were separated both physically and stylistically from the regents.

As the waiters and waitresses began serving the vegetable soup, he heard someone say, "Good choice." Vincent accepted a few turns of freshly crushed pepper across the surface of his steaming bowl. "Nothing warms you faster on a day like today than some good, hot soup."

Most of the conversations centered on football. Tipton got into the most animated discussion with Clark Gault, the youngest of the members of the board at forty-five. The two were discussing what it would take to make the Vikings a viable contender--something they hadn’t been this past season and weren’t likely to become any time soon.

The entrée was a chicken dish—Cordon Bleu? With steamed vegetables and a baked potato. Vincent reminded himself to eat lightly. He ended up eating the potato instead of the steamed vegetables—they were overcooked and soft. He picked at the dry chicken.

Vincent had hoped to get a word with Hamilton during the luncheon, but could never seem to get into his conversation with Bidwell and Wilson. He contented himself with listening to Gault and Tipton analyze nearly the entire roster of the Vikings. Tipton had played college ball, and was quite knowledgeable. Gault owned a semi-pro team in Stillwater. The two were interesting to listen to, but Vincent didn’t feel competent to add anything to what they had to say. He was a baseball man. And he couldn’t wait for a real sport to begin play.

The meal only lasted about forty-five minutes. And, as the last of the dishes were carted away, Margie Sullivan came in with the meeting’s agenda and a few reports. Vincent called the meeting to order and immediately handed the floor over to Hamilton. He began to study the reports.

"Thanks, Ted," Hamilton said. "And, as you can see, gentlemen, we have a short agenda today." He pushed at the hair falling down across his eyebrows. "I guess Mr. Gault won’t have to spend a night in the dorm," he joked, in reference to Mr. Gault’s stays over after many board meetings in the past.

"I don’t mind the guest rooms in the dorm," Gault said. "But I wouldn’t mind getting back to St. Paul tonight, either."

The financial report that Wilson prepared was quite short, for a change. "We had hoped that the legislature would be further along on their probable appropriations by this time. So, until we get some numbers from St. Paul, we can’t do much planning around here."

"Weren’t contracts for the faculty due this month?" Tipton asked, running his hand over his bald head.

"They are," Avery Wilson replied, fidgeting with his tie. "We will be sending out letters on Friday, asking for the faculty to commit to teaching for another year. They’ll be due back two weeks later. We will stress that we are going to try and get them a raise. But until we know what the state will do...." his voice trailed off.

"I’ll be heading down to St. Paul again next week," Hamilton told the board. "I’ll be talking with Swenson and Lindgardt and some of the other representatives on the appropriations committees. I’ll make the case that we need more money--certainly more than we’ve gotten the last two years."

"How are the faculty likely to respond," Tipton asked. "Especially after last year?"

"We’ve told the faculty that we have every intention of getting them a raise," Wilson said. "But we won’t know how they’re reacting until they return those letters in a few weeks. But last year, when no raise was likely, we had a good response to this same type of commitment letter. I wouldn’t expect anything to be different this year."

"We have a very dedicated faculty," Hamilton said.

"But we need to take care of them," Vincent added, surprising everyone. The last time Vincent had done much more than open and close a meeting had been more than a year before his wife’s death. "We lost some very special people last year. Helen McWhorter, for one. And the music department just isn’t the same this year."

From that point on, the meeting moved briskly until Vincent moved to the last point on the agenda by saying, "One point of new business is that we need to do a better job of taking care of the college’s facilities. I noticed the steps to this building are starting to crumble and the mosaic at the gazebo is missing several tiles."

"We have budgeted so much for repairs," Wilson said.

"But is it enough?" Vincent wondered. "I think we need to ask ourselves, seriously, whether it’s worth letting the problems go in the long run."

"And we do have special funds for some repairs," Tipton said. "I know there’s money to do anything that is needed in the park because I helped spearhead that drive more than twenty years ago." He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"And the dorms," Gault added, "should have a self-perpetuating fund that can be spent on nothing but their upkeep. And I noticed some pretty sad rusting problems in Superior Hall the last time I stayed there. I meant to say something to you then, Dr. Hamilton."

Hamilton nodded and was about to speak when Tipton took the floor.

"Well, let me just make a motion," Tipton said, again running his hand over his head. "I move that we request a prioritized list of the major and minor repairs that need to be made for the campus as a whole--something the director of grounds should be able to produce fairly quickly--and at our next meeting we’ll discuss how far down the list we move during the next few months."

"I’ll second that," Gault said.

"Any further discussion?" Vincent asked. And quickly, as no one spoke up, "Any objections to the motion?" No dissent was made. "Motion carries."

"I move we adjourn," someone said. It was followed by a chorus of seconds.

"Meeting adjourned," Vincent said.

As the board members and the upper administration started leaving the room, Vincent called to Hamilton. "DeWitt," he said just loud enough for Hamilton to hear, "we need to talk."

When Hamilton saw that Vincent wasn’t moving, he came back down to the end of the table and sat next to the aging banker.

"What’s the matter, Ted?" Hamilton asked.

"I’m worried," Vincent replied.

Hamilton nodded for Vincent to continue.

"I know I haven’t been too involved with this college over the past few years, what with Doris’ chemo and radiation...and then her death." He stopped to catch his breath. "But I plan to be from now on."

Hamilton looked deeply into the long-time chairman’s eyes. "Go on."

"I think I need to start taking back some of the control I lost over the past few years," Vincent answered. "This is my school. It was my wife’s school. Hell, her family is part of this school’s origin. For her—and for me—I have to make sure this school survives."

"Don’t you think that’s what I want, too?" Hamilton asked.

"I don’t know, anymore," Vincent replied. "I just see too many things that are deteriorating—"

"But we’ll fix the mosaic," Hamilton interrupted.

"That’s just one small sign," Vincent said. "Can’t you see that?"

Hamilton did not respond.

"Consider the board meeting we just had. No faculty member in attendance. No one from the newspaper. That concerns me. The board should be looking after the needs of the faculty and the students of this school. And, in a town this size, no matter what the college does, it should be major news. When was the last time Harvey Kellerman bothered to send one of the Sentinel’s reporters?"

Hamilton shook his head. "We give Kellerman press releases," Hamilton said. "They cover what we do in these meetings. Saves the paper some time."

"I know," Vincent replied. "I know. But shouldn’t someone outside the school observe the meetings and report what was done?" Vincent asked.

"Ted," Hamilton said, patting his arm. "You’re worrying about nothing. You’ll see."

"When was the last time a faculty member sat in on one of our meetings?" Vincent asked.

"Oh, I don’t know," Hamilton replied honestly. "But Margie could tell you. Do you want me to ask her for you?"

"Nobody knows what we’re doing at these meetings," Vincent said. "And I think they should. I think the press releases give us too much control over the information people get. And I just don’t think it’s in the college’s best interest for that manipulation of information to continue."

Hamilton gave a perfunctory nod before getting up.

Vincent watched him go.

Dr. Dewitt Hamilton was glad to getting back to his office. As he stepped into the reception area, his secretary, Margie Sullivan, waved several small, pink message slips for him. The gray-haired grandmother held them out to him as he passed by her desk. He flipped through them, crossing to his office, stumbling slightly on the raveling seam of the carpet in front of his office.

"Anything urgent?" he asked her, turning to face her from just inside his office door.

Mrs. Sullivan looked up from the report she was editing, fiddled with the top button on her blouse. "No, I don’t think so," she said.

Hamilton started to close the door.

"You might want to call Dr. Pendleton at Duluth College back. He wanted to talk about your meeting on Friday."

"Would you get him on the line for me, Margie," he asked.

"Yes, sir," she said. "Oh, Dr. Hamilton," she continued, "your wife was in. She said she forgot about the regents meeting."

"Did she say anything else?"

"No, but she took all your dirty coffee cups home. I reminded her that you hated to use Styrofoam. She said you had one clean one left in the bookcase."

He shut the door before sitting down. His eyes darted over to the bookcase. He saw his one remaining coffee mug, a rough-surfaced terra cotta colored cup Doris Vincent made for him, commemorating his first five years as president of St. Croix. The college seal was surrounded by a rope braid design. His name, in upraised, white letters, appeared beneath the seal. The reverse side said happy fifth anniversary.

"Dr. Pendleton on line two," Mrs. Sullivan announced on the intercom.

"Thanks, Margie," he replied. "Abe?" he asked, picking up the receiver. "DeWitt Hamilton." He paused. "That’s right. I’ll drive up Friday Morning." After another pause, he responded, "Make it 8:30, and you’ve got a deal. Breakfast would be great, but I don’t want to get on the road too early." He listened a moment. "No, if I come I-35, it’s just about 100 miles. I’ll see you Friday. After hanging up, he wrote himself a note to call Moose Lake—The Big Game Inn—for a reservation for Thursday night.

"Margie?" Hamilton called into the intercom.

"Yes, sir?" Mrs. Sullivan replied.

"Would you ask Dr. Wilson to come in here?"

"Yes, sir."

Five minutes later, the obese administrative vice president knocked on Hamilton’s door. Hamilton waved him in. After the door opened, Hamilton could hear the vice-president’s heavy breathing.

"You needed to see me?" Wilson asked, his face flushing, perspiration glistening at his temples.

"Yes, Avery," he replied, waving the heavyset man in, waiting for the large man to turn sideways and sidle into the office. "I’m worried about Vincent," Hamilton said. "I’m afraid he’s going to try and get too involved in the running of the college."

"That’s the last thing we need," Wilson agreed, still standing in front of the president’s desk.

"Look," Hamilton said. "You need to put together a report on the salary structures and probable raise scenarios that we talked about last week. Make sure that it sounds like we’re doing everything we can. But don’t make it too specific. As long as he’s convinced we’re doing what we have to do, he’ll leave us alone. I don’t want him meddling."

"I’ve already started," Wilson said.

"Oh, and get on Burgmeier," Hamilton said, pushing at his unruly hair. "Get that gazebo fixed up right away. You know that thing’s a shrine to Mrs. Doris Melrose Vincent. And be sure the bills get filed at the bank, too. You heard the way Tipton was talking at the meeting."

"Right away," Wilson promised.

"Be sure that mosaic is fixed first."

"I’ll take care of it," Wilson said, playing with his tie.

"As long as it gets warm in the afternoons, Burgmeier should be able to have his men replace those tiles this week," Hamilton added.

"He’s been complaining his people don’t have enough to do," Wilson said.

Dismissing Wilson, Hamilton tightened one corner of his mouth into a slight smile. He rolled his eyes as Wilson sidled out of the room.

* * * * *

Vincent stopped by Dean Jackson Stouffer’s office on his way out of the building. Stouffer was married to Doris’ closest relative, her niece, Lorraine. The dean had been offered Harry Bidwell’s job as vice president for academic affairs. But because he wanted to continue to teach his classes of Minnesota history every semester, which the duties of the vice president’s position would have prohibited, Stouffer refused. "Besides," he said when he turned down the offer seven years ago, "I have more in common with the general faculty than I do with the upper administration. I like working with students in the classroom."

Vincent admired Stouffer for that commitment. He also knew that Stouffer’s salary, as well as the salaries of the rest of the faculty, had remained fairly flat over the past four or five years. At the same time, the upper administration salaries rose about three per cent annually. Stouffer’s family expenses were growing as his kids got older. So the pay issue had been personally and professionally difficult. To his credit, Vincent thought, his nephew and friend did not complain. Despite the financial situation, the dean felt it was not only his job to try and convince the fine teachers to stay at St. Croix but also to try and recruit good, young faculty. Both jobs were becoming increasingly difficult as the monetary benefits provided by the college continued to fall compared to other schools in the area.

"Ted," Stouffer said as the aging banker limped into his office. "It’s good to see you. Meeting didn’t last long, did it?" he added, taking off his glasses.

"No, just routine stuff today," Vincent replied. "Next meeting may be rough, though."

"Oh?" Stouffer asked, waving Vincent into a chair.

"Salaries," Vincent replied.

"Well, that’s always a sticky issue," the dean said. "Can I get you anything?"

"No," Ted said. "I really need to be getting back to the bank. "I just wanted to stop in and say hello. I was surprised you weren’t at the board meeting today."

"Not much for me to do. Besides, I had a several student records to verify—getting ready for graduation already. I just thought my time would be better spent here." Stouffer paused for a minute. "I don’t suppose Wilson or Hamilton said anything about raises? I mean, they promised them to the faculty last year."

"Not really. But you know how it is. The legislature—" Vincent started to reply.

"—legislature," Stouffer chimed in, "hasn’t approved appropriations and we can’t fix our tax rate until we know blah blah blah blah blah."

"So you do know," Vincent laughed. "Do you know what your faculty has to say?"

"Not really," Stouffer replied, wiping his glasses on his handkerchief. "Do you want me to conduct some sort of poll?"

"An informal one, if you could," Vincent answered, giving Stouffer a trusting nod. "Say," Vincent said more light-heartedly, "Gail tells me Lorraine is going to Duluth to do some shopping."

"That girl of mine gets around," Stouffer laughed. "When did you see her?"

"She stopped in at the bank yesterday," Vincent smiled. He remembered the energetic thirteen-year-old’s scrambling into his office before JoAnn could buzz him to see if he could be disturbed. He reminded her that she needed to let JoAnn do her job in mock anger.

"You’re not really mad, are you, Uncle Ted?" she asked, feigning a pout.

She looked so much like her mother at that age: large, brown, innocent eyes and all. How could one stay angry with her?

"No, I’m not mad," he said, holding out his arms to her.

"My daughter does get around," Stouffer said. "But you should let her know you have work to do." Vincent waved the comment off. "Anyway, Stouffer continued, "it is true. Lorraine’s leaving sometime Thursday."

"Who else is going?" Vincent asked.

"Oh, I don’t know," Stouffer said, "although Gail probably does. But if she didn’t tell her Uncle Ted…. All I know is that I have to cook on Thursday. Michael wants steaks. Kevin wants macaroni and cheese."

"Gail hasn’t requested anything?"

"Of course not," Stouffer replied. "She’s a growing teen which means she doesn’t eat anything but a little salad and, if I’m lucky, a little chicken."

"I guess that’s true. I remember my daughter-in-law, Katy, was that way when she and Ross were first going out."

"To be honest," Stouffer said. "Salads are what I want, too."

"Well," Vincent said, "they are supposed to be healthier for you." Vincent struggled to his feet.

"Leg bothering you?" Stouffer asked, starting to get out of his chair.

"No, not really," Vincent replied, waving the younger man back into his chair. "It always bother’s me just a bit when I first get up. It will be fine once I get moving again." The banker limped to the door, turning back when he reached it. "Don’t be such a stranger, Jack. I feel I’ve lost touch with you and Lorraine. With the boys."

"I won’t," Stouffer replied as the banker started into the hallway. "Hey," he called after him, "why don’t you come to dinner on Thursday. Michael would love to play you some chess. And I’m taking dinner orders."

"I’ll call you and let you know," Vincent said. "And thanks."

* * * * *

Jillian Hamilton wandered up and down the aisles of Campbell’s Independent Grocery, the only grocery store in St. Croix if one discounted the two gas station mini-marts on the highway. She didn’t like shopping at Campbell’s. It was dark and dirty, and she thought it smelled of rotting meat. But for the few things she needed for tonight’s supper, it wasn’t worth the time it would take to drive to and from Danbury on the Wisconsin side of the river. She and Dewitt planned to go into Danbury on Saturday, anyway, and she could stock up on must items then.

"Jillian?"

She turned to see who had called her name. It was Mrs. Barbara Crawford, the campus’ if not the town’s biggest gossip. Her husband, Dr. James Crawford, was chairman of mathematics at the college.

"Well, what a surprise," Jillian said, her eyes drawn to the recently dyed hair, an unpleasant deep-purple/red. The heavy make-up around her eyes and on her lips didn’t quite match the color. It wasn’t a good color for anyone, but especially for a woman whose skin was so white. Jillian prayed the younger woman wouldn’t ask for an opinion on the new look.

Barbara Crawford continued directing her basket up the aisle to meet the college president’s wife. "I heard there was a big board meeting at the college today? Didn’t see Mr. Vincent’s car up at the college when I drove by."

Jillian almost commented that the meeting was just routine but decided against it. "Oh?" she said, trying to focus on her list of groceries rather than the other woman’s hair. Don’t think out loud, she reminded herself. Don’t think out loud.

"Jim said it was time for contracts to come out. But he’s afraid the administration’s just going to send out a letter like last time asking him to commit to teach for another year," Barbara said.

"Uh-huh," Jillian said, only half-listening, wondering why Mrs. Crawford would think she needed to know any of what she had to say about the college.

"Last year, the letter said there would be no raise. But it practically promised one for this year. Jim says he’ll tell his department not to sign the letters," Barbara continued, "if there’s no raise guaranteed. "He says he’ll make the recommendation at Friday’s Faculty Senate meeting."

"Oh, really?" Jillian asked, now interested, wondering if her husband knew.

"Yes," Barbara said, "it’s true. You know, last year they didn’t even get a raise. So, unless something’s guaranteed this year, you can imagine how people are going to feel."

"Certainly," Jillian replied. Then, before Mrs. Crawford could speak again, she said, "I’m sorry, Barbara, I don’t mean to be rude. But I really need to finish shopping and get home. Tell your husband I said hello," she added as she turned away. "We’ll talk again real soon."

Jillian Hamilton headed straight to the checkout counter. As she watched her items get scanned, she noticed she forgot the chicken broth—one of three things she specifically came to buy—but decided against telling the young man running the cash register. She just wanted to get out of there as quickly as she could.

End of Chapter One