Chapter 9 - The Restoration of East 74th Street
The townhouse on East 74th Street smelled of fresh beeswax and lemon oil. The heavy winter curtains had been taken down, replaced by the simple, pale linen drapes that Clara’s mother had brought from Italy thirty years ago.
The three heavy-paper ledgers still sat on the long walnut table in the parlor, but the blue lines were clean now, the red ink circles gone, replaced by the small, neat check marks of Arthur Pendelton’s adding machine.
Clara sat by the fireplace, a book open on her knees, her reading glasses sliding down her nose. She wasn't looking at the pages; she was watching the fire light play against the dark wood of the grandfather clock in the corner.
The front door bell rang downstairs—a soft, musical chime that didn't disturb the room’s silence.
A few moments later, Leo Vance stepped into the parlor, carrying a small, wooden crate that smelled of cedar and dried grass.
“The delivery from Boston arrived, Mrs. Whitaker,” Leo said, setting the crate down on the small rug near her chair. “Samuel sent the anise cookies. The ones from the old bakery on Hanover Street. He said his knees are feeling much better now that the damp weather has cleared.”
Clara smiled—a real, genuine smile that brought a sudden, youthful light into her dark eyes. She reached into the crate, pulling out a small, white paper bag tied with a piece of rough twine.
“Did you find the other thing, Leo?” she asked.
Leo reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, silver drive—the security token 001 that had belonged to Anthony Whitaker. He laid it on the table beside her book.
“The Zurich branch confirmed the final transfer this morning, ma'am,” Leo said. “The holding company has been liquidated. The Whitaker name has been removed from the North River ledger. The entire port is registered under the Lawson name now.”
Clara took the silver drive, her fingers closing around the metal until the edges bit into her palm. She walked over to the fireplace, her posture straight and unbroken, her eyes fixed on the yellow flames curling around the oak log.
She opened her hand and dropped the silver drive straight into the center of the fire.
The plastic casing melted within ten seconds, the small green circuit board inside bursting into a tiny, brilliant blue flame that flared once before disappearing into the black soot of the chimney.
The paint was gone. Only the iron remained.
May you like
“Shall I bring the tea, Mrs. Whitaker?” Leo asked from the doorway.
“Yes, Leo,” Clara said, turning back to the quiet room, her hand resting on the silver key pin on her chest. “And call Dominic Russo. Tell him the center table at Ashford Hall is reserved for the Newark local next year. Tell him he can tell the old men they can leave their coats at the door.”
