The Bank Officer Opened The File He Had Never Read

I went to the bank with my coat zipped over my work apron.

Leona met me near the elevators. She was forty-eight, Chinese American, and wore red glasses on a chain. She remembered that I took the stairs when I could and that I had once waited through her lunch break with a wet box of receipts.

"You dried every sheet," she said as we sat down.

"With blotting paper. It took two days."

"Most people would have thrown them out."

Her office faced a parking lot full of gray snow. She closed the door before she opened my file.

"Was it Benedict?" I asked.

"Yes. He said the name on the account was a clerical mistake. I told him we needed your signed instruction and the owner's consent. He had neither."

"Did he take anything?"

"No. I wouldn't even give him your balance."

She adjusted her red glasses.

"I remember that first meeting, when you were both weighing a joint purchase. He kept answering questions I asked you. You waited, then asked me to let you finish."

"You remembered that?"

"I needed your answer. His wasn't the same thing."

She laid out a payment history. Thirty-six rows. Each one showed $1,000 coming from my personal account. At the bottom sat the number I had built a little at a time.

$36,000.

I had skipped trips, kept my old car, and done weekend repair work at my kitchen table. Benedict had called it my fear of enjoying life.

Leona placed the signed rider beside the history.

"The option holder is Ayanna Givens. Just you. The payment condition is complete."

I read the words twice.

The price was $312,000. My escrow money would count toward it. The owner, Ruth Meade, had agreed to carry the remaining $276,000 as a loan secured by the building. I had sixty days after the final payment to exercise the option.

"He keeps saying he owns the lease," I said.

"The tenant is your company. That is a different file."

She didn't make it sound grand. She drew a line down a blank sheet and wrote Rent on one side and Purchase on the other.

That plain line helped me breathe.

"I'm scared the books will be moved," I said. "Two already are."

Leona set down her pen.

"Then you need a lawyer today. I handle the escrow. I can't handle that dispute for you."

She gave me three names from the bank's referral list. I called Mara Velez, who had an opening because a meeting had been canceled.

Before I left, Leona asked, "Do you want certified copies?"

"Of everything I signed. And every payment."

She put the copies in a plain folder. No gold edge. No ribbon.

At Mara's office near Main Street, I spread out the rider, lease, and our company agreement. She asked questions without once finishing a sentence for me.

"Who owns the equipment?"

"The list is attached. My press and tools are mine. The company owns the benches and sink."

"Who can borrow for the company?"

"Both signatures for anything over $5,000."

"Did you sign a loan?"

"No."

She circled that word in her notes.

Then she read the lease. A change in use or major work needed the owner's written consent. The company needed both members to approve it, too.

"Buying the building won't erase the company's lease," Mara said. "We will handle possession properly. First, we protect the books and give notice to preserve the records."

"Can I exercise today?"

"If these are the full terms, yes. Let's speak to Ruth."

Ruth answered from her daughter's house in Auburn. She had retired from running a print shop in the building. The upstairs still held the long windows she had used for drying posters.

"He told me you wanted out," she said.

"I don't."

There was a pause.

"Then I'm glad I didn't sign his new lease."

Mara sent the exercise notice by the methods the rider required. Ruth signed an acknowledgment that afternoon. Closing was set for ten business days later, after a title check and the final loan papers.

I paid Mara a $2,500 retainer from my emergency fund. For once, spending it made me feel safer.

At the studio, Benedict was measuring the window for his name.

"Where have you been?"

"Checking records."

"Well, check the supply closet. Your boxes have to go upstairs."

I left my certified copies in my locked car. Inside, I photographed the remaining client books and matched each box to our intake forms.

Benedict watched, then went out to take a call.

An envelope lay under the office door when I reached it. It was addressed to him, but its outer shipping sleeve had split. Through the clear window, I saw our shop address and a heading printed in red.

Collateral Inspection: Eleven Rare Books.

Below it was an appointment time for the next morning.