Page 278 of Love in Riverbend
“Mr. Dunn, this is Tillie Johnson, Mr. Ralph Stevens’s assistant. We received your message. The partners are disappointed and wish you well in the future.”
Nice. Concise. To the point.
In other words, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”
The next message was left two hours after the first.
“Richard, Herold Parker here. We understand you have found something other than Parker and Stevens. If you’d be willing to discuss your decision, we may be able to counter-offer.”
I sit taller. That is unexpected.
“Fuck,” I mumble.
The third message was received at five twenty last night.
“Richard, this is Ralph Stevens. Please call my office Monday morning. Herold and I have spoken about your situation. We’d like to discuss options with you.”
I shake my head.
It about killed me to make the call yesterday morning and decline their offer. I’m not sure I have it in me to do it again. Beyond the panes of glass, the wind blows. Closing my eyes, I listen to the creaks of the old house. In this house is where I lived most of my life. There’s undeniable comfort within the walls that isn’t duplicatable beyond.
Yet, living in Indianapolis filled me with different emotions.
I’ll even admit, if only to myself, that fear was one of the feelings. Fear of the unknown. Leaving Riverbend was like leaving a bubble of security. The guys meeting for breakfast later this morning are part of that bubble.
A cushion.
Protection.
While leaving that familiar safety net elicited fear, it also provoked excitement.
Being an older student wasn’t easy. Hell, some of my professors were younger than me. However, I never expected easy. As one of my professors said, I possessed a determination to succeed beyond that of most of the younger students. Not only did I and do I want to learn, but I’m also enthusiastic to learn.
I think about things Marilyn said…I had a career before entering the world of finance. That experience is what Ralph Stevens and Herold Parker saw. Sheepishly, I make the decision to give them a call on Monday morning.
By seven thirty, I’m jacked up on too much coffee as I enter the diner on Main Street.
“Ricky,” Joyce, the owner and best waitress, says from behind the counter.
I see a few familiar faces at the counter and filling the booths. The round table near the back is empty, but it’s set up for the normal crowd. As I walk toward Joyce, I get a few waves. Everyone else goes back to their breakfast.
“I heard a rumor you were in town.” Her smile dims. “How is Justin doing?”
“I haven’t spoken to him today. Yesterday…” I’m about to say he was feeling sorry for himself, but I can’t make the words form. Marilyn said I was doing the same. She may have been right, and fuck, I didn’t have a ten-ton piece of machinery fall on me. “Yesterday, he was still hurting.”
Joyce shakes her head. “It’s a miracle.”
I take a seat at the counter. “Seems like a tragedy, if you ask me.”
“Don’t you remember Alvin Gordon?”
My lips come together. “Bruce Gordon’s brother?” I’d forgotten about him. “Way before my time.”
“Mine too,” she says with a smile, setting a cup in front of me and pouring coffee. “Goodness, it was probably sixty years ago now. He was younger than Justin. Something malfunctioned in the silo. The poor man drowned in corn…”
I grimace, thinking of a scene from a movie. “You’re right, Joyce. Justin will recover. That’s a miracle.”
The bell above the door jingles.
