Page 10

Finn

I don’t spend more than an hour in Angel Falls at any given time, other than waiting for our guests to arrive at the airport.

I certainly don’t know where anything in town is located, or the best way to get there, but since there aren’t more than a few streets in the downtown area, how hard can it be to find the bank?

From what I understand, it’s the only bank in town, and Doris mentioned it’s the tallest building around.

As I scan the area, there aren’t any buildings taller than two stories, so what the heck is she talking about?

Wait a second. I crane my neck to try and see around the large pine tree on the corner of First Ave and Main Street—such original names.

That has to be it, I think. At the far end of First Ave stands a three-story building with at least another story in height due to the clock tower on top.

I put my blinker on and turn down the street to find parking.

As I get out of the car, a few people milling around outside Doc’s General Store turn my way.

They don’t look particularly hostile, or intelligent, for that matter.

However, they don’t recognize me, and that seems to be enough to draw their attention.

I don’t much care for it though. As an outsider in this town, it makes the most sense to me to lay low, mind my own business, and try not to make waves.

Waves usually mean enemies, in my book. I clutch my father’s documents to my chest and hurry past the group of gawkers, hoping they’ll soon find something shiny to captivate themselves in my absence.

The Angel Falls Bank and Trust is open for business between noon and four in the afternoon, or so says the sign at the front door.

I check my watch. Perfect, I have plenty of time.

I pull open the door and walk inside. There’s something about being in an old-timey bank that feels familiar, no matter what town I’m in.

The shiny stone floors, the cathedral-like ceilings, and even the dark wooden teller areas are expected.

As the door closes behind me, it feels as if I’ve entered a vault, not necessarily of money, but time itself.

I close my eyes and listen for just a moment.

The soft-spoken words of the staff and customers are what I notice first. Then, the distant ticks and taps of adding machines.

I open my eyes and breathe deep; the scent of old wood and something else familiar catches my attention. What is that scent?

Cigars?

I quickly look from side to side to see if someone is indeed smoking inside the old building.

I can’t imagine anyone would be allowed to do so, but again this is Alaska, and not at all what I’m accustomed to back home.

No one is puffing away, as far as I can tell.

The sweet smell has somehow made its way into the fabric of the building and welcomes everyone who comes inside its walls.

“Can I help you, young man?” an older woman with coke-bottle glasses asks as she walks up to me.

I meet her gaze with a smile and say, “I’d love to speak to the banker if he… or she, is here?”

“Mr. Oliver is here,” she says. “Do you have an appointment?”

Shaking my head, I say, “I’m afraid I didn’t know I needed one, ma’am.”

Her magnified eyes blink a few times behind her thick lenses as she looks me up and down. It’s a strange sensation, being eyed like that. What exactly is she looking for? I decide to remain silent until she is ready to talk.

“Don’t be silly,” she says as she waves me along to follow her deeper into the bank. “I never said you needed an appointment; I just asked if you had one.”

Without a word, I follow her to the far back of the expansive lobby where she leads me to an elevator. She pushes the button and looks up at me. “He’s on the third floor, the old coot.”

“Are you coming with me?”

She pushes her glasses to the top of her nose and smiles. “Do you think you’re going to get lost between here and the third floor?”

“Well, no.”

“Then, why the hell do I have to go?” She shakes her head. “You young people these days. What do they call you again? Millenniums, or something like that?”

I don’t have the heart to correct her but simply nod and smile.

Her wink and elbow jab to the side make me flinch, which seems to feed into her perception of how worthless or witless my generation is.

To be fair, thinking back to the group of potential losers congregating outside, she has a good point.

Stepping inside the elevator, I wave her goodbye, and the doors close.

I press the button and wait until the door whooshes open on the third floor.

Surprisingly, all the quaint, old-world charm of the lobby and teller area is gone on this level.

Carpeted floors. Fluorescent lighting. Fake potted plants scattered about the place.

All the glass-walled offices are empty except for the one in the center. Sitting at the desk is a bald, heavy-set man in an ill-fitted suit. The closer I get, I can make out the nameplate on the door: Mr. Oliver. My stomach flutters with nerves, and I tighten my grip on my father’s financial books.

It’s go-time.

The heavy-set Mr. Oliver looks up from his desk as I slowly walk toward his office door.

I can’t tell if he has rolled his eyes or not, but the way he wipes his forehead and sighs tells me he doesn’t want to deal with any customers.

It would have been easier if his secretary had called up to let him know I was here, or at least accompanied me to his office, but never mind all that.

I’m here now, and hopefully, he will have good news for me.

I rap on the door and wait for Mr. Oliver to acknowledge my presence.

Seconds later, he waves me inside without as much as a glance in my direction.

As soon as I open the door, I regret having a sense of smell.

The atmosphere inside this little glass prison cell of an office smells of onions and sweat.

Either Mr. Oliver doesn’t much care for deodorant, or he’s just finished the world’s largest onion sandwich for lunch.

“Mr. Oliver?”

He glances up from the stack of papers he’s reading. “I don’t recognize you, son. Are you new to Angel Falls?”

“My name is Finnegan Wildwood. My father was Roy Wildwood.”

“Ah, yes,” he says with a sigh and looks down for a moment. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So, what brings you into Angel Falls Bank and Trust?”

“May I have a seat?”

He motions toward the chair across the desk from him. “Absolutely, son.”

I sit and place the binder full of documents I’ve found on the desk.

“Last night I was going through some of my father’s things and found this bank ledger and financial records.

I was hoping you could take a look at them and tell me they’re wrong.

I’ve recently received my business degree from the university, so I know what I’m looking at, but I can’t imagine the numbers are correct. ”

Mr. Oliver takes the binder and opens the front cover.

He begins flipping through each page and using his desktop adding machine to crunch the financials.

He then turns on the computer next to him, but I’m not able to see the screen.

After typing in a few commands, he turns the monitor around so I can take a look.

“Sorry, Finn,” he says. “Looks like these numbers are correct.”

My heart leaps into my throat. How could my father have been such a terrible businessman? He let everyone down. Real people rely not only on the bed and breakfast as income but as a steady paycheck and a place to live.

“Finn,” Mr. Oliver says. “I knew your father was in some financial trouble before his passing. I was hoping that you were going to be able to bring in some funding, possibly from a life insurance policy or an account of your own.”

“I don’t have any of my own money,” I say. “Like I told you, I just graduated from college. As for life insurance, there was no mention of a policy in the reading of the will.”

“Damn,” he says. “I sure am sorry for this bad news.”

“Based on what the financials look like, what would I need to bring to the table to save the lodge? And by what time?” I have a little hope left that possibly I can raise some extra funds, or maybe Wyatt and I can come up with a plan to save our livelihoods.

He stares at me for an uncomfortably long period of time without saying a word.

Finally, he hangs his head forward and lets out a sigh before looking back into my eyes.

“You’ll need to come up with two hundred fifty thousand dollars to pay off the property.

The loan is so far in arrears that the mortgage company wants it paid in full.

Your father had it nearly paid off a few years ago but borrowed against it at a very low interest rate to help with medical expenses. ”

I don’t know what to say.

“Finn,” he continues. “I’m really sorry, son.

Your daddy needed the money something awful, and this was the only way he could get it.

The loan he took out has stipulations that allowed for a very low interest rate, but if payments were too far delayed, the property could be seized unless paid in full. ”

“When did he take this loan out?” I ask. “From what I understand, he was only sick for a short time.”

“Three years, Finn. It wasn’t…” Mr. Oliver puts up his hands and shakes his head. “Your father’s personal business is not for me to discuss.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m sorry, son. All I can tell you is you need to have the money here by the end of the month to keep ownership of The Wildwood.”

“End of the month?” I say. “How the hell can I come up with that kind of money by then?”

Mr. Oliver shakes his head. “I’m truly sorry to be the bearer of such awful news.”

The room suddenly tilts, and my vision begins to swim.

The pressure in my chest grows heavier, and I begin to sweat profusely.

A panic attack is imminent, and there’s very little I can do to stop it.

I push back from the desk, snatch up the binder and other documents, and hug them to my chest. As I rush from the office, I nearly stumble, catching myself on the doorframe in time to steady myself.

I stumble toward the elevators and press the down button as many times as I can until the doors open.

Once inside, I hold my breath until the doors close and then slide to the floor.

My breathing comes in ragged bursts. If I lose the lodge, Doris and Miranda have no place to live and no paycheck.

The same goes for Wyatt. They’re depending upon me to keep the place running and solvent.

How could my father have done this to me?

Why did he let the property fall into so much debt?

From what I understand, he was only sick for a year at most; why would he have had so many medical bills three years ago? None of this makes any sense.

Ding .

The doors slide open, and I push myself back up to stand. I take a deep breath and try my best to look put together as I walk through the large lobby toward the front doors.

“I hope you’ll be back to see us soon, young man,” the woman with coke-bottle glasses says.

I wave but say nothing as I push the doors open with my hip and exit the bank.

The cold, dry air that hits my face feels divine.

I take a deep breath and then another. The sweat on my brow quickly dries as I hurry to the car.

Unlocking the passenger side, I open the door and toss the binders of bad financial news onto the front seat and slam the door.

As I walk around to the other side, I stop short.

Someone has scraped BITCH and FUCK , into the paint of the driver’s side door. Damn those fucking asshole punks. I look around for someone to cuss out, but they’ve no doubt left a while ago and are now long gone.

Fuck, this day has gone from bad to worse.

I don’t know where I’m going to find the answers to the many questions swirling around in my head, but the best place to start would be my father’s journal. I need to read another passage as soon as I get home.

What will I tell everyone else at the lodge? Do I confide in them? Let them all find out at the end of the month? I shake my head and fight back both anger and sadness as I peel away from the curb, rushing to get home.