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“Poor kid,” murmured Corney. “But getting back to the matter at hand, I’ve already spoken to Ted about a center-spread ad and I know you’ll do a super story, Lucy . . .”
This was the sort of thing Lucy hated but knew only too well was part and parcel of small-town journalism. Letting advertising drive news coverage always made her feel like a shill instead of a journalist. Business news was still news, she reminded herself, especially in a town where most of the businesses were still small family affairs. Pushing her resentments to the back of her mind, she turned her attention to Corney, who was saying, “. . . and we’re launching the promo tomorrow at the Seamen’s Bank. I know you’ll want to be there because Karl Klaus himself has agreed to a photo op.”
Lucy doubted she’d heard correctly. “What did you say?” she asked.
“Karl Klaus will be at the Seamen’s Bank tomorrow, eleven o’clock, for the kick-off.”
“Talk about burying the lead,” complained Lucy. “Why didn’t you say that sooner?”
“Because I didn’t want you to get too excited and start thinking about all sorts of questions. He said absolutely no interview and you know his reputation. Frankly, I’m not entirely convinced he’s going to show up.”
“Well, you can count on me,” promised Lucy. “I’ll be there.”
“Thanks, Lucy,” said Corney, sounding relieved. “There’s a lot riding on this, a lot of our businesses are on the edge. This promo’s got to work or we’ll have even more empty stores on Main Street.”
Next morning found Lucy at the Seamen’s Bank, where a small delegation of business folk had gathered, awaiting the sculptor’s arrival. Bert Cogswell, the bank president, was there, of course, along with Franny Small, representing the Board of Selectmen, and Tony Marzetti, who owned the IGA. These notables, as well as a handful of customers, were gathered around the coffee bar, a new addition to the bank, which had recently undergone a major renovation. For her part, Lucy missed the marble floor and the massive vault that had formerly held pride of place behind the barred teller’s cages. She always had the feeling that her money was safe whether she was sliding a five dollar birthday check from Aunt Helen beneath the teller’s cage or making a mortgage payment. Nowadays, the marble was covered with thick carpet, the vault was discreetly hidden behind a newly constructed wall, and the associates seemed to hang out rather casually behind an island.
Customers who needed to confer with a banker were invited to wait in a seating area with a curvaceous sofa and a coffee table on which to set their free cups of coffee. The clubby atmosphere didn’t inspire confidence, thought Lucy, who carefully balanced her checking account every month.
“Ah, Lucy, are you here to cover the big event?” asked Bert Cogswell. While the bank employees were now encouraged to dress in business casual, Bert clung to his lifetime habit of navy suit, tie, and starched white shirt. His thinning hair was combed over his bald spot.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Lucy as Corney arrived, toting the enormous Easter basket. She paused, looking around for somewhere to put it.
“Uh, I guess the coffee table,” suggested Bert, stepping forward to relieve her of her burden.
“Super, everyone can see it there,” agreed Corney. “Careful, it’s heavy.”
The Easter basket was set down on the table and everyone gathered around, admiring it.
“It was quite a job, fitting everything in,” said Corney. “I left a little spot for the Klaus egg.”
It was just then that a rather dishevelled older man entered, stumbling on the doorsill. Harold Fincham, the bank guard, stepped forward, catching him by the arm and preventing his fall, while giving him the once over. Apparently homeless, the fellow was unshaven, had thick eyeglasses held together with tape, and the sole on one shoe had come loose.
“Ah, Karl, you’re here!” trilled Corney, all smiles. “Welcome!”
“Uh,” offered the famous sculptor, by way of greeting. “Uh, let’s get on with it.”
“Right. Right,” stammered Corney. “Well, everyone, this is Karl Klaus, our noted sculptor, who is on his way to New Hampshire where he will be feted and receive the prestigious St. Gaudens Sculpture Prize.”
Everyone clapped and smiled, except for Karl and Lucy. Karl never smiled, at least not in recent memory, and Lucy was fuming over the fact that Corney had failed to share this important bit of information about the prize with her.
“I’ve got to get going,” muttered Karl, digging in the pocket of his tattered Army jacket. “Here it is.” He produced a gleaming golden egg, which he was in danger of dropping until Corney snatched it.
“It’s just beautiful,” she enthused, displaying it for all to see.
The gathered crowd oohed and aahed, watching as Corney placed the gleaming mini-sculpture in the center front of the basket.
“Can I get a photo?” asked Lucy, as Klaus was turning to go. Corney quickly grabbed him by his arm and led him to the sofa. “Let’s sit here,” she invited him. “Behind the basket.”
“I could take a load off,” admitted Karl, in agreement. He plunked himself down, Corney slid in beside him. “Bert, we need you, too,” insisted Corney, and the bank president took his place behind them. Lucy snapped the photo, making sure to get the basket front and center.
Then Corney made a little speech, congratulating the sculptor on his upcoming award, which was warmly received by the gathered notables.
“It’s just a medal, no money,” grumbled Klaus, in response to the group’s applause. He had been studying the Easter basket with great intensity and finally reached in and snagged a box of Fern’s Famous Fudge. “Something for the road,” he said, standing up.
“Is there anything you’re planning to say at the award ceremony?” asked Lucy, hoping for a juicy quote, or possibly even jump-starting an interview.
“Better left unsaid,” muttered the sculptor, heading directly for the door, the flapping sole of his shoe requiring a sort of kick-step. Harold leaped to open the door for him and they all watched as he departed, making his way to an aged pickup truck which was double-parked in front of the bank. Moments later a roar was heard as the truck took off, slowly but noisily.
