Only the Beautiful by Susan Meissner

Author:Susan Meissner [Meissner, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2023-04-18T00:00:00+00:00

20

OCTOBER 1942 TO OCTOBER 1943

The bus south to San Jose makes so many stops, it takes three hours to complete the ninety-mile trip, but I use the time to prepare myself to enter the bank and ask for what is mine. When we at last arrive, I use money I saved from working at the hotel to take a taxi to the First National Bank. I am glad for the new tweed suit, glad I decided to put it on before leaving Petaluma. I feel like I look responsible and mature as I walk into the bank and head to the area where the safety-deposit boxes are located. I took off the little silver key from the necklace while still on the bus and placed it in my pocketbook.

But Truman did not discuss with me how to open the box, other than to mention the note with his signature inside it, and now I realize as I am approaching the clerk who sits at a desk in front of the open vault that I don’t know how one initiates that. Truman must have thought I would know. I clear my throat and the man looks up and smiles at me.

“May I help you?”

“Yes,” I say, feigning confidence. “I’d like to open a safety-deposit box, please. I have the key.”

“Certainly.” He holds out his hand, palm up. “And the name?”

I look at his outstretched palm, unsure. Am I supposed to hand over the key to him? Just like that? I don’t want it out of my sight for a second. Having it is the only proof I’ve got that the money is mine.

“Your key?”

I swallow the little knob of anxiousness at the back of my throat. “I would like to open the box myself.”

The man blinks several times as if needing a moment to find the right words. “Of course, but I must see the number on your key so that I can get its companion.”

I hold the key out so that he can look at it. I have studied it often enough to know that engraved on the key is the number 104. The man looks at the number and then gazes up at me, studying my face for a second. I fight not to look away.

“And the name on the account?” he says again, still studying me.

“The name on the account is Truman Calvert. There is a note inside the box with his signature, instructing that I take out what’s inside it.”

The man gapes at me as if I said the account belongs to Mickey Mouse.

“Mr. Calvert knows I have this key.” My voice sounds somehow both assured and nervous at the same time. “He gave me this key. When I open it, I can show you his signature.”

“I am guessing you have not been in contact with Mr. Calvert in a while?” the man says, his polite demeanor from seconds earlier starting to weaken a bit.

“What difference does that make?”

The man motions to the chair in front of his desk.

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