It was all a little much, considering the fact that half of their business was supposedly the nonprofit kind.
I reached the front door just as the driver of Marion’s car was helping her up the front steps. He was a huge man, tall and quite heavy, though I couldn’t tell if his bulk was mostly fat or muscle. He had dark eyes and hair, with a neatly trimmed beard and a slightly stooped posture. Once inside, Marion dismissed him with a thank-you and then took my arm, leaning on me for support as we headed through the foyer, the elegant, antique-laden decor not unlike that at the Smythe offices.
I learned a long time ago not to be impressed with money—how much a person made, how much a person owned. It seemed to me that the Bible had a lot to say about the things of this world, and I really did believe that the only important treasures were the ones we stored up in heaven. On the other hand, I wasn’t immune to the aesthetic pleasures that money and good taste could provide, and I looked around at our gracious surroundings as we walked.
Marion continued to lean on me as we went past a handsome study on the left and through the formal dining room to a small drawing room off to the right. As she settled onto the couch, she explained that just as her husband, Wendell, had had his study across the way, this was her little “getaway” room, her personal sanctuary. Though it wasn’t exactly my style, I found the delicate laces and the pale blue-and-yellow floral patterns oddly soothing. After I made sure she was comfortable on the couch, I allowed myself to sink down into an especially cushy armchair on the side.
“I just have to say how sorry I am that you’ve been caught up in all of this,” she said, placing her hand on mine. “I feel terrible, especially now that they won’t let you go home.”
“Please,” I said quickly, “don’t apologize. It’s just one of those awful things that can’t be anticipated. Right now the last thing you need to be worrying about is me. I’m more concerned for you.”
She was silent a long moment as tears slowly filled her eyes. She was reaching into her purse for a handkerchief just as a young maid came bursting through the doorway, speaking with a hint of an Italian accent.
“Mrs. Smythe, I am so sorry! I just heard the news on the radio, coming back from the grocery store!”
“Angelina,” Marion said, suddenly overcome with emotion, “can you believe it?”
The young maid came into the room, seemingly oblivious to my presence. She was very distraught, and she went to the couch and wrapped her arms around Marion. This attractive girl appeared to be in her early 20s. She wore a black, slightly-too-large maid’s uniform with a white apron, her straight dark hair twisted into a tight braid on the top of her head.