BLUE RIDGE FEDERAL BANK was located on the corner of Washington and North Liberty Streets in Middleburg, a town that had been founded in 1787 by Leven Powell, who named many of the streets for the Founding Fathers because they were his friends. Washington Street—named for George—was our main street and divided the north- and south-named streets like Hamilton, Madison, Jay, and Marshall. We had a single traffic light a block from the bank at the intersection of Washington and Madison. Less than a mile on either side of that light you were already outside what we called Middleburg’s “corporate limits.” Not exactly a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town, but we liked it just as it was, with its pretty art galleries and antiques stores, charming cafes and restaurants, and little specialty shops whose owners knew everyone who walked through their door.

There had been a bank on the corner of Washington and North Liberty since 1835; originally it was the People’s Bank of Middleburg. When Blue Ridge Federal bought the national historic trust building after PBM went out of business, they retained the beautiful architectural features like the PBM medallions—intertwined gilt and royal-blue letters on a cream-colored background—on either side of the arched entrance, the gas lanterns, and the tiled mosaic floor of the PBM logo flanked by two rampant lions in the outside foyer. Inside, with its black-and-white tiled floors, wrought-iron and marble tellers’ windows, high ceilings, and carved woodwork, it was the kind of elegant, imposing place you trusted to keep your money safe.

The tellers’ windows were located in a row on the main floor. The vault was at the back, a large old-fashioned behemoth of steel, copper, and concrete with a stainless steel wheel like a ship’s wheel on the exterior and complicated gears and moving parts on the inside that resembled the workings of an intricately designed watch.

A couple of tellers waved at me as I walked in and said hello. I waved back and pointed a finger toward the ceiling. The office of the president was on the second floor. There was a small elevator behind the staircase, but I took the sweeping circular staircase instead because I am stubborn and I will always challenge myself not to take the easy way and give in to my disability.

Seth’s secretary, a motherly woman who had streaked her short silver hair with neon purple, was sitting at a desk outside his office when I showed up at precisely ten o’clock.

“I like the purple,” I said.

She grinned. “I did it on a dare from my grandson. But I’m going to let it grow out.”

“Really?”

She gestured to the closed door with SETH HANNAH, PRESIDENT stenciled on it in gold. “He thinks I’m still dressed up for Halloween.” She stood up. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

A moment later she came out and held the door open. “Please go through.”