“I can’t wait to see you and Joyce on Lucas’s show tomorrow.”
Beryl gasped. “I’d completely forgotten about that. I don’t know how, but I did. Joyce, the show is on tomorrow. I don’t know if I can stand it.”
“You’ll be fine,” Joyce said. “But it is a bit nerve-wracking, innit? All those strangers watching us. If anyone actually does. Maybe no one will.”
Willa stopped eating the brownie in her hand. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. Lucas has a big following. People are definitely going to see it.”
Beryl swallowed, then quickly took a sip of wine. “I don’t know about this. I’ve never been one for the limelight.”
“You’ll be fine,” Frankie said. But she understood how Beryl was feeling. She’d had some of those same nerves when she’d made her first presentation to an entire auditorium of students. “Just remember that most of the people watching are already on your side because they like Lucas and so they’re eager for whatever he has in store for them. Also, it’s impossible not to like you and Joyce. You’re both lovely people. And Americans tend to adore anything British anyway.”
A hint of relief crept over Beryl’s face. She let out a little sigh. “I do hope you’re right.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Mitch had arrived at the bank promptly when it opened. Now, he sat in the manager’s office. “That’s right. I need three certified checks.”
“Yes, sir,” the manager said. Clark Williams. He barely looked old enough to drive. But then, everyone looked young to Mitch these days. “We’ll get those taken care of right away. What amounts did you want on the checks, Mr. Ripley?”
“One for twenty thousand, one for thirty thousand, and one for fifty thousand.”
Clark’s brows lifted but the shock on his face vanished quickly.
Mitch narrowed his eyes. He realized he was asking for a hundred thousand dollars in checks, but it was his money. He could do what he wanted with it. “Is there an issue? My accounts have more than enough on hand.”
“No problem at all, sir.” The manager jotted the figures down on a notepad. “And the payee on the checks?”
“Make them all out to Addison Keeler.”
Clark wrote the name out, spelling it as he did.
“That’s right,” Mitch said.
Clark looked up. “Wouldn’t one check be easier?”
“No.” Mitch didn’t have to explain himself. He’d been banking here for as long as he’d lived in Hideaway Bay. If this high schooler couldn’t help him, he’d call the bank president. He’d golfed with the man once in some charity tournament a decade ago.
Clark cleared his throat as he stood, notepad in hand. “I’ll just be a moment.”
“Great.”
He left. Mitch exhaled and studied the man’s desk. Other than the computer, name plate, stapler, and a card holder with his business cards in it, the desk held nothing. No family photos, no personal mementos, no sign the man had a life outside of the bank.
Maybe he didn’t. Or maybe he was newly promoted and hadn’t had a chance to bring any of those things in yet. Whatever the case, Mitch hoped there wasn’t going to be a problem. He’d promised Angelo he’d bring the checks by this morning.
Clark returned about ten minutes later, carrying an envelope. “Here you are, Mr. Ripley. Please have a look at those and tell me if they’re as they should be.” He sat behind the desk again, a tentative smile on his face.
Mitch opened the envelope and paged through the checks. All the right amounts, all the right name. He nodded. “Thank you, Clark. These look fine.”
“You’re very welcome, Mr. Ripley. Is there anything else we can do to help you today?”
“No, that’s it.” Mitch stood up and tucked the envelope into his back pocket.
Clark got to his feet. “Thank you for doing business with us. I’m, uh, I’m a big fan of your books, sir.”
Mitch gave him a nod. “That’s great. Thanks. Have a good day.”
He headed for the door. After all these years, he still never knew what to say to fans. It always felt so awkward to him. He got in the car, pulled out his phone, and made a note to send Clark a signed book.
