Authors: Joan Early
“Decreasing interest rates is the only thing that comes to mind. You know how that goes. People see the rates dropping and hold out to see just low they’ll go. Sealand has grown tremendously over the past few years. The volume of new loans generated from this office alone is staggering,” he explained, finally looking directly into her eyes. “Price can answer your questions about trends in lending better than anyone. He can also provide statistical and historical data on fluctuations in new home construction.”
“Yes, I’ll certainly discuss this with Price.” She caught sight of Price pacing the hallway.
“I know he planned to introduce everyone at the meeting, but I wanted to stop by and offer my congratulations on your promotion. Deeds informed us by memo that you were given the position. I’m glad you were transferred here.”
His smile was warm. She wanted very much to feel that she had found a friend, but felt little trust between them. Worrisome notions kept popping into her head. Had she been chosen because she had earned the recognition and reward? Did Mr. Deeds have ulterior motives for sending her to Houston? She decided it best to keep her eyes open and trust no one.
“Thank you,” she said as he left. Before she could gather her thoughts, Price poked his head into the door.
“Hi, again.” He had removed his jacket, revealing a severe laxity in gym visits. “I thought you might like to look at the production breakdown for the past three months. I know the home prices here in Houston are vastly different from those in your hometown.”
Susan considered the difficulty of working in an atmosphere of animosity and tried to sound especially cordial. “Oh, yeah. Big difference. There is certainly more new home construction here than in Canton. I’m also glad to see the resale market doing so well.”
He offered an opinion on the housing trends in Houston, and she thanked him for his input.
“I’ll take these home for evening reading.” She smiled. “Travis stopped by earlier to extend a personal welcome. We spoke several times when I was in Ohio, and he was always helpful. It’s good to finally place faces with names.”
“We have a group of very capable employees in this office. I’m happy to welcome one more. I’m certainly glad to have additional help. Now my wife can quit nagging me to spend more time with her and the kids. I’m sure your marital status was a factor in your promotion. It’s a lot easier to transfer a single person than one with a family.”
He started for the door and looked over his shoulder. “By the way, Travis is also single.”
She smiled but said nothing. She recalled reading the results of a study on the progression of single females in the corporate world. Price could be right. Of course, the cost of moving a family as opposed to a single employee would not have been a consideration if Price has been promoted; he already lived in Houston. Trying to unclutter her mind, Susan filled her head with pleasant thoughts.
Travis was a pleasant thought. He was handsome, and she had noticed that even when his voice quivered, his hands remained steady and strong. Her mother had always said the hands always betray the heart and that steady hands were a sign of strong character. What she did not see was confidence and potency. She also did not feel a physical attraction.
She thought of Stan and wondered if he was happy. She had not wanted to end her marriage, but it was the only thing that made sense. His needs for constant reassurance and ego boosts became draining. The more she gave, the more he required. She shook her head free of those thoughts, the tension and emptiness she was feeling. A man, a husband, was not paramount to her happiness. Nonetheless, emotional and physical merging of souls and bodies was part of her prescription for a totally satisfying life. She knew she would one day find the right combination.
* * *
After purchasing a sandwich from the first-floor deli, Susan returned to her office, closed the door, and started reviewing the reports Price had provided. Remembering the customary lull in home buying after school started, she planned to use the weeks of late August and early September to get acquainted with her new surroundings. She finished the sandwich and turned to reapply her lipstick.
“Miss Cross?” The receptionist tapped on her door and came inside.
“Sorry to disturb you, but there are some people here to see you.”
Surprised, she asked, “Did they ask for me specifically?”
“No, they said they wanted to speak with…I believe the exact words were ‘head honcho,’ and Mr. Bishop said to have them see you. The leader of the group is Rev. Willard Cartwright. He didn’t introduce the others.”
Ignoring Ann’s Cheshire cat grin, Susan checked her inter-office directory and dialed Price’s extension.
“Who is Rev. Cartwright, and why is he here?”
“I’m not sure why he’s here, but Rev. Cartwright is one of the city’s leading ministers and community activists,” Price said. “He does a lot of moralizing and makes a lot of waves. He said he’s here about our lending practices, and since you’re head of lending, I had Ann direct him to your office. Is that a problem?”
When she didn’t answer, he made an openly patronizing offer.
“I’ll be happy to sit in on the meeting if you don’t feel you can handle it.”
Resisting the urge to scream, she spoke calmly. “Just remain available until they leave, please.” She hung up. “Show them in, Ann.”
Susan took a deep breath and stood as the five people were ushered in. She stopped in mid-exhalation. The man in front was larger than life—not just in size, which was considerable, but also in sheer magnetism. Standing tall and proud, his broad shoulders were squared with military erectness. His eyes were large and dark, almost black, she thought. His features were in perfect symmetry: a wide, unlined forehead, prominent nose, and strong, square chin.
Susan thought of old Western movies in which tribal warriors stood on hilltops watching their people. This man reminded her of such a warrior. His expression and his stance spoke clearly; he was chief of his tribe. His companions faded into the background, overshadowed by his prominence and the most intriguing smile Susan had ever seen. Impeccably dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and red print tie, his broad shoulders and smooth black skin were enough to make him stand out, but the thundering baritone of his “good afternoon” was as electrifying as an echo in a canyon.
She anchored her right hand on the edge of the desk and spoke above the pounding of her heart. “Good afternoon. I’m Susan Cross. How may I help you?”
“I’m Rev. Willard Cartwright, and I certainly hope you can help us, Miss Cross,” he said, gesturing to his companions. “This is Mrs. Whitehead, Deacon Roosevelt Jones, and Mr. and Mrs. Jessie Carter.”
Susan acknowledged each with a nod and a smile, ending with Deacon Jones, who was touring her body with his eyes. She refocused on Rev. Cartwright. His looks. His presence. His calm effervescence. His generous mouth remained in a crooked smile as if he sensed her uneasiness.
“Please have a seat,” she said, pointing to the six chairs around the mahogany conference table.
Rev. Cartwright held a chair for Mrs. Whitehead and waited until everyone was seated before unbuttoning his jacket and taking the chair across from Susan, who sat facing the window. She watched his every move. Something new was happening to her heart.
“We came here to discuss a serious problem, but before we get into that, may I first ask why we were directed to you?”
His deep voice was insistent but had a hint of sweetness. Susan was insulted and angry, and she was sure it showed as she looked from one to the other. Ashamed of her intensely sexual response to a stranger, and a minister at that, she chose her words carefully.
“The receptionist said you asked to see the person in charge. In the absence of the company president, that would be me. If you’d like to speak to someone else, I’ll be more than happy to redirect you, although I must advise you, we rarely see visitors without appointments.”
She spoke with measured clarity, hoping her voice did not convey her inward irritation. “We do have a customer service department on the nineteenth floor, but since you described your problem as serious, I doubt customer service would be of much help.”
The ire she had hoped to mask brought stern looks from his associates and a big smile from the reverend. She shivered, but her face was scalding hot.
“I apologize to you, Miss Cross.” His smile widened and his dark eyes danced merrily. “Is it Miss or Mrs.?”
“Miss is just fine.”
“Miss Cross, I apologize, first for barging in without an appointment and then for questioning your authority. I assure you, it was not intended as an insult.” His eyebrows drew together inquisitively. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is your position with Sealand?”
She turned and lifted one of her brand new business cards from the crystal holder, a gift from her parents, and held it out to him. “Executive vice president. My responsibilities include, but are not limited to, managing the company’s mortgage-lending division. I report to the president of the company, which, in his absence, makes me the head honcho in charge of this division.”
His penetrating gaze was weakening her resolve. “Now, how can I help you?”
She tilted her head to the right and tried not to come undone, but out of sight, her legs trembled and her heart pounded furiously.
“I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot, Miss Cross. I’m here on behalf of six individuals, maybe more, who were turned down for loans with your company. The only common thread is that all six were attempting to purchase homes in the same neighborhood, Cedargrove Heights. Four of the six were easily approved elsewhere. Our concern, Miss Cross, is the reason they were denied credit with this company.”
Deacon Jones grunted as Rev. Cartwright continued.
“Other lenders readily approved their applications. Since there were no problems with the applicants, it must have been the neighborhood. That’s redlining, Miss Cross; a practice that’s severely frowned upon by all bodies that govern the lending industry.”
“I’m familiar with redlining, Rev. Cartwright, and it is a serious matter. Do you have proof of your suspicions?” she asked calmly, having regained some control over her runaway emotions.
“The proof is obvious, Miss Cross. Cedargrove Heights is a predominately black community. It’s an old neighborhood with some blight, but its residents are mostly proud and conscientious homeowners. Quite a few professionals live in the older section. They’ve raised their families there. First-time homeowners, some newlyweds, and quite a few older couples are purchasing the less expensive homes in newly developed areas. The neighborhood is very special to me. I grew up there.”
Awestruck by his charm and still angry at his intrusion, she tried to concentrate. There was a gleam in his eyes, a sparkle. She imagined his inviting lips on hers and felt at once ashamed, angry, and aroused.
“May I ask how all of this concerns you, Rev. Cartwright? If you’re here in a legal capacity, you should speak with the honcho in—”
“No, no; I’m not an attorney, Miss Cross. My church, Cedargrove Baptist, is in the heart of this community. The six families in question attempted to purchase homes in this particular community, and those attempts were met with discrimination. I’m a concerned citizen, as is everyone here. We want to try and settle this matter amicably.”
His smile had disappeared. Susan was happy to have riled him almost as much as he had rattled her.
“I’ll certainly take your concerns under advisement, Rev. Cartwright. If this problem exists, I can assure you, Sealand will handle it in a responsible and equitable manner. Please provide the names and phone numbers of the applicants in question and I will forward my findings to them.”
Deacon Jones stood and shook his head, saying, “No way, sugar pie. We ain’t giving you nothing. You ought to have records of the people you turned down. We don’t want you to get back to us. We want answers now. That’s why we come down here.” His fingers fumbled with the breast pocket of his jacket while his eyes strayed to the crystal ashtray on the table. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”
Susan watched his elastic jaws fold and elongate like an accordion. In this gnat of a man, she saw generations of crusaders whose tireless fight for equality had not ceased. That, and her profound respect for his age, prevented an equally nasty reply.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, “but this is a no-smoking building, Deacon Jones. You’re correct; we do keep files for all loans. Unless what you say is true, there is no reason for our files of approved or rejected loans to be segregated by subdivision. So then, I could spend days, weeks, searching for information that you can readily provide.”
Arms flailing and projectile drops of spittle skidding across the polished wood of the conference table, Deacon Jones took loud exception to the smoking ban. “Well, somebody in this building must smoke. Where do they go when they want a cigarette? You’re supposed to facilitate everybody, handicapped and all. Why you got this big ashtray here if nobody smokes?”
Before she could respond to the deacon’s rant, Mr. Carter rose from his chair and declared. “Your company turned us down, and I want to know why. There’s nothing wrong with our credit. We moved here from Silsbee six years ago. We been renting since we got here. We worked hard to save enough money for a down payment, and now you say we don’t qualify. I just want to know why.”
“Mr. Carter, if you don’t mind, please allow me to answer Deacon Jones,” Susan responded, looking at the wrinkled black face with more admiration than anger. “Deacon, I have no knowledge of the smoking habits of the employees, and while I consider cigarette smoking a grave annoyance and definite health hazard, to the best of my knowledge, it’s not a handicap. This building has proper facilities for the blind and those in wheelchairs, but smoking is not allowed. As for the ashtray, it was here when I arrived. Maybe someone smoked in here at one time, but I’m sure you’re aware of recent laws prohibiting smoking in public buildings.”
She turned to Mr. Carter, who had slumped back into the chair. “Mr. Carter, I’ll be happy to pull your file, review your loan application, and provide further information on the outcome. I will reply in writing, in person, or over the telephone if you prefer, but I will not, cannot, give you an answer at this time.”