He hadn’t been expecting this. He might have lingered a moment too long. “Well, both, ultimately. But the priority is commercial. I’m thinking of moving my business to the area. I’ve been over at the library, and I asked one of the librarians to recommend an attorney who specializes in real estate.”
This, apparently, was what passed for flattery in Rutland, because it had an unmistakable effect. “Yes, Mr. Gaylord has an excellent reputation,” she informed Jake. “Would you like to take a seat? I can ask if he’s available to see you.”
Jake sat in the nook opposite her desk. There was a love seat facing the front window and an old trunk with a potted fern and a stack of
“Hello there.”
Jake looked up. The man standing over him was sturdy and tall, with abundant (but thankfully clean) nostril hair. He was neatly dressed in black pants, a white button-down shirt, and a tie that would have been at home on Wall Street.
“Oh, hi. My name’s Jacob Bonner.”
“Like the author?”
Still a surprise. Always would be, he suspected. Now what should he say about the business he was supposedly moving to the Rutland area?
“Yes, actually.”
“Well, not often a famous writer walks into my office. My wife read your book.”
Five monosyllabic words, speaking volumes.
“I appreciate that. I’m sorry to come in without an appointment. I was asking at the library, and they recommended—”
“Yes, so my wife said. Would you like to come in?”
He stepped out of the nook and past the apparent Mrs. Gaylord, following William Gaylord, Esq., back to his office.
Various local citations and memberships framed on the wall. A degree from the Vermont School of Law. Behind Gaylord, on the mantelpiece of a blocked-up fireplace, a few dusty framed pictures of himself and the woman with the less than pleasant smile.
“What brings you to Rutland?” Gaylord said. His chair creaked as he settled into it.
“I came up to do some work on a new book, and see a former student. I used to teach in northern Vermont. Until a couple of years ago.”
“Oh, yes? Where was that?”
“At Ripley College.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That place still in business?”
“Well, it was a low-residency program when I was there. Now I think it’s online only. I’m not sure what’s happened to the actual campus.”
“That’s a shame. Drove through Ripley not so many years ago. Pretty place.”
“Yes. I enjoyed teaching there.”
“And now,” said Gaylord, taking charge of the segue himself, “you’re thinking of moving your business—as a writer—to Rutland?”
“Well … not exactly. I can write anywhere, of course, but my wife … she works for a podcasting studio in the city. We’ve been thinking about moving out of New York, letting her set up a studio of her own. I told her I’d look around while I was here. It seemed to make sense. Rutland is such a crossroads for the state.”
Gaylord grinned, showing crowded teeth. “It is that. Can’t say that’s always a good thing for the town. But yes, we’re pretty much on the way from anywhere in Vermont to anywhere else. Not a bad place at all to put a business. Podcasting is quite the thing, isn’t it?”
Jake nodded.
“So you’d want something zoned commercial, I imagine?”
He let himself be led. At least fifteen minutes on the multiple “downtowns” of Rutland, the various state incentive schemes and earmarked loans for new businesses, the waivers sometimes available for companies aiming to employ more than five people. He had to keep nodding and making notes and pretending to be interested, all the while wondering how he could get them both to the house on Marble Street in West Rutland.
“I’m curious, though,” said William Gaylord. “I mean, I’m from this area, and I’m committed to the future here, but most folks, coming up from New York or Boston, they’re thinking Middlebury or Burlington.”
“Yeah, sure.” Jake nodded. “But I came here a bunch of times, as a kid. I think my parents had some friends in the area. In West Rutland?”
“Okay.” Gaylord nodded.
“And I remember visiting in the summers. I remember this donut shop. Wait …” He pretended to search for the name.
“Jones’?”
“Jones’! Yes! The best glazed donuts.”
“A personal favorite of mine,” Gaylord said, actually patting his gut.
“And this one swimming hole …”
There had better be a swimming hole. In a Vermont town? It seemed like a safe bet.
“Plenty of them. Which one?”
