Chapter 10
Each weekday morning at seven o’clock, James Ponder pulled into his parking space at the back of Ponder House, entered the building, walked to his second-floor office, and reviewed his calendar for the day (hardly necessary since that was also the last thing he did before leaving his office the previous evening).
Then he would retrace his steps, walk a few doors down to the Chalice, purchase a coffee, and return to begin the day’s work.
He typically had an undisturbed hour or so before his office officially opened at nine.
Sometime thereafter, if the weather was agreeable, he would stroll to the post office for a bit of exercise.
He was a pleasant, reserved man who personified discipline and routine.
His daily attire was a starched shirt, expensive tie, suit or sport coat, and shined shoes.
That meager level of decorum and formality made him an anachronism in the casual, virtual, tech-driven marketplace of Golden.
Nonetheless, and despite his outdated ways, Mr. Ponder was a highly regarded and well-connected presence in the community.
He had influence.
His office building, inside and out, was a picture of refinement and order, a stark antithesis to Tony’s bookshop. Theo, to his credit, would prove to be as comfortable in one as he was in the other.
Theo stepped beneath the awning and stood before the heavy door, locked at the moment, that led into Ponder House. The door was veneered in oak with a heavy steel frame and two deadbolt locks. A gleaming bronze plate was affixed to the wall beside the entrance. It said:
James Ponder
Broker and Consultant
By Appointment Only
Below it, a smaller historical marker, as shiny as the other, stated the building’s name and year of origin, 1845. A brass lamp fixture, also spotless, was mounted beside the door. The brick walls were brushed and clean.
Theo pressed a button on the call box.
A matter-of-fact female voice, lacking any inkling of welcome, replied. “May I help you?”
Theo leaned close to the speaker. “Yes, good morning. I would like to make an appointment with Mr. Ponder, please.”
“Are you a client?”
“Not yet.”
The voice was about to announce that Mr. Ponder was not accepting new clients when Theo heard someone behind him.
“May I help you, sir?”
Theo turned to see a man, perhaps as old as himself, meticulously attired and holding a handful of mail.
“Good morning, sir,” Theo said. “Yes, I was just trying to make an appointment with Mr. Ponder. I am new to his town and wanted to ask about a piece of property.”
“I’m James Ponder.”
They shook hands. Theo bowed slightly.
“Ah, how nice. It’s good to meet you, Mr. Ponder. Please call me Theo.”
“Mr. Ponder,” the female voice squawked through the speaker. “I was just getting ready to tell the gentleman —”
“It’s OK, Mrs. Gidley. Go ahead and let us in.”
The locks released. Mr. Ponder stepped back to let Theo enter first. The door closed heavily behind them as they stepped into the reception room.
In little more than a glance, Theo discerned from the artwork, antiques, topiaries, and rugs that Ponder House was more than a mere office building.
Wall hangings were arranged at perfect height and exact right angles, precisely spaced.
The tassels of the rug on the pinewood floor were freshly combed.
The furnishings suffered no dust, and every item on display — crystal, brass, stone, wood — had been recently polished.
In subsequent visits, Theo would verify that all the artwork, aside from being notably eclectic, was, indeed, original — Cassatt, Thiebaud, Bartlett, Fujimura; that the mahogany display cabinet with the lion’s paw feet was indeed Thomas Chippendale, late eighteenth century; that the sideboard with satinwood and ebony inlaid checkering was indeed a Hepplewhite; and that the nine-by-twelve rug was indeed a late nineteenth-century Persian Serapi silk.
He had no idea about the provenance of the topiary but guessed that it, too, had a distinguished history.
While Theo was doing a quick survey of Ponder’s waiting room, Mr. Ponder, in a simultaneous glance, was doing one of his own, postulating from the attire, the wristwatch, the cufflinks, and the scarf that the old man standing before him was no ordinary visitor.
Mr. Ponder instructed his long-time secretary, Mrs. Gidley, to hold his calls.
She looked over her glasses, gave a perfunctory nod to her employer, and glared at Theo. She was offended that he had made it past her guard tower, and she made her disdain obvious through cold, dismissive eyes. Theo offered a demure smile in reply.
Mr. Ponder led the way to a well-lit carpeted staircase. “I have an elevator if you prefer.”
“Thank you. I prefer the stairs.”
For men with eighty-six and seventy-six years of life respectively, Theo and Mr. Ponder navigated the stairs with an admirable absence of hesitation or strain.
At the top they turned into a small hallway, fastidiously maintained and bearing more pieces of art.
They entered Mr. Ponder’s office, which, like the reception area and hallway, was well adorned and well cared-for.
A wood carving by Grainger McKoy.
A piece of blown glass on a mahogany pedestal.
A triad of millefiori paperweights from Perthshire.
Theo made a mental note: The man is a connoisseur with an eye for beauty and excellence.
Conspicuously absent was any evidence of brokerage work or any advertisement of credentials.
No diplomas. No certificates of membership in professional organizations.
No awards, though Mr. Ponder and his predecessors had amassed many.
Aside from a single file folder, an inkwell and pen, a closed laptop, and a calendar, the desktop was empty, polished, and immaculate.
A photograph, family no doubt, was on the credenza beside Mr. Ponder’s desk. And a painting of a reserved, thoughtful, and beautiful middle-aged woman — Theo’s assessment of the face in the frame — hung on the wall above the credenza. Mrs. Ponder?
On the east wall of the office, eight-foot windows overlooked Broadway. Curtains and blinds were designed to allow as much or as little light in the room as Mr. Ponder wished. The silence of the room indicated soundproofing that kept street noise from interrupting the serenity of the workspace.
Everything in the office — the furnishings, the artwork, the man himself — exhaled refinement and propriety.
The two men sat at a small table of burled maple. A crystal vase of flowers, gardenias (whose unbruised whiteness suggested they had been put there that very morning), was centered on the table.
“May I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Ponder. I don’t want to take too much of your time.”
“Mr. Theo, Mrs. Gidley was right in saying I’m not taking new clients.
I hope she wasn’t too abrupt in telling you so.
She’s quite protective of our little business.
I am somewhat retired, but I still come to the office every day.
She’s been the guardian angel and sergeant-at-arms of Ponder House for over forty years, almost as long as I’ve been here. ”
Theo raised a palm. “No need to apologize. She was simply doing her job, and I understand very well the need to keep people away sometimes. I suppose a place like this needs a guardian angel and a good gendarme.”
Mr. Ponder nodded. “You said you wanted to ask me about a piece of property.”
“Oh, yes, but before that, Mr. Ponder, please, I’m new to town, and I see that there has been some restoration to the old buildings in this area.
I am interested in architecture, and I could not help but notice the ironwork at your entrance.
I hope I’m not being rude in asking — and if you’re busy right now, please forgive me — but could you tell me about Ponder House?
I’ve rarely seen a nineteenth-century American structure in such impeccable condition. ”
A light came on in Mr. Ponder’s eyes as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
He did indeed know, in what some considered excruciating detail, about the building’s history and design.
His attempts to tell that story were usually met with lukewarm interest, or less.
Few people had attention spans equal to the length or specificity of Mr. Ponder’s narrative about the office property.
“Actually, my morning is quite open. I’m in no hurry at all.”
And for the next half hour, with only the tamest of interruptions from Theo, Mr. Ponder spoke of the place with clarity and animation, going all the way back to his ancestors who had laid the first stone.
Theo sat up straight, elbows on armrests, chin resting on thumbs, eyes fixed on Mr. Ponder.
The more intently Theo focused, the longer and more eagerly Mr. Ponder spoke.
To be clear, Theo’s interest was not at all dissembling; he was genuinely interested.
“And the brick?” Theo finally interrupted with words rather than nods and facial expressions. “The brick is made of what, local material? I read on one of the historical markers that there used to be a foundry here, near the river, yes?”
The conversation continued. Question. Answer. Exclamation. Pronouncement.
“At some point, Mr. Theo, perhaps I can walk you through the town and tell you some of its history.” Theo remembered Tony’s remarks about the old families. “Golden has a rich past. But I’m sure every city could say the same. Now, you mentioned some property. What piece do you have in mind?”
Theo looked down at his hands and blushed. “I’m almost afraid to tell you now that I know how much you care for it.”
It took a moment for Mr. Ponder to realize what Theo meant. “Ponder House?”
“Please let me explain. You see, I’m looking for a place to live for a few months, something to rent, and I was told you might have a space at the top of your building. If that’s true, I would be very interested.”