PROLOGUE
Cleveland, Ohio, June, 1940
The ancient clock in the tower of the Old Stone Church began to toll noon. The June sky was bright blue and filled with the warmth of early summer. It was Saturday, and Cleveland's Public Square was relatively uncrowded. As though in slow motion, a chauffeur-driven black Rolls pulled smoothly around a corner of the square, settling itself directly before the main door of the Stanton National Bank. The driver, a man in his early twenties, stepped from the car. He was broad-shouldered and tall, with the ruddy, freckled complexion so often associated with the Irish. His stance as he leaned against the highly-polished old car suggested that he took pride in his work, a pride not often observed in domestic workers. The young man glanced quickly at his watch, straightened the black patent-leather peak of his cap, and took a deep breath, As though preparing to begin some new task.
Just then, as the clock in the church tower struck the twelfth note, the heavy bronze double doors of the bank's main entrance opened in tandem. A large party of somberly suited men began shuffling from within the bank's dark interior into Cleveland's bright summer sunlight. As the group of perhaps forty or fifty people made its way onto the sidewalk, it was immediately apparent that almost all of them were men--all but the small, slender figure at their very center. Standing now in the doorway, preparing to begin her careful descent down the stone steps, was a woman of perhaps seventy, or nearly so. Despite her advanced years, she stood erect and tall. Her thin form was dressed entirely in black, from her veiled hat to her smart black suit, black kid pumps, and black gloves. Had she been seen alighting from the Old Stone Church some yards away, the average onlooker might have thought her a bereaved widow emerging from the funeral of her husband. The fact that she was instead emerging from the Stanton National Bank, the sole woman in the company of so many illustrious-looking gentlemen, would set one's imagination to wandering in earnest. The mystery was heightened by the fact that on her lips there played a slight, wistful smile and in her eyes there was a playful, mirthful glow. Clutched tightly, protectively, in her black-gloved hands was something square and wooden--perhaps a picture in a frame.
As if by long-rehearsed cue, the chauffeur took her hand just as she stepped onto the sidewalk, guiding her towards the open rear door of the black Rolls Royce.
"Thank you ever so much, gentlemen," the old woman said to the attentive gathering on the sidewalk, just as the chauffeur closed the heavy door of the Rolls between her and the assembly."Our pleasure, Mrs. Stanton."
"Thank you, Mrs. Stanton."
These, and similar replies were heard from the men on the sidewalk, every word uttered in hushed, reverent tones, sometimes even accompanied by a slight, chivalrous bow. They were still expressing their thanks, smiling and nodding, as the Rolls pulled away from the curb, made its way slowly around the square, and began its slow, dignified cruise eastward up Euclid Avenue.
* * * * * *
Sheila Stanton took a deep breath and shifted her thin from on the burgundy velvet seat of the Rolls. Slowly, carefully, she pulled off her black gloves and laid them beside her on the seat. In her lap lay the object she had been clutching on the steps. She picked it up now and held it near her eyes, then farther away, trying to see it clearly through eyes that, although still a startling bright green, and still possessed a merry glow, were hard-pressed to read the words on what turned out to be a mahogany plaque.Sheila pushed a hand carelessly through her upswept white hair as surprisingly girlish grin suddenly lit up her face, seemingly to cast a glow on her still delicate, still lovely features, and to call attention to the sprinkling of freckles that ran across her nose, giving witness to the fact that when her lovely old face was young, it was probably framed by a mane of titian-colored hair. It would not be at all difficult for a casual observer to tell, even now, that this woman had once been a great beauty.
She could read the plaque now. Etched into a square of gold-colored metal, attached in turn to the slab of polished mahogany, it read:
"The Stanton National Bank, Cleveland, Ohio, wishes to express its most sincere appreciation
to Sheila Cagney Stanton for her unending devotion and efforts on behalf of this organization,
and for the dedication which has brought us to the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the
Stanton National Bank, 1890-1940."
Sheila allowed a soft but audible little chuckle of pleasure to escape her lips. At once, her chauffeur sought her eyes with his own in the rearview mirror of the Rolls.
"Is everything alright back there, Mrs. Stanton?" he asked.
"Everything is fine, Paddy," she answered. "Everything is just fine."
As she spoke, the remnants of a long-ago brogue came into her voice, a brogue that had much been much like Paddy's own. The chauffeur smiled at the sound, as he often did when he thought about Sheila Stanton, and what he knew of her past, and about the station in life that was her present. It said something to him personally, and it should, he thought, say something to all the Irish.
Sheila put the plaque aside now, and opened a compartment built into the seat in front of her. A folding desk appeared, complete with pen, ink, stationery, envelopes, and postage stamps. Sheila took one quick glance out of the car window and released an audible sigh as her eyes took in the endless line of commercial buildings that lined both side of Euclid Avenue, making a canyon of what had once been a very different scene. Sheila could remember a time when this street had been known as Millionaire's Row, when it had been lined on both sides with the mansions of Cleveland's wealthy. Newspaper accounts of the day had touted the fact that Euclid Avenue surpassed in beauty even the Champs-Elysees of Paris. She sighed heavily, a little bitterly, as the memories of those long-ago days began flooding back upon her. The chauffeur glanced protectively into the rearview mirrow once again at the sound of her sigh.
Then he saw her begin the ritual that he had observed every day. Sheila took the pale-green sheet of vellum from its holder, poised the pen above it with confidence, and began to write.
"My Dearest Kevin," the letter began. "Today was a little out of the ordinary. The Board of Directors at the bank decided to surprise me with a plaque on the bank's fiftieth anniversary. It is strange to think the bank has stood on that very corner, looking for all the world like a medieval fortress, for fifty years, and that I have been here in this city (perhaps a different type of fortress, or so it seems at times) for fifty years as well. Such a long time, and yet not long at all. When I look around me now from the windows of this comfortable and comforting old car, I can't help but think how different were my circumstances on my first day here in Cleveland. Let me see, if my old mind does not deceive me, it was exactly fifty year and three months today since my train pulled into the Union Depot. Be assured, my dearest, that I miss you no less at this moment than I did on that first morning--no less and no more. Some things do not change. My love for you has been one of the unchanging facts of my life.
"I will write you again tomorrow. As always, Sheila.".
