At Sunday dinner, my son-in-law smiled across the …

The bank branch sat in Cherry Creek, all glass and brushed steel and low voices. You could smell money in places like that, though it never smelled like people thought. It smelled like toner, wool coats drying on hooks, and expensive hand soap.

Samuel Grant met me in the lobby. He had managed my accounts for twelve years and was one of those men who became more formal when they were nervous. Usually he called me Margaret.

That morning he said, “Mrs. Harper,” and took the folder from me with both hands. His office overlooked the parking lot and three bare trees along First Avenue.

He shut the door, sat down, and arranged the paperwork on his desk in a stack so straight it made me trust him more than I wanted to. “I gather,” he said carefully, “that you have concerns about the Bennett line.”

“I have clarity,” I told him. Something flickered behind his glasses.

“All right.”

“I won’t be signing the renewal.”

He rested his fingertips on the desk. “May I ask whether this is a temporary delay or a permanent withdrawal of support?”

“A permanent one.”