you in every way possible.” He patted me kindly on the shoulder. If Gordon hadn’t told me his aim was to goad and provoke his relatives, I would never have suspected such a thing. At one point, while I was photographing the kitchen, he stood behind me for a while before he said, “Frankly, son, I thought things were going to turn out differently for me, but they didn’t.” And then he sighed and left the room.
I listed the property at five million. The calls were few but themselves priceless: Did it have a bomb shelter? Did it come furnished? Were the horses included? I got a call from a resort hotel conglomerate looking to construct a luxury spa. I got a call from a European businessman looking for a place to put his mistress—she was an English horsewoman; was there a flat spot on the property for a helipad? I got a call from a woman asking me brusquely who had authorized the listing (this must have been a relative; she didn’t give her name). I got a call from the state, asking if Mr. Thorpe would consider donating the property for a historical museum with a farm theme—typical farmhouses and outbuildings from all eras would be brought from around the state and reconstructed on the property, and people would be hired to impersonate figures from the past for tourists and school groups. I got several calls from California. All those callers seemed to think the 580 acres was cheap at five million and would ask me repeatedly about whether the place had any water. I sent out about a hundred brochures. The activity never got past fielding phone calls.
As soon as I put the first ads in, I went over to Portsmouth Savings and sat down with Bart MacDonald. Bart was a tiny guy, not more than five foot three or so, and slender, but he had the casual manner of a much taller man, which no doubt resulted from his years as a boxer at South Portsmouth High and Portsmouth State College, where he was undefeated in his division and something of a legend. He still went to the boxing gym in Portsmouth four times a week, he had told me, and lifted weights in his basement the other three days. He could bench-press 210 pounds. He was affable and easygoing with clients, especially first-time clients; he had a wife who was six inches taller than he was, and four big kids. All in all, I considered him one of the most successful men I knew.
Portsmouth Savings had four branches that all looked alike, classic Colonial: red brick, white trim, columns, elegant draperies. Everyone I knew had had an account at Portsmouth Savings for years. I had one myself, a passbook account with five or six thousand dollars in it that I added to whenever I had an extra small commission. I always thought I would use it for a house at the shore someday or an emergency with my parents.
Bart didn’t seem ebullient, but he was friendly. He had run a marathon and come in in the top twenty-five. Business was good in spite of the economy. There was a moment of silence, and then I couldn’t help grinning. I said, “I’ve got these ads coming out. I wanted to get to you before you see them. Thorpe is selling Salt Key Farm to Gordon Baldwin.”
Bart frowned at once.
I said, “It’s a beautiful piece of property.”
“No one’s going to want to see that developed, Joe.”
“I might just turn it right around. I wanted to tell you, though, before you had a heart attack at the price.” I told him Thorpe’s scheme. He shook his head skeptically. I continued. “Well, we can go elsewhere for the financing, but I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“How soon do you need the money?”
“Six months.”
He got up and closed the door to his office, then came back and perched gravely on the edge of his desk chair. He said, “I got word this morning that there’s about to be some changes around here.”
“Management?”
He nodded toward the next office, which I knew to be the office of Frank Perkins, the president of the thrift, and mouthed the
I listed the property at five million. The calls were few but themselves priceless: Did it have a bomb shelter? Did it come furnished? Were the horses included? I got a call from a resort hotel conglomerate looking to construct a luxury spa. I got a call from a European businessman looking for a place to put his mistress—she was an English horsewoman; was there a flat spot on the property for a helipad? I got a call from a woman asking me brusquely who had authorized the listing (this must have been a relative; she didn’t give her name). I got a call from the state, asking if Mr. Thorpe would consider donating the property for a historical museum with a farm theme—typical farmhouses and outbuildings from all eras would be brought from around the state and reconstructed on the property, and people would be hired to impersonate figures from the past for tourists and school groups. I got several calls from California. All those callers seemed to think the 580 acres was cheap at five million and would ask me repeatedly about whether the place had any water. I sent out about a hundred brochures. The activity never got past fielding phone calls.
As soon as I put the first ads in, I went over to Portsmouth Savings and sat down with Bart MacDonald. Bart was a tiny guy, not more than five foot three or so, and slender, but he had the casual manner of a much taller man, which no doubt resulted from his years as a boxer at South Portsmouth High and Portsmouth State College, where he was undefeated in his division and something of a legend. He still went to the boxing gym in Portsmouth four times a week, he had told me, and lifted weights in his basement the other three days. He could bench-press 210 pounds. He was affable and easygoing with clients, especially first-time clients; he had a wife who was six inches taller than he was, and four big kids. All in all, I considered him one of the most successful men I knew.
Portsmouth Savings had four branches that all looked alike, classic Colonial: red brick, white trim, columns, elegant draperies. Everyone I knew had had an account at Portsmouth Savings for years. I had one myself, a passbook account with five or six thousand dollars in it that I added to whenever I had an extra small commission. I always thought I would use it for a house at the shore someday or an emergency with my parents.
Bart didn’t seem ebullient, but he was friendly. He had run a marathon and come in in the top twenty-five. Business was good in spite of the economy. There was a moment of silence, and then I couldn’t help grinning. I said, “I’ve got these ads coming out. I wanted to get to you before you see them. Thorpe is selling Salt Key Farm to Gordon Baldwin.”
Bart frowned at once.
I said, “It’s a beautiful piece of property.”
“No one’s going to want to see that developed, Joe.”
“I might just turn it right around. I wanted to tell you, though, before you had a heart attack at the price.” I told him Thorpe’s scheme. He shook his head skeptically. I continued. “Well, we can go elsewhere for the financing, but I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“How soon do you need the money?”
“Six months.”
He got up and closed the door to his office, then came back and perched gravely on the edge of his desk chair. He said, “I got word this morning that there’s about to be some changes around here.”
“Management?”
He nodded toward the next office, which I knew to be the office of Frank Perkins, the president of the thrift, and mouthed the
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