At the end of the summer, I made a decision.
I’d been thinking about it for a long time. Since George died, really. What would happen to account 0001 when I was gone.
George always assumed it would go to Sarah. Our daughter. But Sarah lives in Seattle now. She’s an architect. She has a good life out there. She comes home for Christmas and Thanksgiving. She loves Millbrook, but she doesn’t live here. She doesn’t know Earl Lindquist or Ruth Abernathy or Miguel Ruiz.
And the covenant says the holder of 0001 has to give consent. In writing. Before the bank can close or cut staff. That’s a big responsibility. It shouldn’t belong to somebody who lives two thousand miles away.
It should belong to somebody here. Somebody who sees the bank every day. Somebody who knows the town.
I called Walt Brennan’s son, Danny, who took over Walt’s law practice. He came over and sat on my porch and drank iced tea and listened.
