The drivers stepped out and opened the doors. Michael Bennett emerged from the first vehicle in a charcoal suit tailored to his shoulders without the slightest need to announce its price. Walter stepped out after him, carefully setting his old shoes on the pavement. Eleanor came from the second car, laughing softly at something her driver had said about the handling of a vehicle larger than the compact cars he usually drove. She wore the cream dress, the same modest coat, and the same carefully arranged silver hair.
At the sight of them, John's smile disappeared. He recognized the woman before he recognized the man. Her posture, the way she kept one hand on the strap of her old handbag, the expression that had briefly filled with embarrassment when he told her she was in the wrong place. Then he saw Walter's felt hat and knew there was no possibility of mistaken identity. He felt a sensation he could only describe as falling, although he was standing perfectly still.
"That's Michael Bennett," another associate whispered. "You know, Bennett Meridian?"
John nodded without looking away. His mind worked frantically through explanations. Perhaps the Bennetts were visiting distant relatives. Perhaps they had somehow arrived in cars belonging to a stranger. Perhaps the connection was harmless.
Each possibility lasted only until Michael stepped aside to offer his arm to Eleanor and she said, clearly enough to reach the entrance, "Thank you, son. I can manage the steps."
It was the word son that destroyed the last of John's comfortable assumptions. Around him employees exchanged glances. A junior salesman who had heard the previous day's remarks looked toward John with an expression of alarm. Claire Walsh, the blond associate who had laughed at the Bennetts, stood very still near the reception desk. She remembered her laughter, and now she remembered something worse: that she had felt uncomfortable even then but had chosen to join in because John was the senior associate on duty.
Arthur hurried to the entrance. "Mr. Bennett," he began warmly. "What a pleasure. I'm Arthur Bell, general manager. Welcome to Crownline."
Michael shook his hand. "Good morning, Mr. Bell. These are my parents, Walter and Eleanor Bennett."
Arthur turned toward them with an expansive smile that faltered when he recognized their faces from the footage still on his office monitor. He had not known their names on Monday. He had not thought to ask Emily for them when she told him about the incident. Now he was being introduced to them by a client whose company had recently appeared on the cover of a regional business publication. The disparity between his reactions was so obvious that it embarrassed him.
"Mr. and Mrs. Bennett," he said. "I'm glad you're here. I understand there was a problem yesterday, and I'm very sorry I wasn't aware of its full seriousness sooner."