Page 17 of Theo of Golden

Mr. Ponder instructed his long-time secretary, Mrs. Gidley, to hold his calls.

She looked over her glasses, gave a perfunctory nod to her employer, and glared at Theo. She was offended that he had made it past her guard tower, and she made her disdain obvious through cold, dismissive eyes. Theo offered a demure smile in reply.

Mr. Ponder led the way to a well-lit carpeted staircase. “I have an elevator if you prefer.”

“Thank you. I prefer the stairs.”

For men with eighty-six and seventy-six years of life respectively, Theo and Mr. Ponder navigated the stairs with an admirable absence of hesitation or strain. At the top they turned into a small hallway, fastidiously maintained and bearing more pieces of art. They entered Mr. Ponder’s office, which, like the reception area and hallway, was well adorned and well cared-for.

A wood carving by Grainger McKoy.

A piece of blown glass on a mahogany pedestal.

A triad of millefiori paperweights from Perthshire.

Theo made a mental note: The man is a connoisseur with an eye for beauty and excellence.

Conspicuously absent was any evidence of brokerage work or any advertisement of credentials. No diplomas. No certificates of membership in professional organizations. No awards, though Mr. Ponder and his predecessors had amassed many. Aside from a single file folder, an inkwell and pen, a closed laptop, and a calendar, the desktop was empty, polished, and immaculate.

A photograph, family no doubt, was on the credenza beside Mr. Ponder’s desk. And a painting of a reserved, thoughtful, and beautiful middle-aged woman — Theo’s assessment of the face in the frame — hung on the wall above the credenza. Mrs. Ponder?

On the east wall of the office, eight-foot windows overlooked Broadway. Curtains and blinds were designed to allow as much or as little light in the room as Mr. Ponder wished. The silence of the room indicated soundproofing that kept street noise from interrupting the serenity of the workspace.

Everything in the office — the furnishings, the artwork, the man himself — exhaled refinement and propriety.

The two men sat at a small table of burled maple. A crystal vase of flowers, gardenias (whose unbruised whiteness suggested they had been put there that very morning), was centered on the table.

“May I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Ponder. I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

“Mr. Theo, Mrs. Gidley was right in saying I’m not taking new clients. I hope she wasn’t too abrupt in telling you so. She’s quite protective of our little business. I am somewhat retired, but I still come to the office every day. She’s been the guardian angel and sergeant-at-arms of Ponder House for over forty years, almost as long as I’ve been here.”

Theo raised a palm. “No need to apologize. She was simply doing her job, and I understand very well the need to keep people away sometimes. I suppose a place like this needs a guardian angel and a good gendarme.”

Mr. Ponder nodded. “You said you wanted to ask me about a piece of property.”

“Oh, yes, but before that, Mr. Ponder, please, I’m new to town, and I see that there has been some restoration to the old buildings in this area. I am interested in architecture, and I could not help but notice the ironwork at your entrance. I hope I’m not being rude in asking — and if you’re busy right now, please forgive me — but could you tell me about Ponder House? I’ve rarely seen a nineteenth-century American structure in such impeccable condition.”

A light came on in Mr. Ponder’s eyes as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He did indeed know, in what some considered excruciating detail, about the building’s history and design. His attempts to tell that story were usually met with lukewarm interest, or less. Few people had attention spans equal to the length or specificity of Mr. Ponder’s narrative about the office property.

“Actually, my morning is quite open. I’m in no hurry at all.”

And for the next half hour, with only the tamest of interruptions from Theo, Mr. Ponder spoke of the place with clarity and animation, going all the way back to his ancestors who had laid the first stone. Theo sat up straight, elbows on armrests, chin resting on thumbs, eyes fixed on Mr. Ponder. The more intently Theo focused, the longer and more eagerly Mr. Ponder spoke.

To be clear, Theo’s interest was not at all dissembling; he was genuinely interested.

“And the brick?” Theo finally interrupted with words rather than nods and facial expressions. “The brick is made of what, local material? I read on one of the historical markers that there used to be a foundry here, near the river, yes?”

The conversation continued. Question. Answer. Exclamation. Pronouncement.

“At some point, Mr. Theo, perhaps I can walk you through the town and tell you some of its history.” Theo remembered Tony’s remarks about the old families. “Golden has a rich past. But I’m sure every city could say the same. Now, you mentioned some property. What piece do you have in mind?”

Theo looked down at his hands and blushed. “I’m almost afraid to tell you now that I know how much you care for it.”

It took a moment for Mr. Ponder to realize what Theo meant. “Ponder House?”

“Please let me explain. You see, I’m looking for a place to live for a few months, something to rent, and I was told you might have a space at the top of your building. If that’s true, I would be very interested.”