A Woman of Fortune (27 page)

37

C
laire couldn't remember the last time she'd set foot inside a bank. Much had changed. Many of the desks sat empty, no doubt a casualty of the online age. She remembered tellers being impeccably dressed, with professional appearances and very little jewelry showing. They were trained to say “Ma'am” and “Welcome to our bank” with wide smiles, customer service utmost in their minds.

Claire stepped to the counter, marveling at these young employees wearing jeans, some with tattoos even. Suddenly she felt older than her forty-nine years.

“Hey.” A black-haired girl with thick eyeliner greeted her. “Can I help you?”

She stepped forward. “Yes. Thank you. Could I speak with your manager, please?”

“The manager is over at our other branch this morning.”

“Oh.” Claire mentally chastised herself for not calling for an appointment. “Will he—or she—be in this afternoon? I need to talk to someone about a small business loan.”

The teller stopped chewing her gum. “Hmm . . . I think Nouri might be available. Let me check.” The girl slipped through a door. Claire heard voices, and in less than a minute the black-haired teller reappeared, followed by a young guy not much older than Max.

He reached to shake her hand. “Hello, I'm Nouri Amir. And you need a loan?”

Claire followed him past a fake palm and a large aquarium filled with brightly colored fish to a semiprivate cubicle, the kind with fabric walls that stood a little taller than she did. She took a seat where he indicated and watched him rip a form from a pad. He grabbed a pen from the cup on the desk.

“Name?” he asked.

“Della Claire Massey.”

“Address, Ms. Massey?”

Claire let out the breath she'd been holding. He didn't seem to recognize her tarnished name. Relieved, she recited her new address, her phone number, her Social Security number, and other basic information, hoping the young man had authority to approve a loan of this small amount. She didn't have a lot of time to waste.

She'd already made a list of the equipment she'd need to start. Just the very basics. She could add more when she turned a profit. As far as Claire could tell, she could run the business end from home and rent a commercial kitchen as needed. She'd need a Mac, and Jana Rae told her she needed to purchase accounting software. By far, her largest expense would be a truck to transport food.

“Now, let's talk about your financial needs today.” The loan officer looked at her and waited.

Claire explained her plans, how she believed she could start small and grow the operation, utilizing all the contacts she'd made over the years. There wouldn't be any need for costly print advertising. She'd have Max help her with a basic website, and last night she'd studied how to create a business page on Facebook. Word of mouth would be her mainstay. At least initially.

She dug in her purse and handed a sheet of paper across the desk. “This is my starting budget. At the bottom, you'll find the cash I think I need to start.”

Nouri Amir scanned the numbers. “Well, that seems reasonable.” He stood. “I'm assuming this will be an unsecured loan?”

Claire looked at him, confused.

“No collateral,” he explained.

She hadn't thought about that. Without giving a second thought, she pulled her wedding ring from her finger, the one piece of jewelry that had been exempted from the confiscation process. “I can use this.”

The banker raised his eyebrows and took the ring. “I'll run this form through our system and be right back.”

“Your system?”

“Yes, we have a central approval center. We do everything online.”

“Oh, okay. Yes, sure.” Claire folded her hands in her lap and waited.

Barely five minutes later, Nouri Amir returned. Claire scanned his face, looking for some sign as to how things had gone.

He sat behind the desk. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Massey.” He handed her ring back.

Claire felt her spirits deflate. Of course they'd turned her down. The shadow of Tuck's illicit financial activities had followed her yet again.

The loan officer explained something about high credit risk and low FICO scores and potential civil litigation. Yes, yes, she understood, she told him when he apologized again.

Still, tears pooled as she collected her bag and headed for the door.

Without those funds, she was dead in the water. Jana Rae would push to help, but Claire knew Clark Hancock still fostered resentment, and she understood why he'd feel like that. Their retirement fund had vanished, thanks to Tuck.

She might as well give up. Goodwill might actually be her only option, it seemed.

She thought of the many years she'd never given any thought to finances. She'd spent recklessly, with extravagant retailing adventures all over the world. Tony at Neiman Marcus was on her speed dial. A week after the arrest, Tony had put her on hold for the first time. Soon after, she'd received a polite letter on engraved stationery from the director of shopping services. Her account
had been closed and her membership revoked in their exclusive Personal Shopper program.

A puff in the wind . . . all of it.

Just like her thirty-year marriage.

Now she didn't have any money. Her employment options were severely limited. And she couldn't get a loan to start her catering business.

Jana Rae would tell her to pray, but she hadn't been back to church since that awful meeting with Pastor Richards, not even after he'd sent a card telling her he was sorry to hear of Tuck's extended sentence and was praying for her family. Honestly, it felt like God had turned his back on them. Who could blame him? They'd all walked on from him a long time ago, even before Tuck's arrest.

No, she was going to have to figure out something on her own, and quick.

She pushed through the door and nearly planted her face in a man's chest. Startled, she pulled back. Her bag dropped to the floor, scattering her cell phone, lipsticks, pens, and sunglasses case at his feet. “Oh no. I'm sorry.” She bent to gather her things. As she did, her head butted into his upper thigh. Embarrassed, she glanced up. “Excuse me. I seem to . . .”

The man knelt. “Let me,” he offered. He quickly scooped up her possessions and handed them to her.

“Thank you.” With a heavy sigh, she stuffed the items back in her bag.

“Everything okay?” He helped her to her feet.

Claire nodded. “Yeah. Just one of those days.”

A warm, easy grin formed on the guy's face. “Yeah, life can deal a few of those.”

He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in faded jeans and a button-down shirt open at the collar. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes fell into well-worn lines, like someone who did a lot of it. Smiling, that is.

“Well, take care. Hope your day looks up.” He held the door open, still smiling.

She thanked him and stepped into the beautiful September day, letting the sunshine chase away her foul mood with its warmth. Summer was literally a hot topic in northern Texas. When early fall arrived, cooler temperatures carried their own welcome mat.

Inside her car, she pressed the key in the ignition and turned.

Nothing.

Oh no. Please start.

Claire tried again. Still nothing.

She leaned against the seat, closed her eyes. Now what?

She climbed from the car and looked at the hood, not even knowing what to do next. Henry had always driven her everywhere. She didn't even know how to open the silly hood.

“Hey, what's up? You having trouble?”

Claire turned. The man from the bank moved in her direction—still smiling. She rubbed her forehead as he approached. “Par for my day. Won't seem to start.”

He reached out. “Keys?”

Thankful for the help, she dropped them into his large, calloused palm. He slid into her car and turned the ignition. Nothing.

“Looks like a dead battery.” He climbed out from behind the wheel. “Are you a member of Triple A?”

Claire gave him a blank look. “Uh, no. I don't think so.”

“Don't worry. I'll call my service.” He pulled an iPhone from his jeans pocket and made a quick call. “They'll be out within the hour and you'll be good to go.”

“I don't know how to thank you.”

He slid his phone back into his jeans and tilted his head in the direction of the Starbucks across the parking lot. “You could join me for a cup of coffee.”

“Uh—sure,” she stuttered. “I mean, I'd be happy to.” She hated the way her voice sounded tentative and uncertain. What would it hurt to have coffee with him? He'd been kind, and she was simply thanking him.

Inside, the rich smell of coffee mingled with jazz drifting from the overhead speakers. They made small talk, and at their turn at the counter, he ordered coffee. Black. She'd decided upon a salted caramel macchiato.

While waiting for their drinks, she learned his name was Brian Magellen. He lived on Parker Road, just outside Plano, where he built custom homes for a living. He was a musician at heart, and he used to hang out with Boz Scaggs.

They collected their drinks and headed for a table.

“You know Boz Scaggs?” Claire asked, intrigued.

“Yeah, he used to live in the area. Our sons were friends back in junior high and we became acquainted. We'd hang out in his garage and play while the kids practiced throwing footballs around in the backyard.” Brian took a drink of his coffee. “He lives in northern California now. Started a winery with his son.”

Claire glanced at Brian's finger. No ring.

“Divorced,” he said, noticing. “Nearly ten years.”

She nodded and stirred her drink, embarrassed she'd been so obvious. “I'm . . . getting one. A divorce, I mean.” The words clogged in her throat. She'd never spoken them aloud to anyone but Jana Rae. And, of course, Tuck.

“Understandable.”

Claire quit stirring her macchiato.

Brian's eyes held hers in momentary silence, and she realized he knew her history. Shame covered her like a thick blanket, one wrapped too tightly, and she felt the heat.

“Hey, look,” he said in a reassuring voice. “Far as I can tell from all the media coverage, you were a victim. Just like the investors.”

“Some feel differently.” Claire scooped a tiny bit of whipped cream into her mouth.

“Yeah, well . . . you can't live your life as a mirror, reflecting everybody else's view. Sometimes you have to be willing to embrace your own reality and move on, not caring what others think.”

“And keep the television channel turned to
Dancing with the Stars
and off the news.”

“There you go,” he said, grinning.

Over the next minutes, they chatted easily, no longer mindful they were waiting for the car service to show up. Brian's relaxed nature made her feel . . . safe.

Claire let down her guard and opened up. She described the night Tuck had been arrested, how it felt to learn her husband of thirty years had committed such a betrayal.

She told him all about Garrett and Marcy. About Max and how much support he'd been. She even confided her concern about her daughter, that her instincts told her Lainie had lost her footing. As a mother, she barely knew what to do to help any of them in the aftermath of what Tuck had done to their family. She had a hard time just making her own way through.

As they talked, the blanket of shame lifted. By the time Brian's phone rang, alerting him the car service had arrived, Claire knew she'd made a friend.

When her car engine started, he opened the car door and helped her inside. “Look, I've really enjoyed this afternoon. Could we maybe—I mean, if you're not busy Friday night, would you join me for dinner?”

The request instantly left Claire a bit unsettled. A hint of loneliness knocked, yet she couldn't open that door. She was still married.

“As friends,” he reassured her.

She considered Brian's invitation. Why the hesitation? There was no good reason she couldn't have dinner with him—as a friend. She managed a smile. “Thanks, Brian. I've been a little adrift lately. I'd enjoy the company.”