“I really hate you,” I snark, earning me a tinkling laugh from Serena and a playful kick under the table.
“I really hate you too, bestie.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Only as friends
Mindy
Climbingfrom my mother’s deep blue Mazda hatchback, I lift my face to the sun. It’s over eighty degrees today, unseasonably warm for May in Galveston. Maybe I’ll go to the beach later.
“No, you need to find a job,” I scold myself, hitching my purse over my shoulder and crossing the parking lot to the bank. A few weeks after Mama died, I resumed my apprenticeship, but the bakery was only able to give me work on the weekends, which means it will probably take me two full years to complete it.
In the meantime, I plan to get a full-time job during the week so I can save as much money as possible. But where?
As if the universe heard my question, I notice a sign on the glass door indicating the bank is hiring for several positions. I go inside and see a woman at a desk right near the door. She’s on the phone but offers me a polite smile and a raised finger, letting me know she’ll be with me in a moment.
After hanging up, she looks up at me. “Hi, my name is Sandra. How can I help you?”
“I need to close out an account,” I tell her. “And I’d also like information on what positions you’re hiring for.”
“Of course.” Sandra opens a drawer and pulls out a folder with thebank logo on the front. “There’s a sheet at the front listing the positions and salaries, and you’ll find an application behind it.”
While she makes a phone call to see which account manager is available, I scan the positions. I don’t have the qualifications for a couple of them, but I see they’re hiring tellers and an administrative assistant for the branch manager. The salary for the latter is significantly higher and comes with better benefits.
Sandra hangs up the phone and gestures toward the glass offices behind her. “If you’ll just have a seat in front of the second office, Mr. McCoy will be with you in a moment.”
I sit in one of the two chairs beside the closed wooden door and locate a pen in my purse, quickly filling in my information. In the box requesting which position I’m applying for, I hesitate.
Just then, the door opens, and a man emerges. He appears to be a few years older than me, with sandy blond hair, dark blue eyes, and a warm smile.
“Hi, I’m Roger McCoy. Come on in,” he says, gesturing for me to enter.
“Mindy Espinoza,” I introduce, following him into the office.
We settle, Mr. McCoy in his swivel chair and me on the other side of the desk. He folds his hands in front of him. “How can I help you today, Ms. Espinoza?”
“I need to close out my mother’s account.” At his slight frown, I add, “She passed away earlier this year, and I’m already on her account since she added me right after her diagnosis so I could help her with bills and stuff. And I have power of attorney.”
Mr. McCoy’s smile is filled with sympathy. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. I lost my dad recently. It’s not easy.”
“No, it’s not. And I’m sorry for your loss as well,” I commiserate, pulling a manila envelope filled with paperwork from my purse. “Here’s everything you should need, including the d-death certificate.” I still sometimes stumble over the d-word.
The account manager takes the papers out and flips through, inspecting the documents before swiveling to his computer and presumably pulling up my mom’s account.
“Looks like everything is in order here. Do you have an accountwith us that you’d like the money transferred into?” He looks at me expectantly.
“No, sorry,” I apologize. “I bank somewhere else. Can I just get a cashier’s check?”
“Certainly. It will only take a few minutes to get everything scanned in and completed.” He rises. “Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”
“Water would be nice,” I reply, and he returns a couple minutes later with a cool bottle before leaving again. I sip on it and look over the application again, trying to decide what to put in that final box.
Be the white owl,I remind myself.Embrace courage and change.
My promise to Mama to open my own bakery one day flashes through my brain—as does the higher salary—and I quickly write in “administrative assistant.” It will help me get to my goal faster, and I’m confident I can do the work. I’m obsessively organized, good on the phone, and flexible.
When the banker returns, he has some final paperwork for me. I read it over and sign my name at the bottom, but when I begin to write the date, a stab of recognition stills my hand.
