Page 29 of Off the Wall

Opening a business completely broke is a recipe for failure. Again.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Sinclair.” He removes his glasses and wipes the lenses with a handkerchief. “Perhaps you have some assets you could liquidate.”

“Not exactly.” I force a tight smile, ignoring the increasing twist in my gut.

“Do you have access to any other funding sources?”

Funding sources. Like East. Nope. I can’t.

“Not really. No.”

“If it makes you feel any better, this situation is not uncommon.” Mr. Donnelly offers me a sympathetic throat clearing. “Closing costs, equipment appraisals, a host of other variables … they all add up.”

“I just thought …” My voice trails off.

You thought if you wanted it enough, you could make it happen.

“If youcancome up with the extra ten thousand,” he goes on, “you’re in a solid position. It’s just a matter of making up the shortfall.”

Shortfall.

A word worse than panties.

I slump in my chair, the weight of the dollar amount pressing down on me. Compared to the total loan, ten thousand dollars doesn’t seem like all that much. But everything I have is either earmarked for living expenses or part of what I’d planned to invest in the business.

You could ask East for the extra.

No. I can’t. Iwon’t.

Mr. Donnelly pushes his clean spectacles back on. “If you need more time to gather the additional funds, we can hold our approval for the next thirty days. After that, you’ll need to reapply.”

“Great.” A guffaw bursts out of me. “So you’re saying I’ve got a month to sell a kidney.”

Mr. Donnelly chuckles. He probably has no idea if I’m joking.

Maybe I don’t either.

With a lump in my throat and less hope than I’ve had in a week, I careen out of the bank and head straight for Dorothy. That’s my car. She’s an old Lincoln Continental, and arguably the least cool vehicle in town. But I adore her with my whole, shortfall-en heart.

East and I found Dorothy at a used car lot in Worcester when I was armed with a fresh driver’s license and a job at the shop, but no vehicle to drive me there. She was already twenty years old at the time. A brilliant green—inside and out—just like the Emerald City. I climb into the safety of her well-worn interior, and heave a sigh.

If I could click my heels together three times, I’d wish to be teleported back to my apartment. I just want to throw on pajamas, pop some popcorn, and wait for Hayden to get home from the middle school’s spring concert. It’s the last one of the year, so I get that it’s important. But I need to debrief her on this latest disaster.

“There’s no place like home,” I say out loud. “Right, Dorothy?”

Easing the car out of the parking lot, I head north on Main Street, somehow managing to catch every red light as I make my way through downtown.

Figures.

I crank the volume up on the crackling radio station and roll the window down. Outside, the air is crisp and fresh. Clouds float across the evening sky. The scene would be lovely. Hopeful, even. If it weren’t for my shortfall.

And … the smell.

At first the scent is faint—kind of like the kitchen after you burn toast. But as I approach Oldford Park, smoke makes an appearance. Tiny wisps, curling out from under the hood. Within moments, Dorothy is a full-on smoke tornado, except in Massachusetts instead of Kansas.

I pull over to the side of the road as the engine hisses and spits. The smell is acrid now. Oily. A precursor to flames.

Speaking of which.

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