Vance’s black sedan was parked near my garage door, its engine still idling. My nephew stepped out, his thumb moving rapidly across the screen of his smartphone.
“Elena,” Vance said, not looking up immediately. “I need you to look at the paperwork for the car wash. The bank needs a guarantor with local property.”
“My property taxes went up nine percent last month, Vance,” I said. “I am not co-signing a commercial loan.”
Vance slipped the phone into his coat pocket and leaned against his car door.
“The car wash is going to be state of the art, Elena,” Vance said. “With the new bypass coming through, we will double our traffic in six months.”
“I cannot do it,” I said.
My hand drifted to my gold watch strap, tightening it.
I looked through the open passenger window of his car. A white tri-fold flyer with blue lettering sat on the leather seat, bearing the name of Gregory Cole, Attorney at Law.
“Why do you have Gregory Cole’s brochure?” I asked.
“He handles the commercial zoning for the strip mall,” Vance said, checking his phone again. “He knows how to move things through the system.”
By four, the sky had turned the color of wet asphalt, and I was sitting in the suburban strip mall office with Hector’s daughter.
The waiting room smelled of lemon wax and old carpet. A single artificial fern sat in the corner, its plastic leaves covered in a thin layer of gray dust.
Sofia sat in the chair next to mine, her knees barely reaching the edge of the vinyl cushion. She twisted her silver charm bracelet around her wrist, the small metal links clinking against each other.
“My father is still at work,” Sofia said.
“He will meet us here when he finishes the Buick,” I said.
The receptionist’s desk was mahogany, polished so bright it reflected the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling.
Sofia looked down at her shoes. “Will we stay here for the summer?”
“We are just checking the papers, Sofia,” I said.
I held the grey envelope on my lap, the paper cold against my palms.
The receptionist looked up from her computer and cleared her throat.
“Elena Vance,” she said.
I stood up, holding the grey envelope by the corner.
I stared at the federal seal on the document, realizing the quiet years were over.
