door slammed behind her. Els didn’t move until she heard the Lexus rumble over the cattle guard at the road.
The bank manager stood behind his desk and gestured toward a chair. “I regret your wait, Ms. Gordon.” The office smelled of curry.
She sat and crossed her legs. The skirt of her navy Armani suit was too short for this meeting. She uncrossed her legs and pressed her knees together. “I appreciate your giving me this time, Mr. Leonard,” she said. “I hope you’ve had a moment to review my CV.”
His desktop was empty, save for her letter and CV, a partially consumed bottle of Fanta orange soda, and a few crumbs. He sat down and picked up the papers.
“Royal Bank of Scotland. Sanders & Sons. Standard Heb,” he read with a slight twitch of his mouth on the last. Her family bank, now the butt of jokes. He was wearing a boldly flowered tie and a short-sleeved shirt. On the wall behind him, crayon drawings in plastic frames hung askew beside posters trumpeting a better life through loans.
“Help me to understand how experience in mergers and acquisitions would benefit NevisOne.” He brushed the crumbs to the edge of the desk, used her CV as a dust collector, and shook them into his bin.
She’d saved this bank for last, and the meeting was clearly heading toward perfunctory rejection, as had all her other interviews. “NevisOne leads the local banks in corporate lending,” she said. “You’ve spearheaded turning our island into an international investment haven. As investment in Nevis grows, so will your capacity to lend to local businesses.”
“We will continue to support Al’s Auto Shoppe and Muriel’s Snackery,” he said. “But when international investors want to reinvigorate one of our sugar hotels, do you suppose they come to us? The last such group took its business straight to Argeron Capital.”
“I’ve done deals with Argeron, and most of their ilk,” she said. “I have connections in New York, London, and elsewhere.” His bland expression did not change. “I could be of value in marketing and customer service. Help you attract that offshore money. I speak their language.”
He folded his long brown fingers over her CV and regarded her. “We all speak English here, Ms. Gordon.”
“I meant . . . money talk.”
“NevisOne is dedicated to creating opportunity for our local people,” he said. “We have our full staff complement at present. Perhaps you should inquire at ECCB or Bank of Nevis, or the international and regional banks—Nova Scotia, RBTT, First Caribbean.”
She unclasped her hands and fanned her fingers across her lap. “They’ve been encouraging. But the best fit is here, because you’ve got the jump on attracting a global customer base. My own money is with you, in case that matters.”
“We appreciate your custom, Ms. Gordon.” He glanced back at the CV. “Banks serving more of an American clientele—in Puerto Rico or Barbados, because of the embassy—or those in the more developed islands, Trinidad perhaps, might welcome a background such as yours.” He held out her papers.
“That would be some commute,” she said. She stood up, took the CV, and dropped it into his bin. She thanked him for his time, squared her shoulders, and walked past the winding queue of customers staring blankly at the CNN monitor. If you hired me, she thought, the first thing I’d do is put on more tellers at lunch hour.
When the humid blast of the early May afternoon hit her, she could barely draw a breath. She walked to Wilma—parked near the slave market square—tossed her ridiculous designer jacket on the front passenger seat, and sat behind the wheel, listening to the seemingly unemployed young men flirt with the passing girls.
Knowing Iguana had returned that afternoon, she raised the flag just before sunset and sat on the gallery, pretending to read. The knife of rejection cut deep into old territory, and her tumbler of rum had done nothing to quell her rising sense of panic.
Against a flaming sky, Jason’s truck chugged up the hill. When it rolled to a stop, Liz hopped out and snapped to attention at the bottom of the steps. “You rang?”
She tossed her book onto the other chair. “It was a bad idea,” she said. “I’m shitty company tonight. Go on back to yir floating palace.”
He took the steps several at a time and pulled her to her feet. “Captain Liz has a cure for the blues. First I’m going to make you a drink”—he glanced at her glass—“well, maybe a refresher.