“Great. I’m a good office manager. So if you do your job, and I do mine, your practice will succeed, and I’m sure the money thing will work out. Right now my goal is to land the job and be useful. Come on. What do you say?”
What could she say? “I’ll see you Monday morning, 9:00 a.m.?”
Melody’s squeal and fast, firm hug turned heads of passersby along the sidewalk. “Yay! You won’t be sorry,” she promised as she practically skipped down Main.
“Yeah,” Ellie said under her breath. “Hopefully you won’t be either.”
…
Tyler sat in an uninspired gray cubicle at Bluelick Savings and Loan and tried to keep his temper on a leash. “What do you mean you’re declining my loan? Did something about my proposal throw you?”
The mountain of flesh known as Grady Landry puffed out a breath and ran a pudgy hand through his thinning red hair. “Your proposal was clear, and the lending committee acknowledged that a construction loan on a spec property falls within our charter. But part of this institution’s mandate is a little something called ‘Know your customer,’ and you, my friend, are a known risk.”
Tyler narrowed his eyes and stared across the desk. Grady wasn’t a bad guy, he reminded himself. The man had gone to bat for him five years ago when he’d sought a loan to get his fledgling construction company off the ground. But that made it all the harder to understand why one paid-in-full loan later, they turned him down for another.
“My track record with this institution says different,” he said. “The Browning property has been rotting on its foundation for the last twenty years. My team and I can turn that dilapidated old horse farm into a showplace. I’m not talking about razing the buildings, subdividing the acreage, and putting up a bunch of cookie-cutter McMansions for refugees from New York and Philly looking to indulge their horsey fantasies. I’d restore the main house and the barns, and sell the property as the equestrian estate it was meant to be, for three times the loan amount—and you damn well know it. So, sorry, I don’t see the risk you’re all hung up on.”
Grady drummed his fingers on his desk. “I’ll sketch it out for you. Let’s say we lend you the money you’re asking for—a significantly larger amount than your
original loan, I should point out—and then something happens to you. How do we make good on our loan? A mortgage on the unimproved property won’t do the trick. As far as we can see, nobody on your crew can step in and take your place, so your big plans for the Browning farm go bye-bye. Without you, your company isn’t worth close to the loan amount, so liquidating your business assets wouldn’t make us whole.” He shrugged and held his hands up. “Everybody here likes you and believes in your skills, but I can’t sell this to our lending committee because you’re the single point of success—or failure.”
“I’m thirty-two years old, for God’s sake. Neither foot is anywhere near the grave. Do I have to pass a physical or—”
“You ride around on a Harley.”
Hell, he knew where this was headed. Still, he’d go down swinging. “I’ve never had an accident.”
“You practically own a barstool at Rawley’s.”
“C’mon Grady, I see you there often enough.”
“I’m not looking for a loan. And I’ve never found myself on the wrong end of Junior Tillman’s small-game rifle at last call. The way my lending committee sees it, you’re an accident waiting to happen.”
Shit. “Does everybody and their dog know about the thing with Junior?”
The big man nodded. “’Fraid so. The grapevine sprang a few new sprouts over that one. Look Tyler, I want to help, swear to God I do, but you’ve got to show my lending committee you’re stable and responsible.”
“Hell.” Tyler tossed his paperwork on the desk. “I run an honest business, keep it solidly in the black. I can restore an antebellum horse farm better than anybody south of the Mason-Dixon line. What else do they want?”
“Settle down with a nice girl. Trade the Harley for a minivan and the late nights at Rawley’s for parent-teacher conferences. Look like you’ve got a stake in this life beyond having a good time.”
The rough, unvarnished truth hurt. People considered him a hell-raiser who couldn’t handle real responsibility. Never mind that he’d founded a business and busted his ass to make it successful. Never mind that he and his team consistently turned out top-notch projects, on time and within budget. His “don’t give a damn” image—fairly earned, he hated to admit—stood firmly in the way of his goals.
Tyler stared at the bland tile ceiling and sighed. “A nice girl, a minivan, and parent-teacher conferences, huh? Sounds like a great ten-year plan. Too bad I wanted the loan sometime this decade.” He stood and gathered his papers. “Thanks for the honesty, if nothing else.”
“Wait,” Grady said when Tyler started to walk away. “Wait a week or so for the incident with Junior to blow over. In the meantime, keep the Harley on the back roads and the wild times to a minimum, and come up with a succession plan for Thoroughbred Construction. I don’t need an heir apparent, just some information about the management structure and who does what in your operation so my lending committee can understand they’re not investing in a one-man show, okay? Do those things and I’ll take your application to the committee again.”
Tyler swallowed and held out his hand. “Thanks, Grady.”
“Save your thanks ’til the loan’s approved.”
Forty minutes later, in the foreman’s trailer at the Lexington job site, Tyler watched Junior pace and sweat. “Jesus, Ty, I’m sorry about this whole mess. I know you weren’t hitting on Lou Ann. I mean, I didn’t know it at the time, ’cause I wasn’t exactly thinking straight, but once I sobered up, I knew you wouldn’t do something like that. Want me to go to Grady and explain?”
“Thanks, Junior, but no. Explanations won’t undo the lending committee’s impression of me as bad risk. I’ve got to show them that Thoroughbred Construction is a safe investment.”
His friend flopped down on the small sofa along one wall of the trailer, adjusted his ball cap out of habit, and looked up at Tyler with beagle eyes. “I don’t know how to repay you for not going to the cops, and convincing the pretty little doc not to call them either. If there’s anything I can do to— ”
“Get rid of the gun.”