Page 92 of Meet Me at the Grand

She hung her jacket on a coat hook in the corner and then settled into a chair in front of Mr. Michaelson’s desk. The cold plastic seat sent another shiver through her. The clean desk, organized within an inch of its life, contrasted sharply with the ratty, thrifted crossbody bag she set on it. Across from her, Mr. Michaelson tented his fingers.

“Look, Mia, let me just cut to the chase here. The board is pressuring me to foreclose on your loan.”

Mia sucked in a breath. It was one thing to know what was coming. Another thing altogether to have it said aloud. Her stomach clenched. “Please. You can’t do that.” She sat on the edge of her chair. Reaching into her bag, her fingers closed around a tattered envelope. Her last lifeline. She handed it to him. “Here, it’s not much, but I’ve been saving some back from my tips.” After Troy’s life insurance dipped into a four-digit number from the six it had started at, she’d taken a few shifts at Martha’s on Main. They hadn’t been able to give her regular hours, just some shift work when others had to be off island.

Mr. Michaelson flipped through the meager notes in the envelope. “This isn’t even enough to cover half a month.”

“You know how slow things have been around here since the pandemic.” Of course, things had never really recovered after the Grand Sullivan Hotel fire ten years ago. Mia’s heart squeezed as an image of that once majestic hotel flashed in her mind. They’d just recently broken ground on the project, and her cousin and best friend, Dani, had high hopes for a revitalized economy. But until then…“Martha has barely been able to give any of us hours. There’s just not enough tourists to support the work. Plus, it’s been so hard since my husband died. Now, the life insurance is running out—” She cut herself off, hating the whine that started to creep into her tone. She would not whine. Beg if she had to—she had her kids to think about after all—but never whine. This was her lot in life. She’d chosen it. She would live with it.

Mr. Michaelson nodded. “I’m so sorry again for your loss. I really liked Troy. He was on the track team with my son.” He fiddled with the envelope in front of him. “I certainly don’t want to be turning a widow out of her home. Especially one with little kids.”

She pictured Finn and Maggie’s sweet faces. Four-year-old Finn’s serious look, with his blond curls and brown eyes so like his father’s. And Maggie, two years younger, born just after Troy died, pixie-like with her darker blonde hair and blue eyes. She would do anything for them. Even beg.

“Just give me a few more weeks. Now that tourism season has started…” But what hope did she have, really?

Please, God. Let something come up.She thought back to the email she’d received from a friend in Traverse City offering her a job. She shoved the thought away. Last resort only. She wouldn’t tear her children from their home until it was her only option.

“Maybe you could ask your dad for help,” Mr. Michaelson said.

She stood abruptly; the chair rocked on its legs. “No. That is out of the question.” She hadn’t asked him for help since she’d arrived home, pregnant and unmarried at 19 years old, determined to show him that she and Troy could make it as teenagers with a child.

Even after marrying Troy, buying a house, and having two beautiful children, she couldn’t shake the disappointment that seemed to linger from him.

Mr. Michaelson held up a hand, palm forward. “Okay. Just a suggestion.” He rubbed his hand through his thinning hair. “Fine. I’ll give you one more month. I’ll hold off the board until…” He flipped a few pages on his desk calendar, “June 15th. Let’s plan to meet again then and see where you’re at.”

A wave of relief washed over her. “Thank you so much,” she said and turned to grab her jacket. Behind her, she heard the scratching of a pen across paper. She kept her back to the banker for a moment, blinking back tears.

After composing herself, she shoved her arms into her jacket then turned back to the desk. “Your kindness means the world to me.” She picked up her purse and slung it onto her shoulder.

He shook her hand and she hurried out of the building. She put her purse into the bike trailer, then flung a leg over her bicycle and rode slowly down Main Street. So many of the storefronts closed and shuttered. Abandoned by their owners, the deterioration beginning to show. Some of the buildings had cracked windows, siding sagged, one even had plywood where plate glass used to be. Martha’s on Main was still open though, as was Good Day Coffee and Kelley’s Bar & Grill. The Kelley siblings—Frank, Patrick, and Jill—had pretty much a monopoly on the restaurants in town.

After dodging a few tourists, she paused outside a small storefront. Gray clapboard siding rose to a peak at the top of the structure. Large windowpanes let in the light. Closed now, the store once held Sampson’s, a small art studio and gift shop. If she squinted, she could almost picture her teenage self at the till, ringing up a customer and dreaming of the day she owned her own gallery.

A cold wet sensation in her hand startled her, and she looked down to see a scruffy Jack Russell terrier nuzzling her palm. “Hello, Jack.”

The dog lived on the streets of Jonathon Island. He belonged to no one and to everyone. Everyone fed him, and some gave him a place to stay overnight when he deigned to let them. Sometimes Mia thought he should run for mayor—the dog would definitely win.

She scratched behind his ears. “Do you have any idea how to raise enough money to pay a mortgage?” The dog gave a soft roo-roo and then trotted off. “Some help you are.”

Her phone buzzed with a text from her mom’s number.

Mom

Can you bring a loaf of bread? I forgot to pick one up.

Mia

Sure. Be there soon.

Better quit daydreaming and get back to Finn and Maggie. She pedaled through town and turned into the neighboring street until she came to her own. Hanging a right, she headed halfway down, then turned into the front yard of her little house on Lilac Lane.

The small two bedroom, one and a half floor craftsman sat nested between two much larger houses. The white siding was flaking off near the bottom of the walls. And one shutter hung askew alongside the living room window. These imperfections didn’t stop the rush of tenderness deep in her core every time she spotted the home she and Troy had worked so hard on.

They’d gotten plenty done on the inside, including updating the bedrooms and bathroom, but other than painting the front door, they hadn’t managed to spruce up the outside before the boating accident.

And now she might lose it.

She shoved the thought into a far corner of her brain—it was getting crowded back there—as she ran past the lilac at the front door and then inside to grab a loaf of French bread from the kitchen at the back of the house. In the kitchen sink, dishes from the morning’s breakfast sat waiting for her to scrub the dried-on scrambled eggs. She ignored the urge to move the laundry into the dryer. Being late for supper wasn’t an option. Back outside, she tucked the bread next to her purse and took off again.

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