Amber Hartley's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Amber had the space in her sights. What she did not have was proof she could pay for it. The owner would meet her within the hour. If she showed up with empty hands, he could turn her away and rent to someone else. Six years of saving sat in one account, but a number on a screen would not convince a wary old man. She called the one person who always led with the bottom line. Her mother answered on the second ring. Twenty minutes later, Victoria stood outside the small town bank in a pressed navy suit, a folder already tucked under her arm. She had built real businesses while Amber was still learning to count a till. Once, Amber asked for her advice, then quietly ignored it. Now she needed it. "You have the savings," Victoria said, no greeting. "You need it on paper. A landlord trusts ink, not stories." Inside, the bank was quiet and tidy. Victoria told the teller exactly what they needed. A signed statement of funds. A letter confirming Amber could cover a year of lease payments. The teller printed the pages while Victoria checked each number against the account. "This proves you can pay," Victoria said, sliding the folder across to Amber. "It does not prove the shop will work. He will ask about that too." Amber had thought of that. From her bag she lifted a travel cup. Creamy foam, a dusting of spice, a warm pumpkin color through the plastic. She had made it that morning in her tiny kitchen. "He warned me the place needs work," Amber said. "I want him to taste what it becomes." Victoria took the cup, sipped, and raised an eyebrow. "That is good. Lead with the paper. Then the cup." It was the closest thing to approval she gave. They reached the maple-shaded building with ten minutes to spare. The old man waited by the crooked lantern, keys heavy in his hand. He looked Amber over, then glanced at the suited woman beside her. "You said you'd take it," he said. "People say that. Then they can't pay." Amber handed him the folder. He read slowly, turning each page. His frown held, but his shoulders eased. "A full year, covered," he admitted. Amber held out the cup. "And this is what I'll sell here." He sipped. For the first time, something near a smile crossed his face. He pushed the door open, and dust rose in the light. "All right," he said. "It's yours. But I told you it needs work. Come see what you've agreed to." Amber stepped inside, proof in hand, the space finally hers. Then she saw what he meant. The shelves sagged. A hole gaped in the ceiling. Water stained the floor. The lease was won. The ruin was just beginning.