Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
kennedy
I arrive at First National Bank fifteen minutes early, clutching a leather portfolio that cost me a wedding cake order but felt necessary.
Inside are spreadsheets, testimonials from clients, and photos of my work.
Three years of farmers’ market Saturdays and custom orders baked in my apartment or ghost kitchens rented by the hour, all leading to this: a pastry kitchen on Maple Street with industrial ovens and enough counter space to finally, finally, scale up.
To grow Crumb & Co. into an actual company where I can offer wholesale to local restaurants and coffeehouses and focus on custom cake orders and dessert tables.
The loan officer, a woman named Patricia Vance, seemed warm on the phone, but now, as I sit across the desk from her while she studies her computer screen, that warmth cools in real time.
Despite my fraying nerves, I straighten in the overly stuffed chair and paste a smile on my face.
“Ms. Caplan.” She looks up, her expression apologetic.
Dammit. I’ve seen this expression before—on my parents’ faces when I told them I was dropping out of law school a year before graduation, on my sisters’ faces when they learned my 401(k) was nonexistent and I live paycheck to paycheck. It’s sympathy laced with finality.
“I appreciate you coming in today and putting together such a thorough application,” she says.
“But?” The word escapes before I can stop it.
She folds her hands on the desk. “But I’m afraid we can’t approve your loan at this time. Your credit score is significantly below our lending threshold.”
Suddenly, the walls start closing in and my heart thuds heavily against my breastbone. “I have three years of steady income. Growing income. I brought my tax returns, my projected revenue—”
“I can see that.” Patricia’s voice is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. “And your business plan is impressive, but your credit history shows multiple late payments over the past two years. That coupled with your student loans—”
“I’m making payments on that,” I tell her, no doubt sounding pathetic. “And the late payments were all under thirty days. I’ve never missed a payment entirely.”
“I understand, but the algorithm doesn’t distinguish between fifteen days late and twenty-nine days late.
It sees late payments, and that affects your score.
” She slides a piece of paper across the desk.
There, on top, is my credit score in bold numbers: 587.
“We require a minimum of 680 for commercial loans of this size.”
I blink at the number as my whole body deflates. It’s nearly a hundred points short. “What if I got a cosigner?”
Patricia’s expression morphs. It’s not quite hopeful, but less final. “A cosigner with good credit could work. Final approval would depend on their financial profile, but it would bypass the issues with your personal credit history.”
My heart kicks up. Okay, so the door isn’t completely closed.
I just need someone to walk through it with me.
I run through the mental list automatically: my parents are out of the question, my sisters are both still paying off their own degrees, and my friends are all in the same boat as me: millennials with student loans and gig economy jobs.
As the silence stretches, Patricia’s smile flags, turning sympathetic.
“No,” I admit finally. “I don’t have anyone.”
She nods and laces her fingers. “Then I’m afraid your only option is to rebuild your credit. Pay down that collection account and keep your payment history clean for the next twelve to eighteen months and then reapply.”
With those words, the door swings shut and the opportunity slips away.
In eighteen months, the perfect pastry kitchen will be long gone, rented out by someone with better credit, and the wholesale accounts I’ve been courting will have gone with other bakers.
I can grow my credit history in that time frame, but I certainly can’t grow my business in my tiny kitchen.
“Ms. Caplan—Kennedy—I really am sorry. Your passion is clear.” The statement is a hollow one.
I close my portfolio, the leather suddenly feeling cheap under my fingers. “Eighteen months.”
“I wish I had better news.”
I stand, my legs unsteady. “Thank you for your time.”
Outside the bank, red and yellow leaves gently drift down onto the sidewalk.
Normally, a beautiful fall day like this would lift my spirits.
Today, not even the fall foliage can cut through the defeat that’s swamped me.
I pull out my phone as I walk to my car and open the email from the realtor about the Maple Street property.
Perfect for a bakery, it read. Won’t last long.
I delete it.
Then I tap on my calendar and look at next weekend’s orders: two birthday cakes, a wedding dessert table, and four dozen custom cookies.
All of it to be made with my temperamental oven and limited counter space, just like always.
I unlock my car, slip into the driver’s seat, and lean forward, resting my head on the steering wheel.
I’m usually a glass half full kind of gal. It may be na?ve and it may bite me in the ass from time to time, but I prefer to look on the bright side, to make the best of bad situations.
But right now, all I want to do is curl up in a ball and cry.
I stay like that, my energy sapped, until my phone rings, startling me.
The call is from an unknown number, and as optimistic as I am, as impossible as the scenario is, it’s hard not to hope that it’s the bank calling me to say, “Just kidding, we’re totally going to give you that loan.”
Unlike most people, who send unknown numbers to voicemail or immediately block them as spam, I always pick up. Fucking with telemarketers and scammers brings me a unique kind of joy.
But rather than answer with “Thank you for calling the FBI wiretap division, this call is being recorded,” I simply say, “Hello?”
“Hi, Kennedy, it’s Sloane,” a familiar voice says. “I didn’t have time to say hi to you at the charity gala, but we met at Cole’s Fourth of July party over the summer. Not sure if you remember or—”
“Yes, of course,” I reply, her face popping into my mind easily. “Sophie painted your kid’s face like a lion, right?”
She laughs, the sound carefree. “Yup. Anyway, I’m calling to see if you’re available on Friday night for your charity dinner with Cameron.”
Ah, yes. Because taking me out is charitable.
I was half convinced he’d forget about it or never intended to follow through in the first place. Even so, my heart does the stupid little flutter thing every time I hear his name. Keeping my voice steady, casual, I ask, “Oh. That’s actually happening?”
“Of course,” she says. “Does that date work for you?”
I wipe my sweaty hands against my black slacks. The foolishly expensive slacks I bought for the bank meeting. “Does Cameron know the date’s actually happening?”
“Yes.”
She doesn’t add on “and he’s so excited!” or “he can’t wait to try the food.” Not that I’m surprised. Cameron doesn’t do exuberance. He does broody and monosyllabic and occasionally, if a person is lucky, he’ll throw in a grunt that might be agreement.
The silence stretches, but before it can get too awkward, I ask, “Where’s the dinner again?”
“The Copper Lantern.”
I sit up a little straighter and rub the indentation the wheel left on my forehead. The Copper Lantern has a months-long waitlist, and their carrot cake is supposed to be some of the best in the city. If the cream cheese frosting is as good as people say… “Let me check my calendar.”
I tap on the calendar app again, quickly discovering that my Friday night is indeed free.
My plan was to spend it looking over supplies for the new space, but now that the bank has rejected my loan, I’m more likely to be throwing myself a pity party and wallowing with a pint of ice cream while binge-watching reality TV.
Not that I tell Sloane any of that.
“Yeah, that works.”
“Great,” she chirps. “The driver will pick you up at six thirty. This is my personal number, so text if you have any questions. Have fun.”
The instant she hangs up, the urge to call her back to cancel hits me.
What am I thinking? I can’t do dinner with Cameron.
At an intimate table for two. Sharing a bottle of wine.
Making small talk while trying not to drool because he’ll probably be wearing a button-down that’ll give me glimpses of the tattoos on his chest.
But I’ve already said yes. And the thought of calling back to cancel makes me cringe. What would I even say? “Sorry, I can’t follow through on my charitable contribution because I low-key think your goalie may spend the entire dinner plotting my demise?”
It’s just one dinner. A few hours. How hard could it be? People survive worse things all the time.
Though dinner with a grumpy hockey player who would rather get a root canal than spend an hour with me will be anything but pleasant.
Shit.
And here I thought today couldn’t get any worse.