This was my low point. Even I knew that. Standing in the lobby of Suncoast Bank, saying, in a louder-than-appropriate voice, "But why should I be punished for what Bill did? It wasn't like I had anything to do with it!" was pretty much the closest to a total meltdown I had come. Three days ago, I'd arrived home from dropping my daughter at tennis lessons to find police cars and FBI swarming the five-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bath cedar-shake beach house that we had just spent two years building. Two years of paint samples and fabric choices with one of the country's finest designers, flown in from Palm Beach, to give my family our dream home.
And in an instant, it had become a nightmare.
The fact that I was in a bank lobby nearly yelling this at Enid Plyler, who was in her late sixties with short gray hair and had, it seemed, been born behind the loan officer desk at Suncoast Bank, made it even worse.
I loved Enid, stopped by her office to chat each week when I came in to make deposits and get cash. We were a bit of a study in contrasts. Enid was short and wore an ill-fitting lady's suit, paired with tan orthotic shoes that I would need too if I were pacing back and forth on this beautiful but very hard white marble floor every day. I am nearly five ten, so I was towering over her in my three-inch wedges paired with one of my old dresses I had found stashed at my parents, a little rose-pink number with a deep V-neck that I knew complemented my summer tan. I should not have been taking my panic out on her. Fortunately, while I was losing it, Enid remained very calm. "Charlotte, I hear you, sweetheart. And I want to help you. I do. But I think you understand that convincing the board of directors at a financial institution to hire a woman who is married to a man awaiting trial for stealing massive sums of money from his clients might be a hard sell.”
Ten points for frankness. “So, what am I supposed to do, Enid?” I asked in a frantic, high-pitched voice that made Paul Lucas and Gabe Montoya, who were both waiting in the teller line, turn and take notice. Well, that was just great. Of all the women who had been unfriendly and unwelcoming to me when we moved here from New York three years ago, their wives might have had spot number one and number two on the list. I was sure they would just love this. “I’ve called everyone,” I said, suddenly feeling light-headed, the room starting to go soft and blurry around the edges. “All those big New York firms who promised they would have a job for Charlotte Nicholson who stepped away from finance too soon? No one will touch me now.”
Enid grimaced, and I shuddered at the thought that I might be back to my maiden name. Would I be a Nicholson again? But, no, Iris was a Sitterly. I would remain one too. I continued, realizing that I was sounding more like a lunatic by the second: “My degree is in finance. My master’s is in finance. My job history is in finance. I realize an investment firm might not be jumping to have me, but I assumed my local bank might throw me a bone. All my assets are frozen.” My voice going an octave higher, I added, “I have a child to raise, Enid.”
Enid took my elbow and said, “Why don’t we step into my office?”