I nodded. “And if I don’t, we have three other interviews to drive around to today.”

“Right,” Grace said. “But we aren’t going to need them because you, Charlotte, were born to work at Montoya and Sons Insurance.”

We both burst out laughing. I was grateful for the opportunity, sure. But my, how the mighty had fallen.

The inside of Montoya & Sons was exactly how one would picture a small-town insurance agency. It had bad fluorescent lighting between water-stained ceiling tiles and green carpet squares that it seemed they had forgotten you could replace. The walls were a neutral tan that needed to be painted and the halls were lined with insurance company posters that had to have been decades old. Jake from State Farm wasn’t in a single one. No LiMu Emu. And where the heck was Flo? I snickered to myself.

A lady wearing a name tag that read AGNES with a perm and a jaw that could chew gum like I’d never seen was very inconvenienced to be walking me down the hall. Well, yes, I could see that things at the front desk of the empty office were very taxing. She led me to a closed door. “Any tips?” I whispered.

She rolled her eyes and walked away. Cool. All for one and one for all at this office. Woman power. Agnes might not have said it, but I was sure that was how she felt. I couldn’t help but smile. I cracked myself up today.

I tapped on the door.

“Come in!”

“Hi, Mr. Montoya,” I said. He stood up, wearing a rumpled gray suit with a green patterned tie that felt like it went with this office somehow. He reached out to shake my hand, the fluorescent light shining on his cue-ball bald head. He was probably in his late fifties—a solid fifteen years older than his wife, Chloe’s mom—and had a nice smile.

“Just call me Gabe, sweetheart. Please, sit down.”

I should have told him not to call me sweetheart, but I remembered what Julie had said—he was old school. And, if I was really honest, his kind demeanor soothed me. I didn’t want to admit it to Grace, but I was very nervous. I had no idea how long my money would be on lockdown. I absolutely had to have a job.

As I settled into a chair, he picked up a piece of paper—my résumé, I realized—and looked at it, then back up at me. “Charlotte, you can’t sit here and answer phones.”

My heart fell to the floor, and I stumbled. “Oh, no, Mr. Montoya, I am great with customer service. Just ask my daughter. I’m basically her personal rep.”

He laughed. “I sure do like that daughter of yours. She and my Chloe are as thick as thieves.”