“So here’s what I’d like,” I said to Mr. Hale.
“I’d like Mr. Pierce to stay. As branch manager. For one year.”
“Dot—” Shelly started.
“With some conditions,” I said.
I counted them off on my fingers. My knotted, dirty fingers.
“One. Shelly gets her job back. With a raise. She’s been underpaid for ten years. Everybody knows it.”
Mr. Hale nodded. “Done.”
“Two. Harvey gets his job back. And he gets to retire when he decides to retire. Not when a spreadsheet decides.”
“Done.”
“Three. The peppermint bowl goes back on the counter.”
Mr. Hale actually laughed. “Done.”
“Four.” I looked at Brandon. “For the next year, Mr. Pierce comes to work one day a week in his own clothes. Whatever he’d wear on a Saturday. Jeans. A T-shirt. Old shoes. And he works the teller window. Not the manager’s office. The window. Where Shelly sits.”
