Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“I don’t know. And not just the bank note. Everything. Every vendor we use wants money. I can’t catch everyone up at once. I need time. Or I need access to her personal accounts. That has to be where the money is.”
“I’ve filed a petition with the court to appoint a neutral executor appointed with no allegiance to the bank,” he says. “But they could easily come back with names we have to reject.”
“Which is what the bank wants,” I assume, and suddenly there is a light in the dark tunnel. Not necessarily an end quite yet, but a light. “They think time will place me so far in debt I have to surrender the property. That would be insanity, and I’m not insane. It would be easier to get my hands on the money my mother pulled from the accounts, but I told you. The winery is making money. If we drag this out long enough, I’ll pay off that note. Drag it out.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” I say firmly.
“Have you had any luck at all finding the money she pulled from the company?”
“None,” I say. “Have you had any luck finding anything that might point me in the right direction?”
He reaches into his drawer and sets a card in front of me. “You need a private investigator. He’s good and affordable.”
“I can’t afford to hire a private detective.”
“You can’t afford not to,” he counters.
“We’re making money. I just need you to buy that time.”
“What if you have another surprise you don’t expect?” He slides the card closer. “Call him. Talk about a payment plan.”
I reach for the card and stick it in my purse. “I’ll call.” My mind goes to my newest surprise. “Do you know Nick Rogers?”
He arches a brow. “The attorney?”
“Yes. Him.”
“Why?”
“A couple of bank goons showed up last night, and he was at the winery. He stepped in and scared them off.”
“He’s a good friend and a bad enemy.”
“There’s no chance that was a setup and he’s already an enemy?”
“Nick Rogers doesn’t need to play the kind of games that comment suggests. He has the prowess of—”
“—a tiger.”
“Yes,” Frank says. “A tiger. He’ll—”
“—rip your throat out if you cross him or his clients,” I supply. “I know his reputation, but what I don’t understand is how he, above others in his field, is so well-known.”
“He’s one of the top five corporate attorneys in the country, and he’s local to our region.” He narrows his eyes on me. “But back to you. Do you have any other questions about what I shared today?”
“Not now.”
“Then let’s get to what’s important. Happy birthday, Faith.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice cracking, forcing me to clear my throat and repeat, “Thank you.”
“It’s a rough time to have a birthday, I know,” he says. “You lost your father at about the same time of year.”
“I did,” I agree. “But at least every year it’s all concentrated in one window of time.”
“Your birthday.”
“Birthdays are for kids.”
“Birthdays are for celebrating life,” he says. “Something you need to do. I’m glad you didn’t cancel your appearance at the art show tonight in light of your mother’s passing. It’s time you get back to your art, to let the world see what you do. And a local display with a three-month-long feature is a great way to get noticed again.”
Again.
I don’t let myself go to the place and history that word could take me to. Not today.
“Your agent did right by you on this,” he adds.
“Josh overstepped his boundaries by accepting this placement, and had he not committed in writing before I knew, I’d have declined. He was supposed to simply manage my existing placements and related sales.”
“Declined?” he asks incredulously. “This is an amazing opportunity, little girl.”
“Le Sun Gallery is owned by one of our competitors, a winery that infuriated my mother.”
“Your mother was selfish and wrong,” he says. “I know she’s gone, but I’m not saying anything we don’t both know. And Le Sun is owned by a rock star in the art world and the godparents of said rock-star artist. Every art lover who visits Sonoma wants to see Chris Merit’s work at that gallery, and when they see his, they will see yours. And you’ve put your life on hold for too long. If you decide to keep the winery—”
“I am,” I say. “It’s my family legacy.”
“You’re sure your uncle wants no part of it?”
“Yes,” I confirm. “Very.” And even if he did, I add silently, my father would turn over in his grave if that man even stepped foot on the property again. “Bottom line,” I add firmly. “I’m keeping the winery.”
“Make the decision to keep it after you achieve some breathing room. After your show and the chance to remember your dreams, not his.” He reaches inside the drawer again and retrieves an envelope, holding it up. “And after you read this and give yourself some time to process it.” He sets it in front of me.