Once inside the restroom, I locked the door and leaned against the wall. I hadn't even known Grayson Hawthorn lived in Napa. His trial had taken place in San Francisco, so that must have been where the crime was committed—not that I knew what that crime might have been, only that my father had taken a brief interest in it. I bit my lip, moving to the sink and staring at myself in the mirror above it as I washed and dried my hands.
I opened the door quietly and tried in vain to listen to the conversation in the room across the hall, but I could only hear muffled voices. Suddenly, I heard the door open and peeked out to see another man in a suit, most likely a bank executive, enter the office. He closed the door behind him, but it didn't click into place and stood very, very slightly ajar, allowing me to hear a few words of introductions. Again, I stood at the cracked bathroom door trying to listen.
Really, Kira? This is shamefully nosy. An invasion of privacy. And worse, somewhat pointless. Seriously, what is wrong with you? Ignoring my own reprimand, I leaned closer to the crack in the door.
I'd leave this less-than-stellar moment out of my memoirs. No one needed to know about it but me.
A few words drifted my way. "Sorry . . . felon . . . can't give . . . this bank . . . unfortunately . . ." Felon? It had to be the Grayson Hawthorn I thought it was. What a strange, random coincidence. I barely knew anything about him. All I really knew was his name, the fact that he’d been accused of a crime, and that my father had participated in using him as a pawn. Grayson Hawthorn and I had that in common. Not that it was likely my father remembered the name of one man, when he ruined lives so regularly and with so little afterthought. In any case, why was I eavesdropping from inside a bathroom, trying to listen in on his private conversation? I wasn't sure, however an abundance of curiosity was one of my confirmed faults. I took a deep breath and went to open the bathroom door so I could exit, when I heard the scraping of chair legs and paused. The words from across the hall were clearer now that they had probably opened the door wider. "I'm sorry I can't approve a loan for you, Mr. Hawthorn." The male voice that spoke sounded regretful. "If you were worth more . . ."
Another male voice, Grayson's I assumed, cut the other man off. "I understand. Thank you for your time, Mr. Gellar."
I caught the brief glimpse of a tall male figure with dark hair in a gray suit and leaned back inside the restroom, clicking the door closed again. I washed my hands once more to stall, and then left the small room. I glanced at the office Grayson Hawthorn had been in as I passed, and saw a man sitting behind the desk in a suit and tie, his attention focused on something he was writing. That must have been Grayson Hawthorn in the gray suit, and apparently he'd already left the bank.
I walked back outside into the bright summer’s day and let myself into my car, parked up the street. I sat there for a minute, staring out the front window at the quaint downtown area: crisp, clean awnings adorned the fronts of the businesses, and large containers of brightly colored flowers decorated the sidewalk. I loved Napa, from downtown, to the riverfront, to the outlying vineyards, ripe with fruit in the summer and colorful with the vivid yellow, wild mustard flowers in the winter. It had been where my gram retired to after my grandfather passed, where I’d spent summers at her small house with the large front porch on Seminary Street. Everywhere I looked I saw her, heard her voice, felt her warm, vibrant spirit. My gram had been fond of saying, Today may be a very bad day, but tomorrow may be the best day of your life. You just have to hang on until you get there.
I drew in a deep inhale of air, doing my best to shake off the loneliness. Oh, Gram, if only you were here. You would take me into your arms and tell me everything was going to be okay. And because it was you saying it, I would believe it to be true.