“I hope so.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” he said.
“When we were out at the vineyard, you mentioned your business—that it was in trouble. And I’ve been wondering . . .”
“You want to know more?”
She nodded. “If you’re comfortable sharing.”
He laughed softly. “If I’m not, it’s a little bit late now. We’re business partners, for all intents and purposes. Aren’t we?”
“I guess we are,” she said. She smiled, but it was polite only and didn’t reach her eyes. “So what’s the trouble?”
No, business partners wasn’t what he wanted either, but it was all he could offer her right now, so he prayed she wouldn’t ask him for more.
He took a deep breath and sighed. “My father started C & C Winslow in 1985 with his brother. At that time, it was called T & C Winslow: T for Taylor, my father, and C for Cameron, my uncle, for whom I’m named. My uncle Cameron managed the business for years after my father died, then turned it over to me and Christopher in 2012, and we changed the name to C & C Winslow. We doubled the clientele and added mergers and acquisitions to the established private equity business. But several months ago, Chris decided that he wanted to run for city office.”
“Controller, right?”
“Yeah. At first.” Cameron shook his head. “His plans have recently changed, though. He’s running for Congress this November instead.”
“I didn’t know.”
“He only entered the race two weeks ago. Still getting his campaign together. You’ll hear all about it soon.”
“That’s pretty amazing, you know,” she said.
Cameron bristled a little. He really didn’t care to hear how amazing Christopher was. Especially not from Margaret.
“Yeah. Well, I’m happy for him. But the thing is, I had sort of signed on for a two-man operation, and even though we’d taken on more deals, it ran really smoothly when Chris and I managed C & C together. And now . . .”
“It’s too much for one person?”
Being honest with Margaret was effortless, he realized, as he nodded at her. Something about her earnest voice and gentle eyes made it impossible for him to offer her anything but the truth. “It is.”
“You could hire someone,” she suggested.
He shrugged. But that someone wouldn’t be Chris. He didn’t want to work with some anonymous stranger. He liked working with someone he cared about—that’s what made it so rewarding.
“You could cut back on some of the business. Roll it over to another firm.”
Cameron reached for his wineglass and took a sip.
“Do you love it?” she asked, leaning forward. “I mean, do you love it enough to figure out how to make it work?”
He stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “No, I don’t. Not anymore. When it was me and Chris, I liked it a lot. I loved working with my brother. Now? Trying to keep it afloat all alone? It’s an albatross. I hate it more every day.”
“Then why don’t you sell it and do something else?”
“Why don’t you do something else?” he asked, feeling a trifle defensive. “Or would you rather work for Story Imports than spend your time at The Five Sisters?”
“No . . . but my father . . .,” she started.
“But my father,” he echoed, reminding her who had started C & C Winslow.
“Yours is gone,” she said softly.
“So I should turn my back on his legacy?”
“Would he want you to be unhappy?”
“Would yours?”
Her eyes watered unexpectedly. “I don’t think he cares.”
“He’s your father,” said Cameron gently. “Of course he cares.”
***
Margaret shook her head, her vision blurring with tears as she articulated feelings that she’d never shared with anyone except her sisters. “Actually, I don’t think he does. In fact I’m quite certain that my happiness is irrelevant to him.”
Unable to look Cameron in the eyes, she took off her glasses and laid them on the table, then reached for her crystal glass and pulled it closer, blinking miserably at the dark red wine. She was about to take a small sip when Cameron’s chair scraped across the floor. Even though she didn’t look up, she knew that he was circling the table, a fact confirmed when his hands landed softly on her shoulders. She placed her glass back on the table, and he slid his hands from her shoulders to the back of her chair, shifting it away from the table and turning it so she faced him. Then he squatted down before her, placing his palms flat on the bare skin of her knees.
“Meggie,” he whispered tenderly, and she raised her bleary eyes just enough to find his looking back at her, searching her face like he couldn’t bear the sight of her pain. “It’s not irrelevant to me.”