“You told him you painted me,” Nick says.
“I shouldn’t have,” I reply without hesitation.
“Why?”
“Because I used it to justify me being with you.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes. “I realized that,” he says. “I wasn’t sure you did.”
“Otherwise, I’m not sorry I told him. You did inspire me to paint, Nick.”
“By being an arrogant asshole you aren’t sure you can trust?”
He’s right. That is what happened, but somehow that feeling I’d had about him no longer weighs on me as it had. “I don’t trust easily.”
“Those who do, get burned,” he says, and there’s something in his eyes, in his voice, that I cannot name, but wish I could and I never get the chance. He circles back to where this started. “The show, Faith.”
“The show,” I repeat, my mind tracking back to those years in L.A. “Being picked for it has always been a dream for me. For years, my work was presented to them. For years, I was declined.”
“And this time they came to you,” he observes.
That hope and dream inside me rises up with painful insistence and I shove it back down. “An inquiry means nothing.”
“Have they inquired before?”
“No, but they may rule me out.”
“But if they want you, you’re not going to decline.”
It’s not a question. It’s a command, and while I don’t take commands well, this one is well-intended, but also ineffective for reasons out of his control. “They aren’t going to accept me. It’s a month away.”
“Don’t do that, Faith.” His tone is absolute.
“Don’t do what?”
“Downplay how big this is for you. Don’t find a way to make it not matter.”
I stare at him, trying to understand how this man I barely know can be this supportive. Is it real? Is it just a part of his temporary obsession with me? He arches a brow at my silent scrutiny, but I am saved a real answer when more food appears. But it’s not a true escape. The moment we’re alone, Nick returns to the topic. “What does the show do for you?”
“If you’re spotlighted, you’ve made it. Those are the artists people want to have in their stores and on their walls.” Unbidden, my mind goes back to the day I’d told my father I had a full scholarship to UCLA. There had been hugs. Excitement. Smiles. Then he’d said, “I can see it now. Our wine will be in every gallery in the country because you know the wine that pairs with the art.” And I’d been devastated. My art was never going to be more than a hobby to him.
Nick’s knees capture mine under the table and my eyes jerk to his. “What just happened, sweetheart?” he asks, that tender warmth back in his eyes, and a knot forms in my throat.
“If I can get into the show, I can sell my work, and save the winery.”
Nick’s eyes narrow on mine, and I swear in that moment, it feels like he’s diving deep into my soul and seeing too much again. “When you get into the show, it’s about you, not the winery.”
“But the money-”
“Let’s talk about the winery and money with my attorney hat on.”
I shove my plate aside and Nick does the same. “Okay. I don’t like how that sounds.”
“Money isn’t your issue,” he says. “If that were the case, I’d take advantage of a good investment, write you a check, get a return, and we’d be done with this.”
“I’m not foolish enough to miss the way you framed that in a way you think I’d find acceptable, but you giving me money that I wouldn’t take no matter how you presented it, isn’t your point.”
“No. It’s not. Obviously, Frank has you focused on money being your salvation when it’s not.”
“You yourself wanted to know the financial status of the winery,” I point out.
“Because if it’s a sinking ship, there’s no reason to save it. That isn’t the case, so we move on to your primary problem: the absence of a will is the issue.”
“I have my father’s will that said my mother inherits on the stipulation that I inherit next.”
“But we have no idea what documents came after that will that might say otherwise. There may be none. The bank may just hope they can pressure you into walking away. They may even have an investor who wants the property and wants you to sell cheap.”
“Can they be a part of that? Can they do that?”
“There are a lot of things that shouldn’t be done that get done. And I’m having someone on my research team look into the money trail and the mystery of your mother’s barren bank accounts.”
Guilt assails me again and it is not a feeling I enjoy. It heavy and sharp, and mean. “Please don’t spend money on my behalf.”
“I have people I’m already paying,” he says. “I promise you, the bank will know what we don’t. And we won’t, nor will I allow us to have, that disadvantage.” He slides my plate in front of me. “I got this. Stop worrying.”
“Faith.”
At the sound of my name, I look up to find the restaurant manager, Sheila, standing beside us, and the distressed look on her face has my spine straightening. “What is it, Sheila?”
“There’s a man at the door asking to see you who looks like…he looks like…”
My blood runs cold. “My father,” I supply, without ever looking toward the door. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
She nods and leaves and Nick glances at the man by the door that I know to be tall, fit, and with white hair that was once red. “Bill Winter,” he says. “Your uncle, your father’s twin, and the CEO of Pier 111, a social media platform that’s giving Facebook a run for its money. He was also estranged from your father for eight years before his death.”
“Reminding me that you studied me like you were picking a refrigerator out isn’t a good thing right now, Nick.”
“As I’ve said, I studied you like a woman who intrigued me,” he reminds me. “And I’m not going to pretend naiveté I don’t have and I know you well enough to know that’s not what you want.”
“No,” I concede. “I wouldn’t. I need to go deal with him. And it won’t take long.”
He considers me for several moments before releasing my knees, he’s still holding. “I’m here if you need me.”
Has anyone I wanted to say those words ever said them to me? “Thank you.”
I stand and turn toward the door, and sure enough, there stands Bill Winter, and I swear seeing him, with his likeness to my father, turns my knees to rubber. But it also angers me and my spine straightens. I start walking, crossing the small space to meet him at the archway that is the entrance to the restaurant. “What are you doing here, Bill?” I ask, my voice sharp despite my low tone.
Towering over me by a good foot, he stares down at me, his blue eyes so like my father’s it hurts to look at him. “How are you, Faith?”
“What are you doing here, Bill?” I repeat.
“I’m your only living family. I’m checking on my niece.”
“You’re my blood, but not my family. My father would not want you here.”