“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 set-up 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 which 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 artworld and the godparents 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.
My gaze lands on my name and a birthday greeting written in my father’s familiar script. I swallow hard, my stomach flip-flopping, before my gaze jerks to his. “What is that?”
“He asked me to give it to you upon his death, if it was after you turned thirty or on your thirtieth birthday, should he pass before that date.”
My hands go to the back of my neck, under my hair, my throat thick and I have to turn my head away, my eyes shutting, a wave of emotions overwhelming me. “And yet my mother didn’t even have a will,” I murmur.
“People don’t want to believe they’re going to die,” he says. “It’s quite common.”
I jerk back to him, anger burning inside me at my mother, and at him for protecting her. Again. “You do what’s responsible when you hold a property of this value. You just do.” I grab the envelope my father left for me. “Please just buy me time.” I stand and walk to the door and just as I’m about to leave, he says, “Faith.”
I pause but do not turn. “Yes?”
“I know you’re angry at her and so am I, but it, like all things, will pass.”
I want to believe him. I do. But he wouldn’t be so confident, if he knew all there was to know, which I will never allow to happen. And so, I simply nod as a reply, and leave, thankful that Betty is on the phone and has a delivery driver in front of her, which allows me to pass by her without any obligatory niceties. Exiting the office, the cool air is a shock I welcome, something to focus on other than the ball of emotion the envelope in my hand seems to be stirring. Maybe I didn’t want to feel again after all, and eager to be alone, I quicken my pace, entering a tunneled path beneath an ivy-covered overhang and don’t stop until I’m on the other side. Clearing it, I turn left to bring my car into view where it’s parked on the opposite side of the street, my lips parting, my feet planting, at the sight of Mr. Rogers himself leaning against it. And he isn’t just leaning on it. He’s leaning on the driver’s side door, as if to tell me that I’m not leaving without going through him first.