Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
As the cold water hit my lips, I heard faintly from the office around the corner, “Grayson Hawthorn, nice to meet you.” I froze and stood slowly, using my thumb to distractedly wipe the water off my bottom lip. Grayson Hawthorn…Grayson Hawthorn? I knew that name, remembered the strong sound of it, the way I had repeated it to myself on a whisper to hear it on my lips that day in my father’s office. I thought back to the quick glance at the file my dad had slid closed as I’d placed a tray of coffee on his desk. Could it be the same Grayson Hawthorn?
I took a few steps and peeked around the corner but saw nothing more than a closed office door, the shade on the window pulled down. My curiosity still piqued, I walked to the restroom on the other side of the corridor from the office Grayson Hawthorn occupied. Snoopy much, Kira?
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 as I washed and dried my hands.
As I was leaving the restroom, a man in a suit, most likely a bank executive, entered the office across the hall. He closed the door behind him, but it didn’t click into place and stood very slightly ajar, allowing me to hear a few words of introductions. I paused, pulling the restroom door most of the way closed, and then stood there 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? Yes then, 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 started to exit when I heard the scraping of chair legs and paused yet again. The words from across the hall were clearer now that they had probably moved closer to the door. “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—”
“I understand. Thank you for your time, Mr. Gellar,” came another male voice. Grayson’s I assumed.
I caught the brief glimpse of a tall male figure with dark hair in a heather-gray suit leaving the office 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.
Outside, the day had grown brighter and warmer. I let myself into my car, which I had 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 cottage-style house with the covered front porch. 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.