Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“And Macom? Did he take your art seriously?”
“He’s an artist.”
“So he understood the struggles.”
“Yes,” she says, reaching for the bottle of water. “I suppose you could say that.” But something about the way she says those words says there’s more to that story than meets the eye.
I open my mouth to find a way to that story when her cell phone rings. I finish my food while she pushes to her feet and walks to the counter where her purse, which looks like it’s seen better days, sits. She retrieves her phone and glances at the screen. “The mechanic.” She answers the call.
I stand and dump my takeout plate into the trash, and Faith seals hers and walks to the fridge as she listens. “Okay. Yes. No. Just please tow it to the winery. Thank you.” She ends the call and stuffs her phone into her jeans.
“That didn’t sound good.”
“All I heard was the price, and I’m not spending that without another opinion and some time. I have another car at the winery. I’ll just have to ask you to please take me to pick it up when you leave.”
“And when am I going to leave, Faith?”
“According to my hard limit, before we sleep tonight.”
“No sleep, then,” I say. “So be it.” I don’t give her time to argue. “Let’s call Frank.”
“My paperwork related to the winery is all upstairs. We should call with the documents in front of you. And if you want, you can just work up there while I paint. Or not. You’re welcome to stay down here.”
“Upstairs,” I say, the significance of her going from not wanting me up there to wanting me up there not something that I miss. Neither is the fact that she just invited me to sit at that desk, where I can nose around in anything I want. And she has to know this. I gather my work, and we head up to the studio. Faith straightens the desktop but sets a stack of files on the desk. “Taxes. My father’s will. Collection letters. Random other items. If you need anything specific that isn’t there, just ask.”
I reach for a file that catches my eye and flip it open, looking at the forty-five-million-dollar valuation of the vineyard with the note for thirty-five. “Faith, you could sell for ten million?”
“That evaluation was done before that freeze and the substantial loss of business that followed. I still believe it would sell for a profit, but nowhere near that. But I’m not selling, Nick. This is my family business.”
“Did your mother know the value had gone down?”
“I tried to tell her that, but she didn’t care enough to listen.”
Or she did listen, and the freeze lowered the price and made the vineyard a steal for someone like my father, who would rebuild it. It makes sense, except for the fact that my father wouldn’t put money down on something Meredith Winter had no right to sell. He was not that stupid. Not to mention the fact that both of them are dead now. “Let’s call Frank.”
She pulls her cellphone from her pocket and dials on speaker. “Faith,” Frank answers. “What’s happened? Is it the bank harassing you again?”
“I’m here with Nick Rogers.”
“Ah, yes. Nick. I knew this call was coming when you brought up his name. I might be old, but I still have instincts. Am I being fired?”
“No,” Faith says quickly, her eyes meeting mine, a silent plea for me to say the right thing right now.
“I’m going to play second counsel,” I say. “But I need to be brought up to date.”
Frank doesn’t hesitate. “Well, for starters, we have no will, and the bank sees this as a chance to make a profit, thus they have a substantial interest in claiming the property.”
Speaking to Frank, I say, “Which is an asinine claim that will never hold up in court. I can name five ways to Sunday how they’re pushing the limits of the law.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Have we made it clear to the bank that you’ll counterattack?”
He gives a long, rambling answer that amounts to “no” and does not please me. “We need to order another evaluation of the property,” I say.
“It’s not her property until we clear this probate issue,” he argues.
“The bank has an end game here,” I say. “The way I see this, they’re either representing a buyer who has some interest we don’t yet know in this property, thus wants to force Faith to sell—or frankly, Frank, they’re hoping you’re weak enough to let them take it from her before she can sell for a big payday.”
Faith’s eyes go wide, and I hold up a hand while Frank says, “I don’t want to let Faith down.”
Faith shuts her eyes and then says, “You won’t, Frank. You won’t.”
“We need to get you out of probate,” Frank says. “Then you can take out a loan on your winery and pay off the debt your mother left you.”