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)
“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—which 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, which 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’s 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 have, 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 who 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 feign naïveté 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.”
“Your father and I made peace before he died.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say, rejecting what would add another irrational personal decision to my father’s track record.
“We did, but regardless,” he says. “I owe him. And that means protecting you. The bank called me. I understand there are financial issues. Let me help.”
I am appalled and shocked that the bank went to Bill. “I don’t want or need your help, and if I did, my father would roll over in his grave if I took it.”
“I told you. We came to terms before he died.”
“I don’t believe you, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”
Nick steps to my side, his hand settling possessively at my back, his presence drawing Bill’s immediate attention. “Bill Winter.” My uncle introduces himself. “And you are?”