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Exasperated, Rachel pushed the paperwork away, and turned in her chair to glance out the office window with its view of the 405 freeway and the tall Ferris wheel at Irvine Spectrum.
What was she supposed to do with a bookstore in Montana? Rachel’s entire world was here. She’d been born and raised in Irvine, attending UC Irvine where she’d studied accounting, and Irvine was where she lived now, just seven miles from Novak & Bartley’s main office. How did one just pop into Marietta for a visit? It wasn’t close. It wasn’t convenient. And this wasn’t a gift Rachel could use.
Weren’t fairy godmothers supposed to show up when you needed them? Weren’t they supposed to swoop in and make things better?
Rachel turned from the window, her gaze sweeping in her office with the towering pile of files, and boxes of documents stacked in the corners, and it struck her quite forcefully that she’d sacrificed almost everything for this company and suddenly she wasn’t sure the sacrifices had been worth it. She’d let go of relationships and friendships for longer work hours, and how had it mattered? She wasn’t getting anywhere. And even if she stayed with Novak & Bartley, it was unlikely she’d ever make partner.
Exhaling hard, she reached for the keychain with the Big Sky accent, and turned it over, the worn brass smooth against her skin. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt so devastated.
She’d poured herself into her job. She’d sacrificed virtually everything for work. There had been a plan, and it had looked so neat and tidy on paper. X number of clients times Y number of years and she’d be a manager, and then a director, and eventually a partner. Only it wasn’t working out that way. Her numbers were letting her down—no, Rachel stopped herself, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t the numbers that let her down. It was people.
So, what was she going to do? Go somewhere else, do something else, or just put her head down and work harder? Rachel didn’t know. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t get perspective.
She craved air, and space, and a chance to relax. Breathe.
Maybe a visit to this old bookstore in the middle of nowhere was exactly what she needed.
*
Atticus Evan Bowen, much like his namesake Atticus Finch, was an attorney from the South, unlike the fictional Finch, Atticus Bowen was from Houston, Texas, not Maycomb, Alabama, and his specialty was real estate law.
Atticus loved making deals, and nothing was more rewarding than closing a very challenging deal. After a stint as a litigation attorney, he’d switched to real estate law and had found his niche because he wasn’t afraid of hard conversations and tough negotiations. Where others might shrink from conflict, he felt encouraged, even empowered. Through experience he’d learned to rely on reason, not emotion, and so far, reason had never let him down.
His mother—who’d named him Atticus because To Kill a Mockingbird was her favorite novel—had said that her Atticus was pragmatic from the start, refusing to put in an appearance for nine days after his due date, choosing to stay put until the torrential rains flooding Houston had ended, and the streets had dried. No, Atticus Bowen was nothing but practical, and he exhausted his parents and teachers with his logic, as well as his ability to withstand stress and uncomfortable situations, virtually guaranteeing that, in the end, he got what he wanted. As a boy, it was winning chess tournaments and baseball games. As an adult, he acquired buildings, businesses, opportunities.
There was an opportunity before him now, and he was determined to seize it.
“Lesley, you know I want that building,” he said calmly, shifting the cell phone to his other ear. “We’ve been doing this for over a year. Tell me what you want. I want to make this happen, and I’ll be more than fair.”
“Atticus, it’s out of my hands now—”
“Do you want me to fly to Australia? Would you feel better if you met me in person? I’ll get on the next flight, if that’s the issue.”
“Of course I’d love to meet you, Atticus, but that’s not the issue. You see, I don’t own Paradise Books anymore. I’ve given the bookstore to my goddaughter. Rachel is the owner now. It’s up to Rachel to decide what she’d like to do with the place.”
Atticus had to hold his breath and count to five. “When did this happen?” he asked when he was certain he could speak calmly.
“Rather recently. It was a belated birthday gift.” Her tone turned apologetic. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I just wasn’t ready to see my beloved bookstore become a barbecue joint.”
“Galveston doesn’t serve barbecue. It’s a steak house. An upscale steak house.”
“But it still meant the books would go, wouldn’t it? And that would be such a shame.”
He counted to five again. “Your goddaughter, Rachel. She lives in Marietta?”
“No. She’s from Southern California. She’s an accountant and very clever, very successful. I’m terribly proud of her.”
Atticus was glad the older woman couldn’t see him roll his eyes. “What is Rachel going to do with a bookstore if she lives in California?”
“I don’t know. That’s up to her.”
“I’d like to reach out to her.”
“I’m sure you would,” Lesley said primly.
He smashed his sigh of exasperation. “Would you mind sharing her contact details with me?”
“Actually, I’m not sure I should, not without her permission. However, I understand she’ll be spending the next week in Marietta, so you might be able to catch her
at Paradise Books.” She hesitated before adding lightly, “If you are willing to jump on a plane.”
So, to Montana he went, even though it was Thanksgiving weekend.
He flew in Saturday night, checked in to the Graff Hotel, and then walked the three blocks to have a look at Paradise Books on Main Street.
The wind gusted and howled as he stood on the corner, looking up at the two-story, corner building he’d admired ever since he first visited the charming Paradise Valley town two and a half years ago. This building would be the perfect location for his first Galveston Steak House in Montana.
Atticus had started Galveston ten years ago with friends. He hadn’t put a lot of money into the first restaurant, but he’d handled all the paperwork and contracts, and proved his value when the new restaurant was hit with its first lawsuit filed by a disgruntled former chef. Atticus handled the lawsuit quickly and quietly and, before long, one location became two, and then four, and then seven. But as the Galveston brand grew, so did the problems, and maybe they were just little things to other people, but little things added up to big things, and when a huge financial setback threatened to close the seven restaurants dotting Texas, Nevada, California and Colorado, he stepped in, bought his partners out, and became the sole owner.
He liked being the sole owner, too, and as sole owner he’d made changes to the restaurants, improving the menu, improving the service, and bumping up prices, because when people went to a good steak house, they expected great steaks and expensive wine. People never minded paying for excellent cocktails and the best wine, and liquor was where the profits were anyway. Now he was ready to add an eighth location, the first in Montana, right here in Marietta, right in the old bookstore.
“Excuse me, I think I’m turned around,” a young woman said, approaching him on the street. Her purple knit cap was pulled down low on her forehead, and her arms bundled across her chest. Her coat didn’t look quite adequate for a Montana winter, and her cheeks were blotchy from the cold. “I was told there are several places serving dinner on Main. Grey’s was mentioned, and then a diner.”
