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“Yes?”
“Congrats, sweetheart.”
“Thank you.”
We disconnect, and in a rush of adrenaline I hurry to the door, exit to the porch, and lock up the house, then move on to load up my car. No. My mother’s car. I hate driving this thing. I climb inside, and I swear I smell flowers. I can never escape the flowers, but I’m not trying anymore, I remind myself. I’m painting them. I’m facing them and every demon associated with my mother. I start the car and glance at the house. I love it. I always have. If I can live here and paint, and just be near the winery, maybe, just maybe, that’s the path to compromise between my father’s wishes and my own.
I’m about to place the car in gear when the rapidly setting sun catches on something in the yard. Frowning, I decide I must have dropped something. I place the car in park and get out. Walking to the spot I’d saw something, I bend down and pick up what appears to be a money clip engraved with an American flag. It must be Nick’s, but I’m not sure I see that man with an empty money clip. Maybe it’s the delivery driver’s clip. I take it with me, slide back into the car, and stuff it in my purse. If it’s not Nick’s, I’ll call the delivery company next week.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull into the private airport, and another fifteen minutes after that, I’m the only person on a small luxury jet with leather seats and even a bottle of champagne on ice. I pour a glass to enjoy while the pilot finishes his checklist and promises to call Nick. I’ve just taken my first sip when my cellphone rings. Certain it’s Nick, I dig it out of my purse and freeze with the number. Macom. He heard about the show. And probably not even from Josh. He’s an insider. He’s a name in the business that I am not yet. But at least I can sayyet. Not never. And while it’s inevitable that I’ll see him at the L.A. show and otherwise, if I’m to reignite my art career, I don’t have to welcome conversation. I hit decline.
And I hate that as the plane starts to taxi, he’s in the cabin with me. Old times. Old demons. A past that I don’t want to exist. Of a me that I don’t want to exist. Of a person I never want Nick Rogers to know. I’m reminded that, on some level, he knows that person exists.What aren’t you telling me, Faith?he’d asked.I will find out.
And he will. I know he will. Maybe he’s more forgiving than I am of myself. Then again, he’s Tiger for a reason. He’s vicious. He’s cold. He’s not forgiving at all. But my sins were not against Nick.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tiger
I’ve just heard from the pilot that Faith is on the plane in Sonoma when Rita walks into my office and sets a stack of papers on my desk. “You were served. It’s all a bunch of nonsense meant to slow probate. Boy, the bank really wants to keep that place, don’t they?”
I thumb through the stack she called “nonsense,” and it’s exactly that.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Did she get the dress?”
“Yes. She got the dress.”
“And?”
“And it’s good.”
“And you’re happy with the other gift?”
“Yes. I’m happy.”
“But not about that stack of papers. Got it. Removing myself from the line of fire.” She turns and leaves, and I thrum my fingers on the desk. The bank wants Faith in default. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. They’re gambling on the fact that I’ll advise her not to pay the money until I’m sure she won’t lose it. And without all the hidden facts they seem to know and we don’t, that’s exactly what I’d do.
I stand up and walk to the window, the fifth floor of the building allowing me the feeling of looking down on a city of millions, and it’s here, doing just that, that I find answers. And now is no different. Faith can’t pay that money, but I can. I dial my banker. “Charlie,” I say. “I need a hundred and twenty thousand dollars delivered to SA National Bank by closing today in the name of Reid Winter Winery. I need you to personally talk to Montgomery Williams and confirm it’s done.”
“You got it,” he says. “What else?”
“Note that this is back payments, fees, and six months in advance. And email proof to Rita and text me when the transaction is complete.” I end the call and walk to my desk. “Rita.”
She appears in my doorway. “Yes, boss?”
“You will be receiving proof that the Reid Winter note to the bank is paid to date and six months in advance. I’ll be filing a slaughterhouse of documents Monday morning.”
“In other words, be here at six.”
“That will do it.”
“Got it. What else?”
“Go home and do whatever people who have been married forever do.”
