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“Correct,” I say. “Based on the documents that you’ve shown me.”
“Implying there’s something I haven’t shown you?”
“Easy, sweetheart,” I say softly. “Implying there’s more that you don’t have.”
“Wouldn’t they have to give that to my attorney?”
“Yes. But your attorney has to be smart enough to ask for everything, rather than assume he has it. And since I’ve talked to the bank and they’re playing hardball, they could be bluffing, but they didn’t back off when they heard my name. Thus, I’m of the strong opinion that your father—or your mother—signed documents that give the bank rights that I don’t know they have. Any idea what that document might be?”
“None. No idea. That would have required trust and communication from my mother I simply never had.” Bitterness etches her tone, cold in that way that tells me the chill didn’t happen overnight, but then, I knew that already. “But regardless of what legal document was signed,” she adds, “what’s the end game here? If I sold the winery, the net after that note, plus all debt, would be seven to eight million. I know that’s a lot of money, but enough for the bank to go to this much trouble?”
“It’s not a lot of trouble to intimidate you into handing it over, especially when you have a limp-dicked attorney allowing it to happen.”
“Nick!”
“I tell it like it is, sweetheart. If you haven’t gotten that by now, it’s time to wake up and see the Tiger roaring in your face.”
“Frank is not a limp-dicked attorney. He’s just old.”
I arch a brow. “And your point? Or was that my point you were making?”
“I assume your point is you’re not him.”
“No one knows that better than you, sweetheart,” I say, handing her the coffee and preparing her for what comes next. “Drink.”
She holds up a hand. “No. I need to know what’s happening here. If the bank takes us to court, then you just do your Tiger routine, rip their throat out, and it’s over, right?”
“They want to have the property evaluated.”
“What? Why? Can they do that, and again,why?”
“That crop destruction you had last year could lead them to believe the value is now below that of the note.”
“That’s simply not the case,” she says. “I don’t believe that. I hope not. But let’s just say it is—then what? Does that allow them to call the note due in full?”
“Not according to the documents I’ve seen and read.”
“But we think there are other documents,” she supplies, following where I’ve been leading.
“Exactly,” I say. “And again. They could very well be bluffing, but we just won’t know until they choose to show their hand or until we get to court. But the good news here is that my involvement alone tells them that they can’t push you into a rash decision.”
“And the bad?”
“It may take me getting in front of a judge to find out what we’re up against.”
“Which will be when?”
“If the bank has a leg to stand on, they won’t be afraid of a judge, which means—”
“Right away,” she says. “And if they don’t, they’ll stall. How long can they do that?”
“A few weeks at most, and that’s if everything works against me, and I won’t let that happen. But they’re in this deep. They will try to force you to crack under the pressure. In the meantime, we’ll prepare to hit back, and hard.”
“What about me paying down the debt? Why wouldn’t I do that?”
I steel myself for her reaction and set down her mug, which I’m still holding. “Because I paid the past-due amount and six months in advance.”
She blanches and holds her hands up. “I think I misheard you. I need to pay six months in advance? That’s double what I have in the bank.”
