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She straightens her purple-rimmed glasses and points. “Sit. We need to talk.”
Uh oh.
Somehow, those words aren’t hitting any better coming from a financial advisor than they would a girlfriend. I sink into the no-nonsense chair opposite her and grimace. “What’s up?”
“Not your trust money.”
I frown when she shoves a sheet of paper across the desk. A bank statement. My bank statement. “I’m sorry, I’m not following.”
“Check the deposits. Your trust money never showed up this month.”
I skim the page until I see what’s she’s talking about. On the day my deposit usually appears in my account, there’s no activity at all. Nothing in the week that followed, either.
I sit back, relieved. Here I’d been mentally preparing for a financial version of the Red Wedding and instead, the issue is most likely a software glitch. “Don’t sweat it, I’m sure it’s an easy fix. I’ll hop on the phone with my grandmother and get it all sorted out. Now, go on, take a bite of your bear claw. Otherwise, I’ll stop believing I’m your favorite client.”
“You aren’t my favorite client,” she deadpans, before obliging me by cracking open the box and pulling out a donut. After taking a bite, she grants me the barest hint of a smile. “You’re not my least favorite one, either. Now, leave me alone to deal with all the ones who don’t have your magic touch.”
I open my mouth to make a quip about my magic touch, then close it again. Professional boundaries and all. Instead, I get to my feet, grab a pastry for the road, and exit, wondering what this admin snafu with my trust fund is about. I need to get it straightened out if I’m going to make a play for the new start-up I’m thinking about investing in.
Used to be, I ignored the monthly deposits—and everything they represented. Sure, having a steady stream of cash makes my life easier, but I would trade them in a heartbeat to have my parents back again. They died in a car crash when I was fifteen, but they had enough insurance and investments to see that my sister and I would always be taken care of.
Investments that have only grown in time.
Talk about a poisoned chalice. It always felt wrong that their deaths set me up for life. Piper would roll her eyes and bug me to at least invest the cash in a 401k the way she did, but it took me a long time—until my friends started making plans for Mavericks—when I realized I could channel the money into something good. To build a future, something my parents would be proud of.
So, after investing in the bar, I started branching out. Small start-ups, companies with vision who needed someone to take a risk on them. I’ve had some misses, sure, but the hits have stacked up, and now I have a nice portfolio.
One I’d like to keep growing, so I dial my grandmother.
“Hello, this is Zelda Dashford Farnsworthy-Cox, whom may I ask is calling?”
Just like her, my grandmother’s drawl is Southern through and through. “It’s your favorite grandson.”
“Now that must be a mistake, because my grandson is a charming reprobate who’s neglected to call me in ten whole days.”
I smile. My grandmother is one-of-a-kind. So modern in some ways, yet old-school in others. Curse in her presence and she’ll gasp and scold you for “acting like a hooligan.” A heartbeat later, she’ll regale you with stories from charity functions that are wild enough to make a politician blush. Her third husband died a few years back, so she lives alone with a menagerie of pets on her massive Palm Beach estate. We usually talk every week, but I should really try to get down there more often to visit. “It’s good to hear your voice, too. How are your archery lessons coming along?”
“Excellent, I’m improving every week. Why, just yesterday I hit two bullseyes in a row, thanks to my wonderful Javier.”
I suppress a snort. Javier is my grandmother’s handsome, twenty-six-year old archery instructor.
At least, I hope that’s all he’s teaching her.
I pepper her with a few more questions, enjoying our unscheduled call as I ease my way into the problem with my bank account. I’m almost there when she beats me to the punch.
“As much as I love a good chat, is there any particular reason for this call, beyond checking up on my archery skills?”
Busted. I should have known better than to try to out-charm a charmer. The woman raised me and Piper after our parents passed, so of course she’s savvy to all of our tricks. Hell, she probably taught us most of them in the first place.
I clear my throat. “You know, I did have a little something I wanted to check in on. It looks like there’s a mix-up with my trust money this month. The deposit never made it into my account.”
“Oh, no need to worry about that.”
I don’t even realize I am worried until a wave of relief washes over me. See, I was right when I told Sarah everything would be okay. I’ll text her as soon as I’m off the phone and let her know it’s safe to finish the rest of the bear claws.
“There’s no mix-up,” she continues. “I’ve decided to cut you off.”
Zelda’s delivery is so syrupy that the meaning doesn’t sink in until I’m stepping off the curb. I lose my footing and stumble, almost squashing one of four yappy dogs that leap around my ankles like furry gremlins.
