Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Faith hands me a menu. “Now you know why I need a Sonoma survival kit. Everyone knows your business here.”
As if proving her point, another guest steps to Faith’s side, and after I am introduced, I text Beck: Are your men following us?
His reply: Of course. Why?
Mine: Because I don’t see them, but I feel them.
His: Huh.
Mine: WTF does huh mean?
His: I guess lawyers are never wrong. And if you believe that, I have a million dollars I want to sell you for fifty bucks.
He’s obviously referencing my shirt, telling me he has eyes on me and us. But something still doesn’t feel right, and I discreetly scan, not just for his men but for the source of my discomfort. An old lady to our right. A cluster of businessmen in deep conversation in one corner. A mid-fifties man by himself in another corner in jeans and a T-shirt. Another cluster of businesspeople. A college-age woman by herself, with headphones on. My gaze shifts to the hostess stand, where a fit man in his mid-thirties is flirting with the woman showing people to their tables.
“The entire town is going to be talking about us now,” Faith announces, drawing my attention back to her.
“Hopefully they mention my shirt.”
She laughs. “I’m sure they will. You can’t hiccup and not have it be part of the story.”
“But you want to live here?”
“If I gave you that impression, it’s wrong. I love my house, because it was an escape and my home outside of the winery. But I went to school in L.A. and stayed in L.A. for a reason, beyond my aspirations in art. I never wanted to live here.”
“And you do want to live in San Francisco?”
“I do,” she says. “You’re there.”
“But do you like it? Because if you don’t—”
“I do,” she repeats. “I really love it there, and I always have. The art. The food. The way it’s a small city but you can still get lost in a crowd. The views. The art.”
“Always the art. San Fran is a great hub for your craft. Why L.A.?”
“L.A. had wider opportunities for school, work, and a connection to agents and industry professionals.”
Our plates arrive, and once we’ve tasted our food—and I’ve given the burger the thumbs-up Faith is looking for and that it deserves—I focus on what she’s just told me. “You don’t want to be here. That means we need to make sure the winery is self-reliant.”
“I feel like I should offer Kasey stock.”
“I suggest you start with a large bonus plan. Make sure he really does handle things when you or your father aren’t looking over his shoulder.”
“I’m sure he will. Of course he will. But what kind of bonus?”
“I have several plans I’ve helped clients set up over the years in my briefcase. You can look them over, but I’d suggest feeling him out tonight. We can send him whatever you decide on Monday. But, that said, I would like him to work with Rita on the accounts payable and have our CFO audit the books once a month.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“I’ve seen people get screwed, Faith. And it’s always by people they trust. Additionally, you need someone to play your role.”
“That’ll be expensive.”
“The right person will grow revenues and more than pay for themselves. And since you don’t want to sell and you don’t want to work at the winery, the idea is to make it an investment. It pays you profit monthly. And when your art starts generating million-dollar payouts, you spend more money on the winery and end up with tax write-offs.”
“I’d love to have that problem,” she says, despite the fact that her inability to see her own success and skill is a product of a past she hasn’t quite escaped.
But she will.
“Eighty thousand in a week,” I remind her. “Success isn’t an option. And I get to call you my crazy talented woman.”
“And I get to call you my arrogant bastard?”
I laugh. “I told you. Anything but Mr. Rogers. And you forgot that when you were drinking.”
“I didn’t forget. I saw opportunity.”
I laugh, and our waitress chooses that moment to reappear and present us with the check, and damn, I want her to go away. Or maybe I just want to take Faith away from this place and this intrusive little town. I reach for the ticket, and as I hand the waitress my card, I have that same sense of being watched all over again.
We stand up to leave, and my gaze travels toward the sensation and the man sitting at a table in the corner, flirting with our waitress, when he’d started out flirting with the hostess. Faith and I start walking, and my eyes catch on the tat on his hand: a flag, like the money clip. It’s a long shot, but it could be a connection, and I don’t let long shots go just because they’re hard. I pause and turn back to the table, looking for something I haven’t lost. Faith turns to help me, and my hand settles on Faith’s shoulder, lips near her ear. “Be discreet,” I murmur. Trying not to scare her, I say, “The guy talking to our waitress is familiar, but I can’t place him. Glance over as we exit.”