“Me too, sweetheart. And how’s this for a plan for the night? We walk two blocks to the best Mexican food place in town. After we eat at Diego Maria’s, we go home where the process is: Fuck. Paint. Fuck. Paint. Sleep. No nightmares tonight.”
I smile. “I like that plan.”
“But do you love it, Faith?” he asks, his voice low, raspy, and I’m not sure we’re talking about the plan or us. Either way, I don’t let fear win this time.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Nick
Faith and I are up early the next morning, her in her studio painting again, and me back in the basement on the treadmill. I run with the same fierceness I did yesterday, but this time, my mind isn’t on the club, but rather a replay of Beck’s ominous warning about history-fucking-repeating itself, with a repeat of a double murder the outcome. I am stuck in one of those rock-and-a-hard-spot places that I’ve always called myth, and it pisses me off. I can’t delay my actions and risk Faith losing the winery, but before I act, I need a better plan than “I hope like fuck not” when it comes to Faith and I living or dying.
I punch the stop button on the treadmill, and by the time I step off the belt, I’m already dialing Beck. “Once the inspectors give me an evaluation on the winery,” I say, the minute he answers, “I have to move. I have to file a petition and claim Faith’s rightful inheritance. I can’t give the bank time to undervalue it with their own inspectors, which could well lead to Faith losing the winery.”
“What’s the timeline?”
“We get the evaluation back today. I meet with my banker later this afternoon. If the evaluation comes back where I need it, we’ll file an emergency request to be in court Wednesday or Thursday, at which time my bank will buy out the note. If the evaluation doesn’t come back where I need it to be, I’ll package it to get it there, and we’ll be in court Thursday or Friday.” I look up to discover Faith standing in the doorway, hugging herself, the look on her face telling me that she heard every word.
“I have dirt on three people in the bank, and I’ve used it. They aren’t breaking. That means they are either scared or we’re wrong. And I don’t think we’re wrong.”
“And your solution is what? And don’t tell me you need to think this time.”
“Whatever action you take, at least getting rid of both of you is harder than getting rid of just Faith, especially with my team watching.”
“Holy fuck. Is this really what I’m paying you for? Get meanswers.” I hang up and focus on Faith. “Hey, sweetheart,” I say, crossing to stand in front of her, my hands on her shoulders. “How is painting going?”
“Why would you want to delay claiming the winery?”
“When you take someone out at the knees, you want to know what their reaction will be.”
“If we’re already with another bank, what can my present bank possibly even do?”
“The question is, what are they motivated to do and why,” I say, sticking to the truth, but leaving out murder as an option. “Let’s grab some coffee while we finish this conversation.”
“Nick—”
I kiss her. “Coffee. Conversation. Me. You. Upstairs.” I turn her toward the stairs, and place her in motion.
Once we’re in the kitchen, coffee in hand, we lean on the same side of the island facing each other. “I’m very confused by the conversation I just heard. And even your response. Is the bank going to lash out at you? Because I don’t want you to end up with trouble over me.”
“Sweetheart, you and I are in this together. And when someone goes to this much trouble to get something and you keep them from getting it, you have to be prepared for anything. Especially when you don’t know all of the facts, and we don’t.”
“I need to just open that card from my father. Now. This morning.”
She starts to move away and I catch her arm. “I called Frank. He knows what it says and it’s not what we need.”
“Did he tell you what it says?”
“Only that it’s personal and it has nothing to do with business.”
She inhales and sinks onto the edge of the stool. “Okay. Well, I always thought it was. You know. A good ole personal punch in the chest. The whole: Your destiny is the winery. It’s in your blood. I’m counting on you. Art is a hobby. Set it aside. Focus.”
I step to her and run my hand down her hair. “Don’t do that. Don’t let this get into your head. You’re an artist. That is what you want. That is whatyou are.”
“I called my uncle,” she surprises me by saying.
Alarms go off in my head and I pull back and rest my elbow on the table. “When and why?”