“Sure I can. You’ve been paying way below market rent.”
“But . . . but look at this village,” I stammered, my heart pounding. “Millbury is miles from anywhere. It’s not like we’re in the heart of the downtown Doylestown, for God’s sake.”
Chip Rosenthal shrugged. He nodded at the antique quilts hanging on the walls. “From what I can see, you’re making a decent living.” He nibbled at his fingers for a second. “The ball’s in your court. I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to make it happen and we’ll have a meeting of the minds.”
I sucked in a breath and tried for a calm, rational tone, even as my adrenaline was raging.
“Look, Mr. Rosenthal—Chip—I’ve always paid my rent on time. I’ve been a good tenant.”
“That’s really great, yeah.” He glanced at his phone and pounded the keys on the screen. “And we appreciate that,” and then there was a pause as he finished typing his message, “but it’s time for a reality check.”
If he used one more buzzword, I’d scream.
He looked up and smiled, as if this was the point in the conversation where he’d planned to insert one. “At the end of the day, either you sign a new lease, or you have thirty days to get out.”
“But what about all the work I’ve done? Refinishing the floors, installing the display windows, a new air-conditioning system . . .”
He grabbed a copy of the lease and flipped through until he tapped on one page. “‘Article 10—Alterations, Improvements, and Trade Fixtures.’ All alterations, additions, or improvements to the demised premises shall on expiration of the term become a part of the building and belong to the landlord and shall be surrendered with the premises.”
He tossed the document onto the counter. “Heard you bring a dog in here sometimes, too. We’ll need to up the security deposit.”
“Why are you doing this?” I hated the quiver in my voice, but I couldn’t help it. “Do you want to see me fail?”
He smiled again. “Of course not, but if you decide to leave, I have plans for this place. It’s up to you. I’ll be back in a couple of days to pick up the executed documents. Let’s make it happen, shall we?”
Helpless with fury, I watched the hyper young man, so cavalier about ruining my business and my future, stalk out onto Main Street and slide into his new Audi.
Guess he wasn’t wasting any time spending Sophie’s money.
Damn it. What kind of businesswoman was I anyway? I should have locked into a long-term lease in the first place, when I opened the store.
But you didn’t know how it would all pan out.
Alice the mannequin didn’t actually speak, but I could see the compassion in her almond-shaped eyes.
Yes, but I should have been braver. I should have had more faith in myself. And speaking of businesswomen, how could someone who owned commercial property die without making a will?
Oh, Sophie. I wish I’d known you were my landlord, instead of some faceless property management company. Maybe I’d have contacted you earlier and this wouldn’t be happening.
I’d never met Sophie, but I’d seen her portrait hanging on the wall of the Historical Society. Jet black hair pulled into a bun, dark eyes with an intelligent twinkle, not as deep-set as Chip’s, and a strong, almost Roman nose. Although she was older than Harriet, her downy skin was beautiful, and the slight roundness of her chin softened an otherwise hawkish appearance. A red and black paisley scarf was draped around her throat, fastened with a cameo brooch. In the way of women of her generation, she wore vivid lipstick but not as much eye makeup, which gave her an odd, unbalanced appearance.