Slade gripped the chair tighter. “I’ll have to get back to you.”
“We’d like to meet.”
“I’m sure you understand, Tom. We’re a partnership. I’ll have to get back to you.”
With a refusal, right?
* * *
SLADE WAS IN JAIL.
He sat on the floor in the corner of the small, dusty cell in the sheriff’s office.
Nate was sanding the rust off the cell bars. Flynn and Will were framing windows with wide rolls of painter’s tape in preparation for painting. Will was struggling to tape in a straight line. The girls played hopscotch on the sidewalk with Truman.
“This will be the first of many offers we’re going to receive.” Slade knew what he had to do—advise his partners as to what was best for the firm. Based on what Christine said, he had a sinking suspicion that more offers would be forthcoming. Likely more lucrative offers and ones that extended to include not just the permits but the entire winery.
“Rose predicted this would happen, remember?” Will applied a strip of tape on the window’s edge, examined his work, and peeled it up to try again. “We were just at the Lions Club meeting.”
“That’s right.” Flynn unrolled a long strip of tape between his hands. “And we told them we wouldn’t sell.”
Slade couldn’t believe that less than an hour ago he’d been happier than he’d been in years. He’d promised Christine they weren’t interested in selling. But that was before he counted six zeroes behind a number. What they decided to do with the permit would either be seen as the savviest business move or the biggest miscalculation he’d ever made. It was no longer about personal promises—it was about a successful business venture.
“It’s my job to advise you that this offer almost covers the cost of our investment here so far. The offers are likely going to increase, until as the partnership’s CFO, I’ll have to propose we sell.” Two months ago, those words would have brought Slade relief. Now they sickened him. What would happen to Christine and the tentative balance they’d achieved? She’d have no reason to stay in Harmony Valley. And neither would he.
Too late, he realized he’d grown to love the quirky little town.
“I thought you were all gung ho on the winery.” Nate stopped sanding, the unusually sharp tone in his voice reminding Slade that Nate’s job hinged on the partnership’s ability to attract people to town. “Of the three of you, you can’t stop talking about it.”
“The problem,” Will said, “is that Slade likes to make money.”
“Or prove to someone who doesn’t believe in us that we can make money,” Flynn added.
Slade smoothed his tie, his hand lingering over the knot, thinking of Christine’s fingers on his silk and how they’d unraveled him. “What can I say? Some people get paid to swing a bat. I get paid to watch the bottom line.” And despite the promise of Christine’s wine-making skill, despite the high-tech equipment they’d invested in, despite the cache making money in the wine world would bring, Slade knew a check with at least seven zeroes behind an eye-popping number would be the safer investment.
“We gave our word.” Will stopped trying to get his tape properly lined up on the window.