My phone registers five more unknown callers by the time I complete the fifteen-minute drive to my attorney’s office, which is in one of my favorite places in the city. The quaint downtown area, where there are stone walkways leading to stores, restaurants and a few random businesses, some areas are even framed with ivy overhangs. I park by a curb, in front of a row of side-by-side mom and pop shops, and right in front of the path leading to Frank’s office, but I don’t get out, nervous and with reason. The winery was everything to my father, and to save it, I did things I didn’t want to do, things I regret. And the guilt I feel is overwhelming. Maybe I can’t cry because it’s eating away at me, like acid, that just won’t stop burning away my emotions.
I straighten my funeral-black pencil skirt, that I’ve paired with a funeral-black sweater and black, knee high boots, the thick tights beneath it all meant to fight the chill of an October mountain day. But nothing can take the chill off death which is my reason for choosing funeral-black attire yet again today. I don’t remember the day, week, moment, that I stopped dressing this way after my father died. I guess it just happens when it feels right, and it doesn’t yet. My cellphone rings again, and I grab it from my well-worn, also black, briefcase that doubles as my version of a purse. Eyeing the caller ID, the new San Francisco number has apparently called me twice now. I block it, and one other, certain from the past two weeks of hell that yet another caller will start showing up on my ID any second.
I turn my ringer off and slip my cell back in its pocket, my gaze landing on the gold Chanel logo pressed to the outside of the bag, my fingers stroking the letters. It was a gift from my father when I’d graduated from UCLA with eyes set on selling my art and buying lots of Chanel. My father declared this bag a “taste of luxury” to inspire me. And it had been, but then things had happened and-
“Damn it,” I murmur, my eyes pinching shut. “Now, I’m teary-eyed? What the heck is wrong with me?”
I grab my bag and settle it on my shoulder, opening the door of my black BMW that I’d inherited from my father, while my mother’s white Mercedes still sits in the garage back at the mansion. Even their cars were opposite, I think. They were opposite in all things. I stand and the card I’d balled in my hand earlier falls to the pavement. I bend down and pick it up, standing to straighten it and read: Nick Rogers, Attorney at Law. Mr. Rogers. Right. Well he’s no sweet, sweater-vested kid’s television personality, for sure.
Deciding to ask my attorney about the notorious “Tiger,” I stick the card inside the pocket of my briefcase, and get moving. Exiting the vehicle, I hurry under one of those overhangs to travel past a candy store, a candle store, and then finally reach the law office I seek. Entering the office, the receptionist greets me.
“Hiya, sugar,” Betty greets me, her red hair glowing maroon, when last week it had been more of an orange hue, her bold style in contrast to her boss, a true case of opposites attract. But my mind goes back to Tiger and I. I don’t think we’re opposites. Thus the dark energy. “Frank’s on a conference call,” she says, bringing me back to the here and now, rather than last night. “He should be done any moment.”
“Thank you,” I say, claiming one of the half dozen leather seats in the small, familiar lobby I’d often frequented with my father in my youth, hanging out here until he finished meetings, which is when we’d then grab ice cream. Usually when my mother was nowhere to be found.
My throat thickens with that memory and I’m about to set my bag down when Frank appears in the doorway, looking fit and younger than his sixty years in a well-fitted black suit, his gray hair neatly trimmed, his face lightly lined. “Come in, Faith.” He backs into his office to offer me room to enter.
I’m on my feet before he finishes that statement, crossing the lobby and entering his humble office with a desk, two chairs and a window. It’s simple but it’s personalized with a collection of University of Texas memorabilia as well as his diploma. But he doesn’t need to be fancy. He grew up in Sonoma and took over his father’s trusted practice, becoming a local favorite about the time I was born.
Frank lingers behind me and shuts the door, that thud a trigger for my nerves to bounce around in my belly. So, okay. I do feel things. I’m not numb about anything but my mother’s death. I claim a seat and he rounds the desk to sit down, elbows on the wooden surface, his gray eyes steady on my face. “How are you?”
“Better when I know what this meeting is about,” I say. “Did the state finally approve you as executor of my mother’s estate?”
“I’m afraid not,” he replies. “The bank filed a formal objection based on my role as your attorney, which they claim, works against their best interests.”
I scoot to the edge of my chair. “But I’m the rightful owner of the property with or without my mother’s will. She inherited it from my father with the written directive that I inherit it next.”
“The bank claims otherwise,” he says.
“It states it in his will.”
“They claim the debt allows them to supersede that directive.”
“That note my father took is large, but it’s not anywhere near the value of the winery. Can they even make this claim at all?”
“They can claim they own the White House,” he says. “That doesn’t mean they do. Your mother failing to register a will complicates this but your father’s will specifically stated that she inherited the winery on the condition that you were next in line. But you do need to pay the bank debt your mother left behind. We’re at six months tardy at this point.”
“Five” I say, my role as acting-CEO not much different than my role the past two years, except for one thing. I still don’t have access to the empty bank accounts. “I made a payment.”
“Is the winery making money?”
“Yes. I’ve run that place and kept the books since my father died.”
“Then why was she four months behind on the bank note when she died?”
“I don’t know. And not just the bank note. Everything. Every vendor we use wants money. I can’t catch everyone up at once. I need time. Or I need access to her personal accounts. That has to be where the money is.”