Page 41 of Just Trouble

“What else is a friend to do?” he demands, then gestures to my meal. “Didn’t I tell you this was great? Oh, you haven’t tried my risotto yet. It’s worth every extra minute in the gym.”

Meredith MacRae is alonein the restaurant, or what used to be a restaurant. The sign is blacked over and the place is empty. It’s about three by the time I get there, but I can see someone moving around inside and I guess it’s her. I haveto bang on the door and convince her—with hand signals—to unlock the door.

Only then can I see her clearly. She’s tiny but I have a sense of a forceful character. She has a cloud of curly red hair that falls to her waist and probably eludes most efforts to tame it. Her eyes are green and her gaze shrewd. She looks both worldly and innocent, probably because of the freckles across her nose and cheeks.

I have the definite sense that only fools underestimate her and am not getting in that line.

“There’s no more money,” she says bluntly, unlocking the door just a crack. “Take it up with the owner. I’m just packing up.”

“Where are you going?”

“Why should you care?”

“Because I have a suggestion for you.”

She braces a hand on her hip. “A suggestion,” she repeats, as if I’ve just said I could levitate a city block.

“Maybe even an offer you can’t refuse.” I smile, which only seems to increase her suspicions.

“I’m really good at refusals.”

“It’s a deal on an empty restaurant. Kind of a rent-to-buy offer.”

She looks me up and down. “Kind of.”

“It’s not really rent. Every payment goes toward the principle.”

“Debt.”

“Ten thousand dollars and the restaurant is yours.”

“I don’t even have that kind of money.” She starts to close the door and I wedge my foot in the door.

“A hundred dollars a month for a hundred months. You have to pay the utilities and property taxes, though.”

She stares at me. I fumble for the folder with the contract.

“A couple of hundred dollars a month should cover them, but the patron could cover them for the first year for you if that’s a dealbreaker.”

“What kind of crazy person would make me an offer like that?”

“My client prefers to remain anonymous at this time.”

She’s wary but curious.

And she doesn’t close the door. I conjure a card and introduce myself, shoving it through the space and watching her read it.

“A hundred dollars a month,” she muses. “That’s the net on four dinners. In a month.”

“If you say so.”

“Even being closed Sundays and Mondays leaves between twenty and twenty-two days to sell those four dinners.”

I nod my agreement of this impeccable math and she holds my gaze, then frowns.

“There are other expenses than the food, of course.”

“Of course, but a lot fewer of them in this situation.”

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