Page 10 of A Good Egg

"It's progressing," I replied, choosing my words carefully. "The situation is more... complex than we anticipated."

"Complex?" Victor snorted. "It's a simple transaction. They need money, we have money. Where's the complexity?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, suppressing a sigh. How could I explain the fierce determination in Maisie O'Malley's ocean-blue eyes? The stubborn set of her jaw as she'd defended her family's legacy? The protective stance she'd taken on that weathered porch, flanked by a belligerent chicken, of all things?

"The property has significant emotional value to the family," I explained instead. "The granddaughter is particularly resistant."

"Ah, so there is a granddaughter." Victor's tone sharpened with interest. "Your reconnaissance wasn't completely useless then. Is she the heir? The decision-maker?"

"She appears to have influence," I admitted, recalling our confrontation yesterday. "She's staying at the farm now. Young, probably early thirties. Quite... passionate about keeping the property."

"Passionate?" Victor chuckled. "Don't tell me the great Logan Westbrook is being swayed by a pretty face and a sob story."

"Hardly," I replied stiffly, though the image of Maisie's fiery hair and flashing eyes rose unbidden in my mind. "I'm simply reporting the obstacles so we can strategize effectively."

"The strategy remains the same," Victor said dismissively. "Find the pressure point and press. If Grandma won't sell, maybe the granddaughter has debts of her own? Student loans? Credit cards? Everyone can be bought, Logan. You taught me that."

A strange uneasiness settled in my stomach. Had I really become so cynical? So transactional? I glanced at my reflection in the window glass, seeing the trendy suit, the carefully styled hair, the polished facade of success I'd constructed over years of single-minded ambition.

"I'll look into it," I promised, more to end the conversation than from genuine enthusiasm for the task.

"Good. And Logan?" Victor's voice hardened. "Remember what's at stake here. The partnership committee meets right after Easter weekend. This deal could be the deciding factor in your advancement."

"I'm aware."

"See that you remain aware. I've got other hungry associates who'd kill for your position."

The call ended, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth. Victor's mentorship had propelled my career, but moments like this made me question the bargain I'd struck. Success at any cost had been my mantra since watching my father crumble after the divorce—a cautionary tale of what happened to men who led with their hearts instead of their heads. Mom, on the other hand, was living the good life now traveling the world with her new boyfriend. Or at least I assumed that was still the case, given that the last time I’d heard from her was two years ago—the day after my birthday.

Sighing, I tucked my phone away and straightened my tie, mentally shifting back into acquisition mode. I needed more information about the O'Malleys and their farm—if they were planning a new business venture of some sort, it might change the financial dynamics of my offer.

Thirty minutes later, I pushed open the door to Phillips' Hardware, a bell jingling cheerfully above my head. Unlike the sterile efficiency of big-box stores, this place had character—wooden floors worn smooth by decades of boot traffic, shelves packed with everything from nails to fishing tackle, and the signature smells of sawdust and metal.

The man behind the counter—presumably, Phillips himself—looked up from his newspaper. His weathered face and calloused hands spoke of a lifetime of practical work. "Help you find something?"

"Just browsing," I replied with a practiced smile, moving toward a display of electrical supplies. "New in town, getting the lay of the land."

Phillips nodded without much interest, returning to his paper. Perfect—I hadn't come to shop but to listen. Two men inpaint-splattered coveralls stood near the lumber section, deep in conversation.

"Carter's taken on quite a project with that café renovation," the taller one was saying as he examined a sheet of plywood. "Three weeks ain't much time to convert a barn, even with his experience."

"Nora O'Malley's granddaughter must be some persuasive," his companion replied. "You know how Carter feels about rush jobs."

"Well, it's for Pat O'Malley's granddaughter. Carter would walk through fire for that family." The taller man shook his head. "Besides, everyone knows what's at stake. Bank's breathing down their necks. And if this idea of Maisie's doesn't fly, that vulture from New York will swoop in and, before you know it, they’ll be taking over the whole island and putting us all out of business. "

I suppressed a wince at being cast as the predatory bird in their narrative, focusing instead on the valuable intelligence. So it was true—Maisie was planning to open a business—a restaurant if I’d understood correctly.

It was an ambitious timeline, to put it mildly. Converting an agricultural structure into a commercial food establishment required permits, inspections, equipment installation—none of which happened quickly, especially in small towns with limited resources.

"Heard Piper Summers is already spreading the word on social media," the shorter man continued. "Easter grand opening, farm-to-table breakfast and brunch. Using eggs from the O'Malley hens, produce from their fields."

"It's a nice idea," his friend conceded. "Question is, will it be enough to save the farm?"

I pretended to examine a box of electrical outlets while absorbing this windfall of information. A farm-to-table café might generate some revenue, but would it be sufficient to address what I knew to be substantial mortgage arrears? Even with the most optimistic projections, it seemed unlikely.

Still, I couldn't help feeling a reluctant admiration for Maisie's initiative. Most people facing financial crisis either froze or fled. She was fighting—creating something new from the ashes of disaster. It was... impressive at least, regardless of its probable futility.

I selected a few random items to justify my presence, paid quickly, and headed back into the spring sunshine. My next stop was the local bank, where a carefully cultivated conversation with a loan officer—facilitated by a connection through Sheffield & Associates—confirmed what I'd suspected. The O'Malley farm was indeed on the brink, with foreclosure proceedings set to begin immediately after Easter if significant payment wasn't received.

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