Page 61 of White Lies

It’s not a question. It’s a command, and while I don’t take commands well, this one is well-intended—but also ineffective for reasons out of his control. “They aren’t going to accept me. It’s a month away.”

“Don’t do that, Faith.” His tone is absolute.

“Don’t do what?”

“Downplay how big this is for you. Don’t find a way to make it not matter.”

I stare at him, trying to understand how this man I barely know can be this supportive. Is it real? Is it just a part of his temporary obsession with me? He arches a brow at my silent scrutiny, but I am saved a real answer when more food appears. But it’s not a true escape. The moment we’re alone, Nick returns to the topic. “What does the show do for you?”

“If you’re spotlighted, you’ve made it. Those are the artists people want to have in their stores and on their walls.” Unbidden, my mind goes back to the day I’d told my father I had a full scholarship to UCLA. There had been hugs. Excitement. Smiles. Then he’d said, “I can see it now. Our wine will be in every gallery in the country because you know the wine that pairs with the art.” And I’d been devastated. My art was never going to be more than a hobby to him.

Nick’s knees capture mine under the table, and my eyes jerk to his. “What just happened, sweetheart?” he asks, that tender warmth back in his eyes, and a knot forms in my throat.

“If I can get into the show, I can sell my work and save the winery.”

Nick’s eyes narrow on mine, and I swear, in that moment, it feels like he’s diving deep into my soul and seeing too much again. “When you get into the show, it’s about you, not the winery.”

“But the money—”

“Let’s talk about the winery and money with my attorney hat on.”

I shove my plate aside, and Nick does the same. “Okay. I don’t like how that sounds.”

“Money isn’t your issue,” he says. “If that were the case, I’d take advantage of a good investment, write you a check, get a return, and we’d be done with this.”

“I’m not foolish enough to miss the way you framed that in a way you think I’d find acceptable, but you giving me money—which I wouldn’t take, no matter how you presented it—isn’t your point.”

“No. It’s not. Obviously, Frank has you focused on money being your salvation when it’s not.”

“You yourself wanted to know the financial status of the winery,” I point out.

“Because if it’s a sinking ship, there’s no reason to save it. That isn’t the case, so we move on to your primary problem. The absence of a will is the issue.”

“I have my father’s will, which said my mother inherits on the stipulation that I inherit next.”

“But we have no idea what documents came after that will that might say otherwise. There may be none. The bank may just hope they can pressure you into walking away. They may even have an investor who wants the property and wants you to sell cheap.”

“Can they be a part of that? Can they do that?”

“There are a lot of things that shouldn’t be done that get done. And I’m having someone on my research team look into the money trail and the mystery of your mother’s barren bank accounts.”

Guilt assails me again, and it is not a feeling I enjoy. It’s heavy and sharp and mean. “Please don’t spend money on my behalf.”

“I have people I’m already paying,” he says. “I promise you, the bank will know what we don’t. And we won’t have, nor will I allow us to have, that disadvantage.” He slides my plate in front of me. “I got this. Stop worrying.”

“Faith.”

At the sound of my name, I look up to find the restaurant manager, Sheila, standing beside us, and the distressed look on her face has my spine straightening. “What is it, Sheila?”

“There’s a man at the door asking to see you who looks like… He looks like…”

My blood runs cold. “My father,” I supply without ever looking toward the door. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

She nods and leaves, and Nick glances at the man by the door who I know to be tall, fit, and with white hair that was once red. “Bill Winter,” he says. “Your uncle, your father’s twin, and the CEO of Pier 111, a social media platform that’s giving Facebook a run for its money. He was also estranged from your father for eight years before his death.”

“Reminding me that you studied me like you were picking a refrigerator out isn’t a good thing right now, Nick.”

“As I’ve said, I studied you like a woman who intrigued me,” he reminds me. “And I’m not going to feign naïveté I don’t have, and I know you well enough to know that’s not what you want.”

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