If this new lawyer can get the locals on my side and convince the four families to sign off so I can build adjacent to their properties, and if he can push all the paperwork through and get the city to sign off on the permits needed, I’ll pay him double—hell, triple. I need this. I just need for one goddamn thing to go right.
The door opens and my assistant walks in. “Here’s your mail, sir,” Janell says as she walks across the room and hands me a stack of envelopes.
“Thank you, Janell.” I take the stack from her and drop it onto my desk, not bothering to go through it today. I have enough on my plate. I need to stay focused and keep my head in the game, at least for the next year. In 12 months, if all goes right, the expansion will be done, and we’ll be selling and producing beer and whiskey. I’ll be able to take a break. I’ll be able to breathe. That’s when I’ll figure out my life. That’s when I’ll be happy.
3
Celeste
“YOU’VE got to be kidding me,” I mumble to myself as I look at the motel room the firm has rented for me for the next year. A motel! Not a nice hotel with room service, but a sleazy motel that can be rented by the hour for affairs and hookers. Honestly, I’m afraid to even walk across the dingy carpet in my Jimmy Choos. No way am I setting my Louis luggage on that sticky table. I run my finger across the top of the old TV. A line appears in the dense dust. The full-size bed is covered with a pea-green comforter. The two pillows aren’t firm and they reek of cigarette smoke. The mirror above the sink is dirty and covered in water spots, and has a crack that travels the length of the glass. In several places, the old plaster walls are cracked and filled in, although the new plaster doesn’t match the old. The ceiling isn’t white—more of a yellowish color with water stains.
I pull out my phone and call the office. I put the phone to my ear but it never rings. It takes several long seconds before the phone beeps, telling me I don’t have a signal.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I repeat for what feels like the 100th time since I pulled into the parking lot of this shitty motel. I move around the room, holding the phone up above my head, trying to find a signal. Finally, I find one spot where my phone works. I only have to stand on the chair to make a call.
“Thank you for calling Mason, Lawrence, and Howe. This is Mary. How can I help you?”
“Mary, it’s Celeste,” I say in a rush, hoping the phone doesn’t drop the call.
“Celeste, how are you doing?” she asks, sounding happy to hear from me.
“Fucking fabulous. Listen, I need to talk with Mr. Mason. Could you please connect me to his assistant?”
“Sure, one sec,” she says. The phone beeps twice, then rings through.
“Mr. Mason’s office. How may I help you?” she answers.
“Hi, this is Celeste Teller. I’m calling from the Colorado location and I’m needing to speak with Mr. Mason.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Mason is out of the office right now. I would be more than happy to take a message.”
I almost growl, but I hold it back. “Could you please just tell him to give me a call back?” I give her my number and she promises to have him return my call. I hang up the phone and collapse into the chair I’ve been standing on. My eyes take in the room once again. Disgust washes over me and literally makes a chill race up my spine. Who knows what’s living in here: bugs, snakes, diseases? I shiver as I push the thought away.
Maybe I can find another place here in town, or at least close to it. I can pay for the night and have Mr. Mason move the money from this place to the place I find. I grab my luggage and head for the car. I toss my suitcase into the trunk and pull away from the motel I hope to never set foot in again.
I pull out of the parking lot, taking a left on Main Street. This place is certainly full of small-town charm. There’s a family diner, a small post office, a gas station, and a bar all on the same street. I pull into the restaurant, thinking I’ll have dinner and do some research to find a better place to stay. I park the car and get out, not noticing that there aren’t any cars in the parking lot other than my own until I tug on the locked door.
“Seriously?” I ask myself, looking at the sign on the door that states its business hours.
Wednesday evenings, the restaurant is closed for church services.
“That’s just great,” I mumble, walking back to the car and getting behind the wheel once again. I drive up and down Main Street. I find the church, the school, and a series of offices—including Mason, Lawrence, and Howe—but no other restaurants or hotels. Giving up, I turn around and stop at the bar. If nothing else, I can at least drink some wine and fill my stomach with nuts. The thought makes me cringe, but what else am I supposed to do? I need food. I’ve been on the road for the last three days. I just need a decent meal, a long, hot bath, and a big glass of red wine. Then a good night’s sleep to prepare for my meeting with Mr. Slade tomorrow.
There are five cars in the gravel parking lot of the bar, so I’m confident this place doesn’t operate by church hours. I pull open the large wooden door and loud music filters out. When I step inside, everyone turns to look over their shoulder, freezing when they find me.
Every eye in the place is watching as I slowly walk up to the bar and have a seat. It feels like I’m in a movie—where the stranger walks into a crowded bar and everyone stares as the music stops and the whole place goes quiet. Yeah, that’s how it feels, only the music doesn’t actually stop.
The bartender walks up. She’s a tiny redhead with green eyes and a big chest. She smiles sweetly. “What can I get ya?” she asks, wiping her hands on a white towel.
“A glass of red wine would be great,” I reply, digging in my purse for some cash.
The whole bar, filled with only five people, seems to laugh in unison, causing me to jerk my head back up to see what I’ve missed.
“We don’t carry the stuff,” the bartender says.
“Really? You don’t carry any red wine?” I asked, shocked. What kind of bar doesn’t carry wine?
She shakes her head. “We’ve got beer and whiskey.” She places her hands on the bar and leans on it as she watches me.
“How about a martini?”
“We’ve got gin; no vermouth.” She stands upright and crosses her arms.
I let out a puff of air and shake my head. “Vodka cranberry?”
She nods, finally walking away to mix my drink.
I lay $20 on the bar and pull out my phone to find another place to stay, however, my phone still doesn’t work due to no signal.
When the bartender comes back, I ask, “Will a cell phone work anywhere in this town?”
She snorts. “Not likely. We’re supposed to be getting a tower built ‘soon,’ but there’s been talk of that for about five years now, and so far, nothing.”
“Great,” I mumble, taking a sip of my drink. I cough when I find there’s more vodka than cranberry.
“I’m Celeste Teller. I’m the new lawyer for Mason, Lawrence, and Howe.” I hold out my hand to shake.
Her eyes move from my face, to my hand, and back, before she finally shakes it. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Stephanie.”