“I’m John Bondurant, from Bondurant, Meadows, and Leach. I’m here on behalf of your investor.”
He didn’t offer his hand to shake, so Myles dropped into a chair. “Of course. What can I do for you, Mr. Bondurant?”
“My client has reviewed the latest progress reports you forwarded on and is, quite frankly, disappointed in the profit and loss statements.”
As unease slithered through him, Myles wished desperately they were in his office, where his desk was covered in toys he could pick up to occupy his hands. What he would give for a Slinky just now. “I realize the profit margin is a bit thin right now, but I’ve had less than a year to get the paper turned around. Some of the equipment needed updating, and I’ve had to expand my staff to accommodate the increased workload.” If you could call moving from three employees to four and adding a high school intern a real staff expansion.
“Nevertheless, my client is concerned that your rather...ambitious plans are more optimistic than realistic.”
“Change takes time. And businesses of any variety require solid investment before they really have an opportunity to grow.” How many times had he heard that refrain growing up? Damn it, he knew business, and he knew newspapers. What he was doing here was working. Rome wasn’t built in a friggin’ day.
Mr. Bondurant pulled a folder from his shiny leather briefcase. “My function today is as messenger, Mr. Stewart. You needn’t justify yourself to me.”
Eying the folder like it would bite him, Myles slowly reached out and took it. There were only a few sheets inside. He pulled his reading glasses from his inside jacket pocket and read through the papers, feeling his cheeseburger congeal and harden with every word.
“This is insane. I can’t possibly have the full payment on the loan by then. That’s not even two months! This isn’t what we agreed to.”
“On the contrary, my client is exercising the right to pull out of the investment. In light of last quarter’s returns, my client is well within rights according to the original agreement.”
“Well, we need to revisit the damned agreement, then. This is ludicrous. I want to talk to your client. Directly.”
“That’s not possible. My client deals only with proxies. I’d be happy to take your counter offer back and present it, but I advise you, Mr. Stewart, to begin looking for other investors. The loan payment is due at the end of the forty-five days or you forfeit ownership of the paper.”
~*~
“They’ll make such beautiful babies, with her pretty face. Better hope for a boy first because those girls will be so pretty, they’ll need a big brother to beat the boys off.”
Why did I let Mom and Leah talk me into this?
Piper Parish sat in the middle of a long table at the Wishful Country Club, as black-and-white clad wait staff wove around the bridal party, removing the salad plates—spinach and strawberry salad with poppyseed dressing, of course—contemplating whether it might be more enjoyable to stab herself in the eye with her salad fork, as she listened to her Great Aunt Beatrice extol the virtues of the bride-to-be. Carrie Jo was a jobless, twenty-two year old, barely out of college, who had no actual aspiration in life beyond getting her MRS degree, which s
he’d be achieving on Saturday. She was also Piper’s cousin, which was exactly how Piper had been roped into being part of the bridal party. Considering she had actually changed Carrie Jo’s diapers, that was a little bit demoralizing.
As the main course appeared—nothing but chicken salad would do for a bridesmaids’ luncheon—Piper wondered if she could get away with ordering a mimosa or three in the name of celebration. Given this was the Southern Baptist side of the family, she thought not.
More’s the pity.
“I heard Richard wants her to stay home so they can go ahead and start trying for a family.”
Yeah, that’s because they already got started on that part.
Not that Carrie Jo had mentioned it. But as a nurse, Piper was well-attuned to the signs. That glow sure as hell wasn’t wedding happies. She wasn’t showing yet, and Piper was reasonably sure no one else in the family knew or suspected. Considering the holy hell that would break loose if they found out—at least before Saturday—Piper wasn’t about to be the one to reveal that secret. Let Carrie Jo have her day with as little drama as possible.
“So when are we going to be hearing wedding bells for you, Piper?” Aunt Bea asked. “You’ve already let Leah beat you on that one.”
Piper sipped at her sweet tea and muttered. “Last time I checked, marriage wasn’t NASCAR.” Not that anybody in her family recognized that fact. Her baby sister had beat her in the race to the altar three years prior, at the ripe young age of twenty-four. And she’d delighted the entire family by immediately providing the first grandchild a year later. A boy, Preston, who, Piper was forced to admit, was cute as the dickens. Leah was winning points left and right.
The remark earned her an aggravated look from her mother. It was an expression Piper was intimately familiar with.
“What’s that, dear?” her great aunt asked.
“Nothing. No wedding bells for me any time soon, Aunt Bea.”
“Oh that’s a shame. But surely there’s someone special?”
Because the idea that her life could revolve around something other a man certainly didn’t compute.
Before Piper could think of a snark-free reply to that, her phone vibrated. It was purely verboten that she had it out of her purse at all, but if she was caught, she had the excuse of being on-call at the clinic. Not that she actually was today, but they didn’t know that.