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John stared at the figures on spreadsheets Anjali had printed out. He had to cut, cut, cut. The Grey Skies had to go.
John rubbed his knee, which had started to ache this morning. This is killing me, he thought. I love being on a boat, on the water, more than anything else. Except Em, of course.
He decided to fight for the Grey Skies a little longer. He picked up the phone and his little black book.
An hour later he stood, and his knee stabbed with the sharp pain of disappointment. Everyone he’d called had danced around the obvious point of his call—to invest with him. No deals closed. How was he going to keep his sailboat?
Well, the least he could do was share it with his friends, while he still had the chance. He sat down and sent an email to the writers’ circle: “I’m inviting you to come out on my sailboat, the Grey Skies. It’s docked in Cherbourg. Please bring a friend and your lunch. We’ll go out to dinner.”
He clicked send.
