Pride, a sense of self-importance, and self-reliance must give way to childlikeness and simplicity.
JEANNE GUYON
THE CHATEAU IS all old-world French charm, good grief, and my guest suite is no exception. But I'll give the Bouviers this—they've spared no expense on this place. Brigitte's designer didn't miss a detail.
I close the heavy oak door to the bedroom and cross the rich wood floor to the desk in front of the window. I'm glad Jenna had the foresight to offer me a room with a desk. There are also three guest cottages on the property for when the Bouviers entertain large groups. I sit in the upholstered chair at the desk and lift the lid of my laptop.
Fun? Hobbies? Give me a break. Sure, I decided last night that I'd relax more. And I will, but that doesn't mean I need to take up knitting. I scroll through the list of new e-mails, open, read, and respond to a few that are important, and then open my manuscript file. I reread the last chapter I worked on, make a few edits, and then check my outline to see what comes next. My chapters advise readers on topics like checking and savings accounts, credit cards and FICO scores, retirement savings, etc. It's unbelievable to me how many women know nothing about the basics of finances. I shake my head.
As I peruse my outline, I get an idea. How about a final chapter on enjoying money. How to spend what you've earned and saved. Fun? I can have fun. And I'll show others how to do it too, in a fiscally responsible way.
I begin to jot notes for the new chapter but stop short.
I think about how I've spent money. I purchased the penthouse and the Porsche. I wear designer clothes and own a few pieces of jewelry. I try to recall if I enjoyed purchasing the things I own? No. I didn't buy them for enjoyment. I bought them as symbols of success. To show I walk my talk. I know how to make money.
So what have I enjoyed outside of my business?
Not much.
No, wait. I enjoy . . . Jason. Or I could, if I'd let myself.
I save the open file on my computer and open my browser and type in the now-familiar blog address. I scroll through the archives until I find the post I'm looking for and I read:
Reality
Reality is a place I've avoided. It's stark. Uncomfortable. Painful. If I live there, I have to feel, and stretch, and grow.
I've preferred the land of Denial. It's a dark, furtive place.
Yet a place of seeming ease.
But, I was wooed to Reality. My ticket paid for, at great price, by another. One whose call I could no longer resist. And Reality isn't a place one visits. No. Reality is a place of no return. But within its borders lies every good and perfect gift.
I slam the lid of the laptop shut before I've finished reading the post. It's ridiculous. I stand, pace the length of the room a few times, then untie the belt of my robe, slip it off, and throw it onto the bed. I'll shower and get ready for breakfast and the day ahead.
I go to the antique armoire where I've hung my clothes, choose a pair of slacks and a cotton blouse—business casual. Appropriate for the day, including my meeting with Bill.
That's reality.
Anyway, who is she to talk about real? What a joke! She isn't even willing to identify herself.
Still holding the clothes, I walk to the desk, reach for a pen, and scribble a few thoughts about the meeting with Bill. Then I head for the bathroom attached to the guest suite. But a nagging question follows me into the shower: What am I denying by working so hard?
BILL'S EMBRACE IS QUICK. "Good to see you again, Andee. Thanks for meeting me."
Bill's rugged good looks are a glimpse of what's to come for Jason. Nice to know he'll age well if I keep him around for very long. "No problem. I've been looking forward to it since you called last night."
"I thought it best we meet here"—he gestures to the little French cafe that appeals to valley tourists—"rather than my office. Just in case Jason and Gerard dropped by, or Jenna, for that matter. They wouldn't think to come here." He looks at the floor for a moment. "I'm not . . . I don't usually keep things from them, and I won't for long, just thought I'd—"
"Bill, no need to explain. It's business, right? It's what we do."
He nods as he reaches to pull a chair out for me at the bistro table he's chosen in a corner of the cafe. "Coffee?"
"Espresso."
"I'll be right back." He walks to the counter and places the order. He returns with a cup of coffee for himself and my espresso and sits across from me.
"So Bill, how can I be of help?"
He stirs his coffee and is silent for a minute. Then he clears his throat. "When Maria was dying"—he looks from his coffee cup to me—"Jason and Jenna's mom . . ."
I nod, letting him know I've heard the story.
"Well, that's when I started planting the vineyards. It took a chunk of change, but I sold off the cattle and reinvested the money into the vineyards, which helped. And we'd done well ranching and had money in savings.
"But as Maria's condition worsened, the medical bills mounted. Even with insurance."
I nod again. I'm tracking with him and am pretty sure where he's headed.
"I was pretty driven back then, not only did we plant but we bored a cave, set up a small processing plant—the whole nine yards. I put my energy into the vineyard rather than dealing with losing Maria." He clears his throat again. His pain, even after all these years, is etched in his features. "The grief was . . . well, it overwhelmed me. The vineyard became my outlet, so I kept expanding. I did too much, too soon—financially—and started to have cash flow issues."
"So you took out a loan?"
"Yup. The valley's smaller than it seems. We're all connected in one way or another, or at least we were back then. We had a friend, Duke, another vintner, who was advising me along the way and he could see what was happening. He pulled me aside one day and asked if I needed cash."
"How much?"
"Five hundred thousand. We set up a monthly payment plan, with interest. He handwrote a note that we signed. And that was that. About a year later, he knew I was still struggling—waiting for the first crop yield—and he came to me and told me not to worry about the payments. Said I could pay him in five years, ten years, whenever it worked for me." He folds the paper napkin he's holding into quarters. "For him, the amount was a drop in the bucket."
I lean back in my chair and cross my legs. "What happened?"
"I went to him five years later with a check for the full amount plus interest. I handed it to him and, wouldn't you know it, he tore the thing up. Said he was happy he could help and that he'd tear up the note too." He smiles. "I argued with him, of course. But he was a stubborn 'ol coot—said he'd made a wise relational investment and wanted to leave it at that."
He looks past me and out the window of the cafe. "Duke died last year. Still miss him. He was a good man. And a good friend."
"Bill, I'm not seeing the problem."
"Oh, right. Well, last month, I got a call from . . ." He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and takes out a business card and hands it to me. "Said he was Duke's attorney and is working for Duke's daughter, Kelly Whitmore. They'd come across the note in some of Duke's papers and the daughter is demanding payment, including twenty-six years of interest."
"What was the interest rate you'd agreed on?"
"Nine percent, which was good for the times. Prime was between 11.75 and 13 percent in '84."
"Ouch."
"Ouch is right. You know, Andee, we're a small company. I've kept it that way. We make a good product, and because we don't produce much, our label's in demand. We get a pretty penny per bottle. But, I don't have that kind of cash sitting around."
I do the math in my head and figure out what he owes. "So he didn't tear up the note?"
"Guess not. Knowing Duke, he just forgot."
"Do you have a copy of the note?"
"Likely have it somewhere."
I nod.
"Any suggestions?"
I'm not a miracle worker, if that's what he's asking. "What are your plans for Azul? Down the road?"
"Keep it in the family. Jason's taking more and more responsibility. I'd love to see Jenna step in too. She's smart as a whip and has a keen understanding of the process." He shrugs. "We'll see." He leans back in his seat and sighs. "You know, I'm not getting any younger." He chuckles. "I've loved this business, but if I can get this money thing ironed out, then it's time for me to step back and let Jason run with it."
"What will you do?"
He smiles and there's a spark in his eyes. "Oh, I'll find something. I'm not about to be put out to pasture. It's time to relax, have some fun. Maybe travel some."
"Well, let's see what we can come up with. Are you comfortable having me give him a call?" I point to the business card of the attorney that I laid on the table.
"Sure. But, I don't want any favors. I intend to pay you for your time."
I shake my head. "Let me just make a call. Give this some thought. I don't want your money, Bill. Jason's special to me. If I can help in any way, I'm happy to do so—for both your sakes."
He slides the business card toward me.
"And this is between us. If you want to tell Jason at some point—that's your business."
He holds out his hand across the table. I take it and he shakes my hand and then gives it a squeeze.
"Andee, I'm sure appreciative."
"My pleasure."
AS I DRIVE BACK to the chateau, I wonder, as I often do, at the business deals that are made with the equivalent of a handshake. Handwriting a note for $500,000? Not asking to witness the note being torn up? Idiocy. Yet Bill, like Jason, is likable. Trusting. But these two aren't businessmen. Can I forgive them for that?
I think of Jason and how the information Bill imparted impacts him. I'm surprised by the sympathy I feel for both Bill and Jason. Normally, I have no sympathy for idiots. I chuckle. "You're getting soft, Andee."
I pull onto Highway 29 and head back toward St. Helena and the Bouvier chateau. As I drive, what strikes me is that Bill and Jason are good men. Solid. Trusting and trustworthy.
They are men who fall outside my realm of experience.
The road ahead of me blurs as I wipe away unexpected tears.
"Oh man, I am getting soft." I sniff. No, wait, maybe it's hormones. I vote for hormones. I wipe my eyes again and a thought plants itself in my mind: Jason's a keeper. Hang on to him.
"A keeper? What is he, a trout?"
Anyway, since when did I want a keeper?
I try to put the thought out of my mind and refocus on Bill's issue. But as I turn into the winding drive that leads to the chateau, all I can think about is Jason. I pull up to the house, turn off the ignition, throw my keys into my purse, get out, and slam the car door. Hard.