by Kristi Rose
Jayne Grandberry is not a dummy. At least I try hard not to be.
I sip a lovely cup of iced green tea and wait for a client’s highly recommended estate agent. Apparently this gent is a prodigy when it comes to finding the perfect property and right now I need something, a sign to tell me I’m on the correct path.
But it needs to be a clear sign. Like a strong wind blows me into the right building or a bank gifting me money. Jesus, or some other divine entity, should pay a visit and simply tell me what to do and since I’m taking a command, I’d happily accept accompanying instructions.
Or a winning lotto ticket. I could set Mum and Dad up. They could take off “dead week” guilt free and go mourn the passing of Elvis with the rest of the fanatics who secretly believe he’s still alive.
Oh, how I really want to give that to her.
Swirling the ice in my plastic cup, I tune out the chatter around me. Pippa would hate this place, as coffee is her soapbox. Last week she tried to replace Stacy’s coffee with an alternative and reported that she’d never seen a man’s eyes look as if they were going to pop out of his head. She said the vein that runs up his neck to the side of his head was pulsing and throbbing with such intensity she believed he’d stroke out right in front of her eyes.
The story from Stacy later that night, as he and Cordie grilled steak and potatoes behind my flat, was a similar retelling. Throbbing vein and all. Stacy and I somehow moved past the embarrassing child-watching-TV-porn-whilst-we-snog-in-laundry-room evening—or maybe we’re ignoring the awkwardness—and now their visits were a pleasant custom I've come to depend upon.
“Jayne?”
Looking up, I’m surprised to find a tall, towhead, sharp-featured yet strikingly handsome man standing there.
“Yes.” I stand and continue to look upward.
What? Have I found another man taller than me? It appears I have.
I look into warm gray eyes and smile. “Yes, I’m Jayne.”
“I’m pleased to meet you. Our mutual friend speaks highly of you and it brings me great pleasure knowing I’m a part of helping you actualize your dreams. I’m Fitzwilliam Davis.”
Fitzwilliam? Is that a sign? Could it be? I want to stomp my foot in frustration and rail to the clouds above, “I said a clear sign. This isn’t clear.”
I hold out my hand and he takes it, his grasp warm and light and soft. As first impressions go, it’s a good one, professionally speaking. He’s skillfully puts me at ease without getting overly familiar.
“Fitzwilliam?” He doesn’t have an accent unless one could consider his southern drawl.
“My mother was a lifelong fan of Jane Austen and Pride and Prejudice in particular.” His voice, though deep and masculine, is quiet and everything about this man is...gentle. If he were a preacher, he’d swindle the life savings from a gazillion women, easy.
“Aren’t most women?” I say.
He straightens his jacket. “Everyone calls me Davis. I’ve brought several options for you to peruse.” He reaches into his soft leather briefcase and pulls out a bundle of pristinely bound paper, held together with one of those plastic coils.
“Er...thanks. I’m curious about the options.” I gesture for him to take the seat next to me, my thoughts on signs and interpreting their meaning.
“Do you mind if I get some joe? May I get you anything?” He has an easy smile.
“No, thank you.” There’s something intriguing about him. His form is quite lovely, lithe, and he moves with an easy grace. Everything he does is with gentleness. No pulling out a chair and scraping the feet against the floor, it’s as if the chair glides away from the table on its own. There’s no slinging his bag onto the seat, it’s placed with care before he slips off to place his order.
He’s exactly the sort I envisioned I’d end up with.
And yet I feel no attraction whatsoever.
Is God saying, “Clear enough?”
It sure feels like a sign. Or a lesson.
I’ll admit that I’ve been thinking more about the personal life of Jayne and less about the business. And with that comes a heavy case of guilt. Slowing my pace is an option that I’ve ruled out. Not because I fear my Mum’s wrath or the potential of being haunted by my debt thermometer. Truth is, I want to make that stupid thing all red. I want to be the subject of another brilliant young entrepreneur article. I want my parents to know I’ve got their back. Getting distracted by a guy is the last thing I need.
With forced enthusiasm and heart, I flip through the pictures and brief descriptions of empty buildings. I don’t dare look at the costs. I come up short when my gaze lands on a picture so charming I coo. Walls lined with wooden shelves; stained glass windows, many arched; and a large wooden door with antique brass handles.
I’m in love.
“That used to be a book store. The owner passed unexpectedly. It’s been a real loss to the community.” He eases into a chair, having come upon me like a ninja.
I want to take a snapshot of him and sent it to Josie with my Wickham list. To show her relatively attractive and successful men do exist and that not all of them would be settling. But she’ll want to dissect and compare and I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to provide an argument as easily as I could have in the past. I’d likely agree with most everything she’d say.
“I love it. The character would suit my shop well.” I fade into a quick fantasy. A second shop using books themes when displaying clothes. Maybe dresses donned by beloved famous book characters? Would I be able to find some mannequins that look like regency period women and others who evoke visions of highland lasses and men in kilts? Mentally, I’ve left the coffee house and am on a plane to exciting locations to shop for unique outfits. I could get Cordie a scarf in her family tartan, Stacy a tie.
“Would you like to see this one first?” Davis brings me out of my fugue. With a sigh, I tuck the daydream away.
See Jayne be a responsible adult regardless of how much it sucks.
I scan the page for the price. “It’s to own, correct? Not let.”
“That’s correct. The family who owns it want to finish up with the owner’s estate and divide the funds. This is the last to go and, I’m willing to speculate, they might come down on the price.”
It’s then my gaze falls upon the price and I involuntarily gasp.
“Don’t freak out.” Davis scoots closer to me, his hand covering the numbers on the paper. The nutty aroma of his coffee and the lack of urgency in his voice woo me into a relaxed state.
“It’s more than I wanted to spend,” I say in the same dulcet tone.
“Let’s go see it. It’s right around the corner. We can sip our drinks and talk. There’s no commitment and I’d like to get to know you better.” His voice drops at the end and the shift in his tone is subtle, of course, but my woman instincts kick in.
I’ll need another sign, obviously, but I think he was flirting with me.
I wait for the rush of excitement that comes with first-time flirting. Nothing.
When my focus shifts away from the potential of the bookstore building and onto the potential of what is sitting in front of me, I say, “I’m not the sort to tease myself with what I can’t have. I don’t want to see the building if there’s no chance I can get it.”
“Do you have a budget?” He sips his coffee.
Ugh, a budget.
“I do.” I focus on the remains of my iced green tea, shaking the ice. Silently cursing Stacy and his calculator. Not that he uses one. All his gray matter is what I should be angry with. I know people say that numbers don’t lie, but how is it a second shop wouldn’t turn more profit? Riddle me that.
“If you’re looking for backers, I have a list of investors that are always looking to support small, local businesses.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for—” Stacy had discouraged the idea of an investor.
“Silent partners. Never interfere. You run the
business; they foot extra capital and take some of the profit. Some are willing to do a fade-out partnership.” He sits back, giving me space and breathing room and allowing the opportunity between us to plant, take root, and sprout.
“Fade out?” I push my tea away before taking a notepad and pen from my purse.
“Yes, are you not familiar with it?” He scratches his chin. “Well, I suppose it’s not common practice. It works like this.” Pulling a pen from inside his jacket pocket, he gestures to my notepad. After my nod, he slides it toward him.
“I’ll use whole numbers because they’re easier. You put up this amount.” He writes a number less than my budget. “The backer puts up the difference.” He writes the number I thought I was playing with all on my own. “You set terms and it’s simple math really, interest is added and you pay the loan back in the given time.” He adds the number together, does a quick addition of interest that I make a mental note to ask Stacy about, and divides it by seven years.
“Why seven?” I ask.
“I just picked it at random. You could do two if you wanted or twelve.”
“What if the shop doesn’t work out? What if I have to close it?” I won’t deny there are alarm bells. But I also won’t pretend I’m not intrigued. If I can get terms less than a bank without having to jump through as many hoops, I’d consider it.
“You will have to pay pack what you borrowed with interest. But do you really think you’ll fail?”
“And you think this could be less?” I slide the paper with the picture of the shop from under the note pad and touch my finger to the listing price.
“Significantly. It’s a lot to think about, but why not see the building in person? You’ll be more informed. You might find it doesn’t suit.” He tips his empty coffee toward me as if to say the timing couldn’t be any better.
“I do have a bit of time before my flight.” Where’s the harm? There’s no commitment and if one is going to dream why not dream big? Mum has always taught that the smart business is in the tangibles and this building has tangibles I like. It’s the same dream, really, taking on an investor. Only a modified version. Maybe I shouldn’t hold so tightly to every specific detail to my plan. Be more flexible.
Davis stands, smooths the creases in his heavy linen trousers, and straightens his jacket. Normally, I find something arousing about a man who knows how to wear clothes...and pick them. I’m surprised to discover that I prefer a pair of well-worn jeans to Davis’s crisp linen pants.
He then extends his hand to help me from my seat. “It’s an easy stroll. You can tell me about what brings you across the pond and I’ll bask in the sensual tones of your accent.”
Sensual tones? Most decidedly flirting. I glance at him and wonder if I could date him for longer than my standard six weeks. How would he fit in with my circle of friends?
“Did you want another drink for the walk?” I gesture to the bar.
He shakes his head and indicates I should precede him. He guides me from the coffee shop, his hand on the lower portion of my back, and moves silently at my side, the door gliding open before I’ve had a chance to reach for it.
“How does one go about finding these private investors?” I ask, more curious than hedging for an opening. Josie has always offered to be a silent investor. Heaven knows she has plenty of money, having come into her trust fund last year. But I’m not a fan of borrowing from friends or family and being beholden to someone long term, someone who is unpredictable or might have a different agenda, is a situation I’ve avoided. Yet, here I am. It was setting the terms for a buyout that intrigued me.
“Through networking mostly, investors with property looking to diversify. What makes you want to open a business in Buckhead?”
“I have a shop in Daytona that’s doing well. I get a fair number of clients from this area and Miami. Expanding into those markets makes sense.” I don’t bother spewing Stacy’s belief about the personal shopping because without the shop to bring the clients in, however would I find them to personal shop for? One begets the other.
“We would love to have you up here. I think you’ll really enjoy the atmosphere here. It’s great for singles.”
He stops quickly and ducks his head briefly, almost boyishly, looking up at me with what I interpret is an apologetic gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to assume you’re single. I don’t see a ring, and maybe it’s wishful thinking on my part but I leapt to the conclusion that you weren’t married.”
“I’m not married.”
“Dare I hope?” He places both his hands over his heart. “No someone special?”
I shake my head. “Not this week.”
Immediately the apologetic expression is gone, replaced by the easy, light one from the coffee shop.
“Wonderful news,” he says briefly clapping his hands together. “Hopefully, I can convince you to fall in love with our city, woo you away from the bikers and spring breakers of Daytona, and introduce you to the tennis players and wine-tasting groups we have here.”
Ugh, doesn’t tennis require exercise? Has the video universe of YouTube ever documented a graceful giraffe? Do cartoons ever depict them as tennis players? I think not. I’d take a biker over that any day. But the wine tasting sounds lovely. I know how to sip gracefully and am accomplished enough to do so without spilling on my clothes.
“My mum and dad are in Daytona. Leaving them would be difficult.” And I leave it at that. I like these moments, where one’s fantasy is better than the reality. Davis thinks I might be the tennis sort. It’s a better fantasy than the staggering realities of the non-exercising, bean-and-bagel-consuming glutton I am. Remain a mystery. Perpetuate the myth. All repeat advice one can glean from reading any geared-toward-women-and-knows-better-than-you magazine.
There must be some truth to it I suppose.
We walk in silence a short block before Davis begins to whistle a floaty tune that makes me think of Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn films.
This is nice. And though I struggle for something to say, his whistling is the perfect reason not to say anything at all.
I glance up, finding his gaze on me, and smile. Without breaking stride or stanza, he slows and gestures to the building ahead by two doors.
Situated one block away from the high end shopping off Peachtree Road is a row of older brick stores, the one I’d fallen for in the middle.
“No wonder the price is so high.” From where I stand I can see the signs for Buckhead Village, Jimmy Choo’s, and French cuisine.
“Yes, but this block has yet to be renovated. It’s obvious that Buckhead Village will do all the work for you. Come inside.” He fits a key in the lock and pushes open the heavy wood door.
It’s better than I imagined and more than I could hope for. Instantly I take a step back.
Nothing good comes from wanting something you can’t have.
Only heartbreak and insatiable longing.
David softly presses his hand to my lower back. “You’re just looking. Not buying.”
And, as though I’ve seen a waiting lone chocolate éclair on a shit of a workday, my self-control is out the window and I’m cramming the goodness and comfort of chocolate and cream in my face. Yet, this is solid pine floors, hand carved glossy white medallions with trim chandeliers so delicate and round they look made for a cotillion.
Large built-in shelves, once cradling first edition books (or so I like to hope) would showcase one of a kind jewelry and scarves from the four corners of the world. I run my hand along the wainscoting that wraps the room.
“Come see the back. There’s an office with a window.”
Two French doors with porcelain knobs divide the front from the back.
After a walkthrough of the rest of the space, all presenting with the same hand-crafted charm of the main room, Davis asks, “You love it right? It seems meant for you.”
I sigh, part with determination and part sadness. For years to c
ome I will remember this building and the business I could have built here.
As if sensing my thoughts, or more accurately reading my sigh, Davis says, “Location. Location. Location.”
“Which is really good. Off from the main flow a wee bit but that makes the traffic slightly lighter and easier to get to it.” I look around one last time and dig deep for that steely reserve I know is in there somewhere, looking in the same place I pull from when I have the overwhelming urge to lick Stacy like an ice cream cone.
“It’s out of my range, Davis. There’s no point entertaining it any further.” I’ll have to rethink Buckhead. And that thought only brings forth the disappointment and frustration I felt with Miami. I have the mental image of the empty debt thermometer exploding.
“It doesn’t have to be.” Davis doesn’t move. Not his hands in his pockets, no coins jingling, and not his shoes across the floor. He’s relaxed and his lack of urgency could nearly blind my senses, much like a seventy-five percent off shoe sale does. But I would need a second mortgage on my flat. I would have to make concessions I never imagined.
“I’ve never had an interest in a partner. Silent or not.” I swing my bag onto my shoulder, tucking the bulky part under my arm and gesture toward the door with my head. “Shall we?”
I don’t wait for Davis before leaving the building.
“I hear what you’re saying, Jayne. Honestly, I do. So I ask this with trepidation. Would it be all right if I send you some dossiers, if you will? You can get a feel for what the investor is like, what they’re willing to spend, and their philosophy.”
“Er....”
“I love my community. I want to see if grow and flourish. I think you would be a good fit here, from what I know and have learned about you. That’s why I—”
“Push?”
He ducks his head but continues to look at me. “Yeah.”
The ease at which he presses his agenda is quite smooth and non-threatening. Had I been a less cynical person, I’d not notice.
But he got you inside to see the building.
Point taken. I step aside, closer to the curb, and scan for a taxi. As luck would have it, one is coming toward me. As I raise my hand to flag it I say, “Thank you, Davis. But I’m not confident that’s the best plan.”