“Look, I’m actually just looking for Jacob McCarthy,” I said.
He looked around the empty office, empty except for him. “Apparently I’m Jacob McCarthy.”
I hated the way he said his full name, so proud of himself. I wished that Jacob McCarthy had an idea that I was a serious lawyer as opposed to someone he met in her wedding dress, not on her wedding day.
“What can I help you with?” he said.
“I want to talk to you about The Last Straw Vineyard.”
He motioned toward his office. “Then come in,” he said.
He stepped out of the way, so I could walk inside. I did so reluctantly, clutching the contract closer to my chest. The actual office—his actual office—was nice. It was designed with soft white couches and an enormous antique desk, and another painting—this one of a giant red tomato—behind his desk.
“Also my mother’s,” he said, pointing at the painting. “She has a thing for fruit.”
“That’s so nice for her.”
He smiled, ignoring my tone, sitting on the edge of his desk. “What’s your interest in The Last Straw? Besides the obvious?”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “It’s great wine.”
I folded my arms across my chest, not letting that throw me. “It’s my family’s vineyard,” I said. “And I’m concerned about the sale. We all are, quite frankly. Some of us just aren’t aware of it yet.”
“Georgia. Of course. The family resemblance, right around the mouth.”
He motioned around his own mouth.
“You’re definitely your father’s daughter. It’s nice to meet you. You have a great family. I love your family.”
“You don’t know them.”
“I disagree.”
Then he reached over for a glass jar on his desk, full of long pieces of licorice, and held the jar out to me.
“Are you serious?” I said.
“Why wouldn’t I be serious? Licorice is the best candy there is, and, as an added bonus, it has been used since ancient times for a variety of medicinal purposes. Including the relieving of stress.”
“Still going to pass,” I said.
He took a piece out of the jar, then took a huge bite. “Your choice,” he said. “Though not the right one.”
“I’m not interested in this,” I said. “Whatever you’re trying to do here.”
He smiled. “And what am I trying to do here?”
“I don’t know. Charm me.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because you know this contract is rife with error and it’s not too late for me to nullify it.”
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“I am. And I negotiate sales much larger than this on a daily basis.”
“Well, you probably have one up on me, then . . .”
He pointed to his degrees on the wall, mounted in fancy frames. Proof that he was a jerk, those degrees in such fancy frames. Cornell University College of Agriculture, Cornell Law School.
“I went to law school, but I never practiced,” he said.
“How about viticulture? Did you practice that?”
He smiled. “I can assure you, your father is getting a great deal.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“What is the point?”
I was honest, as hard as it was to say it out loud to a stranger. “My father’s going to regret it.”
He looked at me. “You think so?” he said.
And, suddenly, it looked like he cared. His eyes went soft, and the smirk disappeared.
I nodded, meeting his eyes and trying to impart my true feelings about how much my father was going to regret this. “I do.”
He nodded, like he’d heard that.
“Hmm. I don’t,” he said.
Then he started rummaging through papers on his desk, my hope of him being a reasonable and kind person deflating.
I pointed at him. “Escrow hasn’t closed yet. You don’t take possession until after the new year.”
“I believe that was so someone could get married on the property,” he said. “Isn’t that next weekend?”
“Don’t insult me.”
“I’m not insulting you. I’m just letting you know that all the contingencies have been met. Your dad requested that we not transfer ownership until after your wedding. Until they’re able to close up the house.”
“I intend to contest this sale, Mr. McCarthy.”