“Happiness has nothing to do with it. They have a child together.”
“You gave them Oak Hill as a wedding present.”
“I’m not giving anybody anything.” Her back was poker straight. “It was a financial decision. An investment in Eric’s restaurant. Maybe he can make something of this place. God knows your father never wanted to. Or his father.”
I regarded her with affection. “You old softie.”
Her lips twitched in what—in another woman—would have been a smile. That was my cue. My chance.
Colt and Beth had ended their duet, shifting on a bridge of bright guitar notes to a rowdy, boot-stomping party song. I didn’t have much time before Wanda returned. I scooted my chair closer.
“Speaking of investments...” I took a breath. “I was hoping to talk to you about Baggage.”
“Your own? Or your company?”
I laughed dutifully. “Ha-ha. The thing is... You’ve always been really generous. Sending me to Paris and everything.”
“A graduation present. Your sisters made other choices.”
“It was a wonderful opportunity.”
“You seem to have made the most of it.”
I flushed with stupid pleasure at this rare praise from a family member. “Thanks. The thing is, I have this other opportunity, and I could use your help.”
“An opportunity for what, exactly?”
“We’re doing— Baggage is doing really well. We’re in thirteen stores now, and I have more orders than I can handle for the new Duchess tote. It’s the perfect time to expand. All I need is a larger workroom.” And a few more employees. A second sewing machine. A chance to step back and breathe and actually focus on design, because after the Duchess bag there had to be something else, something new, something fresh. #handbagaddict #ownit
“In New York,” Phee said.
“Yes. Ideally. I’d love to get into a little retail space with production in the back.” I could picture it, shelves of stock in whimsical designs. Quirky, colorful window displays. A sign over the door in the shape of a handbag, with my logo in jaunty letters. “But that’s probably out of my price range. Rents in the city are pretty steep.”
“You could relocate.”
“I’ve considered it.” Setting up shop in an abandoned warehouse in Newark or some boarded-up storefront in Trenton. Commuting into Manhattan, bundling big boxes of samples on the New Jersey Transit system. I shoved the thought away. “Wherever I go, a move is going to take money.”
“Sell more handbags.”
“That’s the plan. But I’m really limited by my space right now.” And my cash flow. “Which is why I need a loan. An investment. Like in Jo and Eric’s restaurant.”
Phee’s mouth pulled tight, like the knot on a balloon. “I assume you’ve been to the bank.”
I nodded. “Meg helped me with my application.”
“And...?”
“They turned me down.” The memory seared my chest. “I don’t have enough assets.” Just my sewing machine.
“But you have orders, you said.”
“Orders, inventory, materials. But none of those are assets. Apparently those things don’t have any value unless you’re in the business of making and selling handbags. Which the bank isn’t.”
“Neither am I.”
I met the old dragon’s gaze, my heart thudding. “But you could be.”
“Hmph.” She stroked Polly, her wrinkled hands on the dog’s silky fur. “An investment,” she repeated slowly.
