“Hi, Missy.” Mr. Whitaker glances nervously into his office, then he grabs the doorknob and shuts the office door tightly behind him before I can even glimpse inside. He clears his throat. “I heard you won your competition show. Congratulations.”
My brows lower. Congratulations is usually something that’s said with a hint of happiness, but his demeanor is anything but happy. It’s about a million miles away from how I’d parted with him last. His words had been full of well-wishes and hopes for my success.
His hands fidget with the jingling set of building keys he always carries on one of his belt loops.
“Thank you. I was pleasantly surprised with the results. And how have you been? How’s your grandson? Does he have a name yet?” I smile lightheartedly, remembering how Mr. Whitaker’s daughter gave birth to a baby boy right before I left for the show.Mr. Whitaker had been amazed that he’d had a grandson for thirty-five hours and he still hadn’t been named.
“Yes, his name is Whit. Short for Whitaker.”
“Oh, I love that.” I tuck a wisp of neatly curled hair behind my ear.
“Thanks, Missy.”
The keys jingle again, followed by a long silence. Figuring now is as good a time as any, I bypass the small talk and get right to the point. “Well, I came here to tell you that I officially have the funds I need.”
Nothing. Just the sound of his keys. I curl my toes inside my Lucky Louis, shoving the doubts down and pulling my confidence in. I straighten, ready to put all my cards on the table.
“I am ready to buy The Red Curtain from you, Mr. Whitaker. I can pay in full, just as we discussed. In fact, I have $350,000 ready to wire to you as soon as the paperwork is drawn up—”
“Missy,” he says, cutting me off.
“Yes?” A knot forms in my stomach with the way his features sag, humorless and pained.
“I can’t sell it to you.”
The blood drains from my face. “What? What do you mean?”
“The price has gone up.” He looks like he’s about to be sick.
My body goes rigid. “I’m sorry. Could you say that again?”
“I can’t sell it to you for $350,000, Missy.”
My breaths narrow into shallow sips of air. “Oh, uh, okay. Well …” I bumble as I rummage through my purse, commanding my brain to think and process when all it wants to do is find the nearest rock and crawl under it. “Well … Well, I have a little more money. Though, uh, I was planning on using that for setting up my nonprofit, and taxes and such, but I …” My words are shaky as I shuffle around a tube of lip gloss and a pack of flossers in my purse as if I’ll find a hundred grand stacked neatly inside, bound with a paper band.
“Missy. It’s being sold to someone else.” Mr. Whitaker rests his soft hand on my arm, stopping my fruitless search. “I’m sorry.”
I blink. “But. But I thought we made a deal?”
Mr. Whitaker’s eyes close, and he takes a deep breath. When his eyes meet mine again, they are filled with regret. “While you were gone, my wife lost her job. She’s going to have to retire early, Missy, and we’re not going to get as much from retirement as we originally planned. We’ve been so worried about this, but then today, we got an offer on the building that was twice the asking price.”
I nearly choke on my own saliva. “Twice? As in, $700,000?”
“I’m so sorry, Missy.”
I feel enraged. Sad. Crushed. Angry. “What sort of highfalutin moneybags offers twice the asking price?”
Prize money or not, there wasn’t even a chance I could afford that.
“I know you wanted this building, and if it weren’t for early retirement, we’d have given it to you. We’d have done it in a heartbeat.”
“Please, just give me more time … I can … Somehow, I’ll find the money. I’ll do another game show. Just give me time.”
His bushy eyebrows pull together, two deep lines appearing between his eyes. “I’ve already given you all the time I have. I truly regret how this has all unfolded.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, staving off the tears threatening to spill.
As if on their own accord, my Lucky Louis step backward, as if they too know that no amount of luck in the world is going to get me out of this. That’s when I see the brass knob to Mr. Whitaker’s office start to jiggle. Suddenly, the door pops open behind Mr. Whitaker, revealing a pair of ice-blue eyes and a man wearing a sleek navy-blue suit with shiny Oxfords in which one could see their reflection.
