But this? This feels pretty damn good. And is reminiscent of days with Verne.
One of the reasons I loved fishing with Verne was getting to talk to him. Some days, we didn’t speak more than two words to one another. Other days, if I was having issues with Presley’s parents, I’d vent to him. He was there for me more than my dad ever was. Getting some version of what’s going on with Presley from Poppy, even from her point of view, makes me want to know more. Makes me want to be here for my daughter.
Whatever Poppy needs, I’ll be there for her. No questions asked.
Except to get to the bottom of what’s going on with Presley.
That requires a lot of questions. Ones I hope I can get answers to today.
Chapter Thirteen
PRESLEY
Another meeting. Another meeting where nothing will get resolved but they’ll say they’re working on settling Dad’s estate.
I hate these days. Having to step into a pencil skirt and a stiff blouse, it takes everything I have to put on a mask to deal with Paul and my mother.
Flipping down the visor in my old beat-up truck, I check my makeup one last time. At least if I look good, that will be one less thing for my mother to nitpick.
It’s about as good as it’s going to get. After working at the diner this morning, I left early to come home and change before driving to the way too modern office for Pinecrest. Of course Dad would use them. The higher the price tag, the more interested he was.
Grabbing my purse, I push open the creaking door and head inside. Paul and my mother are waiting in the marble lobby.
It’s so stuffy. I get quick, disapproving glances from both of them, without any other conversation.
Just as well. I take a seat opposite them and wait.
And wait. Andwait.
What the hell is the point of scheduling a meeting if you’re going to be late? I don’t want to be here a minute longer than I have to be.
“Mrs. King. Mr. Leith. Ms. King. We’re ready for you.”
A young woman with a slicked back bun and a black pantsuit clacks her way into the lobby to beckon us back to a conference room.
It’s even more gaudy than the lobby. Dark hardwood lines every surface in the room with awards hanging from the walls.
It’s pretentious.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Mr. Tartt greets us.
An older gentleman with wire-rimmed glasses and a thin mustache, he is not someone to mess with. His ego fills the entire room.
Someone my dad liked.
“I want to thank you all for coming today to discuss the estate of Mr. King. We do have some updates for you.”
“Are we any closer to closing this out?” I ask, not wanting to beat around the bush.
“Presley,” Paul snaps. “Show the man the respect he is due.”
Crossing my arms, I lean back in my chair, shaking my head. Why does Paul make me feel like such a teenager needing to be scolded?
We keep having these unnecessary meetings. Close, but not there yet. Still waiting on the value of whatever property my dad had.
Why do I have to take the day off work to come out here and deal with this?
“It’s okay, Mr. Leith. We are close, but not quite there.”
