“Ah. They’ve been moving through smaller markets like this for a couple years now. I’ve seen the name come up before, peripherally, through some real estate work the firm’s done. They’re part of a larger group. They don’t wait for one business to crack. They work a whole stretch of a neighborhood at once—three, four independent shops, same general radius—and let the pressure compound. Makes any one owner feel like he’s the only one standing, when really the whole block’s getting squeezed at the same time.”
I’d known it was bigger than just me.
“My business partner’s pulling out. I’d need to cover his share of the buyout to keep him from selling his stake outside the partnership. That’s the real clock I’m working against. If I can’tput the money together fast enough, the whole thing opens up for an outside offer.” I turn the glass once in my hand.
“So your partner leaving isn’t really the trigger,” Richard continues. “It’s the opening they were already waiting for.”
“Feels that way,” I say. “Two other shops near me got approached around the same time I did. One folded already. Sold quietly, just a new sign up one week.”
Richard nods slowly, turning his own glass once. “Sounds like that’s how they operate. Companies like that test resistance before they spend real money. If they’ve already gone to the landlord, they’re gauging how much fight you’ve got left in you,” he plainly says. “What’s the actual number you’re trying to hit? To cover the buyout outright.”
I hesitate to give him even an estimate, but he’s asking for it. “More than a hundred. Give or take.”
“If I may ask, are you anywhere near feeling secured with it?”
“Working on it,” I say, feeling a bit more uncomfortable now. “Not there yet.”
Richard’s quiet for a second, doing whatever math men like him do behind their faces. “Worth documenting their contact with your landlord and suppliers regardless of how the financing shakes out. If this ever turns adversarial, a pattern of pre-offer pressure across multiple businesses in the same window matters more than people think. Might matter later.”
“Appreciate that.” I do.
Lance shifts beside me, one hand landing on my knee, not redirecting so much as easing it sideways. “By the way,” he says, glancing at Marcus, “did you ever sort out the probate mess with Great-Uncle Walter’s place?”
Marcus groans into his glass. “Don’t get me started.”
“What happened?” I ask, curious.
“Man dies, leaves a house to four different relatives with no written instruction on how to split it,” Marcus explains. “Twowant to sell, two want to keep it. Nobody agrees on value, or on who gets first right of refusal. It’s been in limbo for two years.”
“At the shop, when a car gets left to an estate, the executor just signs off, we release it. Done in a week. Can’t imagine what happens when it’s a whole house and four people who all think they’re right,” I contribute.
“Welcome to inheritance law,” Richard says, dry. “People act reasonably about almost everything except the things they assumed were already theirs.”
“Basically, every family I’ve ever worked on a car for,” I say. “Somebody assumes the truck’s theirs because Dad always let them drive it. Doesn’t matter what the will says once feelings get involved.”
Richard laughs at that. “That’s a better summary of probate law than half my associates manage.”
Lance grins at me.
A log settles; sparks fly then fall. Marcus pours himself another finger of Scotch.
Richard tips his glass, watching the firelight move through it. “Speaking of money people assumed wasn’t going anywhere,” he says, looking at Lance, almost amused at his own segue. “I got a notice from the trust office last week—a co-trustee copy. Never thought you’d touched that account.”
Lance’s shoulders square slightly.
“It was necessary,” he says it in a flat voice. He gives nothing else.
Richard takes a slow sip. The fire pops loudly in the silence that follows.
I feel a twist in my gut.
“Just asking,” Richard says, not pushing. “I’m surprised, son. You told me you wanted nothing to do with it.”
“I did.” Lance turns his glass once between his fingers, eyes on the fire instead of his father. “Still true.”
Richard glances between us then turns his attention back to the chessboard. Moves a piece that doesn’t need moving. Whatever he’s working out stays behind his face.
Marcus and Richard drift into talk about a partner at the firm and some old case, names and stories I don’t know. Lance stays close, his shoulder pressed against mine, like he already knows something’s sitting wrong with me and isn’t going to pretend otherwise.
