by Lexi Ryan
***
May—Three Months Before Accident
“I’m so pleased to meet you, Miss Thompson,” the lawyer says. She gestures to the chair and takes her seat on the other side of her desk. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I summoned you.”
“I am.” I lower myself into the wingback chair. Her office is slick and modern with just enough homey touches—throw pillows, framed snapshots—to make it comfortable. Well, to make most people comfortable. There’s nothing comfortable about how I feel being called to Indianapolis to meet with a lawyer I’ve never heard of before. “I can only assume I have a distant rich relative who passed away and left me his fortune.”
She laughs good-naturedly. “I keep waiting for that call myself, but unfortunately, that’s not why you’re here today.”
“Bummer.” I force a smile and shift in my chair. Waiting.
“I understand you just graduated from Sinclair and have a successful side business decorating cakes for friends.”
“I did just graduate, though I’m not sure how successful I’d call my business. I do it more for fun than anything.”
“You enjoy it, then?”
“Of course!” My cheeks warm. “It’s fun to make something out of raw ingredients. And cakes just make people happy.”
“And you have a dream of opening up your own bakery in New Hope. Is that correct?”
This will definitely be filed under Strangest Experiences Ever. “Yes, but it’s really more of a pipe dream. Nothing serious.”
“What if it didn’t have to be a pipe dream?” She pushes a thin stack of papers across the desk. “My client who, let’s be clear from the start, wishes to remain anonymous, thinks your ‘pipe dream’ bakery plans, as you call them, could really turn into a profitable venture.”
I pick up the stack of papers and leaf through them, but I’m not really sure what I’m looking at.
“The one on the top is the New Hope revitalization project, explaining tax breaks and grant funds the town of New Hope will give to young entrepreneurs who want to help revitalize the historic square.”
I scan the page, my eyes landing on the maximum dollar amounts the city will contribute. “I know about these grants,” I say, nodding. “William Bailey got some grant money to open his art gallery. I’m familiar with the opportunities, but they aren’t anything near what someone like me would need to open my own business.” I’d be able to do it with the money in my trust fund, but I don’t get that until I’m thirty or married.
Max’s proposal flashes through my mind—the look on his face when I stared at the ring and didn’t speak, the moment he rose off his knee and placed the ring in my hand, closing my fingers around it. “Keep it. That’s how much I want this, Hanna. Keep it. I’ll wait.”
What was the “this” that he wanted? Me or my trust fund? I squeeze my eyes shut.
“That’s why I’m here. My client would like to go into business with you, Hanna. He would provide the rest of the funds you need to open the bakery in the old Woolworth’s building on Main. We’ve had a team of contractors give us estimates on turning around the space, and he’d even put an apartment for you upstairs to compensate for the minimal income you’d expect your first months in business.”
“How can I go into business with someone who wants to remain anonymous?”
“He’d be a silent partner. He’d get a portion of your profits until you choose to buy him out or sell the business.”
“But what if I don’t make a profit? What’s in it for him then?”
She shrugs. “Investments always come with risk, but my client believes you’ll be successful.”
“So if I want to make a decision, how am I supposed to talk to him?”
“Most things you’d be free to decide on your own, but there are major decisions he’d want to be consulted on, and those would go through me.”
Who would want to go into business with me? Who do I know with the money to take on something like this? “Is Nate Crane behind this?”
Her face remains impassive. “Anonymous means anonymous.”
It has to be Nate. And I should say no. I shouldn’t accept his money. Only he’s offering me something I want so badly. I can already picture my bakery on Main, Sinclair students hopping in between classes for a gourmet coffee, a glass case with freshly baked cookies and scones.
“Do you think you’d like to talk more, or is an anonymous partnership out of the question for you?”
“Tell me more.”
