Page 83 of The Bar Next Door
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This is crazy.No sane person would look at this and consider it a sound financial move, but the numbers are there. If what’s showing on my computer screen is correct, we have enough to make Fournier a competitive offer.
“He’ll take that, right?” Zach asks. He, Dylan, and I are holed up in my office together a few days after the staff meeting. “He has to at least consider that.”
“He could get more from someone else,” I remind them. “Probably much more.”
While most of the staff were happy to throw in anywhere from fifty bucks to a few hundred purely as a donation, only Dylan and Zach could actually come to the table as investors. I knew Dylan had a side gig working for his cousin’s construction company and has been saving up for years. It turns out Zach runs some kind of online ecommerce business that’s making him a fair amount of cash.
“You both realize this is a terrible investment, right? We’re going to have to take out even more loans to do any of the improvements I have in mind, and there’s no guarantee we can get this place off the ground, especially with a wine bar going in next door.”
I still haven’t heard from Julien. I almost cracked and gave him a call. When I walked out of his apartment, I thought I was giving him the push he needed to change his mind. Deep down, I didn’t really think I was saying goodbye. Every day that passes without word from him makes me less certain he ever felt what I thought he did at all, and when I really let myself acknowledge it, the pain is enough to crush me.
Only I don’t have time to analyze all those early morning hours I passed wrapped up in his arms. I can’t spend the day in bed with his words on repeat in my head, trying to pick out which ones were true and which weren’t. I don’t have time to torture myself.
Wedon’t have time for that.
“Wow, Monroe, you’re a very convincing saleswoman,” Dylan jokes. “You’re really making me think this is worth my while.”
“I don’t want you guys to regret this,” I explain.
“Business is about risk,” Zach states. “It’s also about trust. I trust you. Ever since you interviewed me, I’ve been wondering why you didn’t just buy this place for yourself. The only reason Taverne Toulouse is failing is because Fournier blocks all your best ideas at every turn.”
“You’re sure?”
They both groan. I crack a smile in spite of myself; I’ve asked them the same question about twenty times today.
“Just checking. Let me call Fournier and tell him he needs to come in.”
The two of them file out to give me some space as I scroll to Fournier’s name in my contacts. I have him listed as FFF—for Fucking Félix Fournier, of course.
“Monroe,” he greets me in the same gruff tone as ever. “I was going to call you.”
“Oh?”
I wonder what innumerable faults in my management skills he has to share with me today.
“I met with that Valoismecfrom next door yesterday. We signed the papers.”
“The...papers?” I repeat, alarm signals going off in my head. “What do you mean?”
“He took the offer,” Fournier snaps like I’m out of a loop I should be in. “He bought Taverne Toulouse.”
The phone falls out of my hand.
Nineteen
Julien
BREATHE: The process of allowing a wine’s flavour profile to develop through exposure to air
I love my grandmother.I do. I’ve never been close with either of my mother’s parents, and they never quite forgave my father for being less than a French aristocrat—despite all the success he brought to the family—but still, I love my grandmother.
I just wish she’d found a more convenient time to fall fatally ill.
The flight attendant comes by and asks what I’d like to drink. I accept the miniature bottle of sauvignon blanc and pour it into the plastic cup. It’s hard to make sauvignon blanc absolutely terrible, but this one is, quite truly, absolutely terrible.
I drink it all in three sips.
