Page 50 of Take Her
I went home at five that night, taking everything with me, feeling a little bit like a business-bitch on the way to my driver’s car, with my back-breaking bag that I had earned, and hauled it upstairs, where I was subsequently greeted by the doorman, holding all the office supply purchases I’d made through-out the day—I’d gone to fucking town.
And some of the clothes I’d put on Rhaim’s card had arrived too. Enough for me to choose my outfit the next morning carefully: pretty emerald slacks that fit my hips and ass, but that filled out enough through the leg to have a swing at the hem, and a long-sleeved shirt in a complementary teal that had a scalloped neckline. I swept all of my long hair up into a pristinely done bun, and put on enough makeup to show I’d tried, but not too hard—my lipstick was Mauve #3, a tasteful deep purple-pink jewel tone. Then I tucked my feet into heels, and put everything back into my red satchel again, only this time well-organized.
The bag clashed, but there was nothing I could do about that.
And when three thirty rolled around, I could barely contain my excitement.
All I wanted to do was make the man in the next room happy.
I took in the most important binder with the copies of my presentation for his perusal and held his out to him. I’d figured out where the nice color copiers were in Corvo that morning.
He took it, started reading, and waved at me to begin without looking up.
“Appensworth’s Distillery has had a troubled recent history,” I said, keeping my voice neutral but pleasant. “It was a family operation for thirty years, but after the tragic death of Roger Appensworth the Third, the operation is in shambles. Logan Gill, the lone Appensworth remaining, is in the process of getting a contentious divorce?—”
Rhaim looked up at that. “Three reasons, Ms. Ferreo,” he reminded me.
I frowned, which seemed to disappoint him, as he closed the pamphlet I’d handed over. “First reason, page four,” I directed him, pointing at it, hoping he’d open it up again. “Taxes. I don’t know what state the rest of Corvo is in, but maybe my father needed something to write off. Appensworth definitely meets that criteria, it’s so far in the red it’s like a victim in a slasher flick.”
Rhaim snorted. “And the other two?”
“It’s already got all the licenses in place plus the infrastructure, so he wouldn’t be starting from scratch in this endeavor. If you turn to page six, you’ll see my list of what I believe to be tangible assets, with the caveat that I haven’t personally seen the site. According to my research, some of the equipment in the distillery listed in the sale is out of date and needs to be replaced with newer models, but there’s a tasting room, which leads me to,” I said quickly as he began to spin his hand in the air impatiently, “the third reason—that the rest of my father’s hospitality groups can begin to purchase and use what will shortly be his luxury liquors at a wholesale. For instance, if the casino deal you’re working on goes through,” I said, and one of his eyebrows peaked, “you’ll be able to lock them into buying only from Appensworth—or, Iron Oak, as I’d like to rebrand it.” I hadn’t put that precise, hopeful, fourth part, about my father’s vanity in writing, but I knew if we named things after him—my last name meant iron in Italian—he was far more likely to tolerate the extra time it would take to get the distillery off the ground.
I didn’t want to just run a distillery—but it would be a start. And I’d decided in the course of my research that it would be a fantastic place to prove myself to my father. If I could turn Appensworth around, he’d have to believe in me.
“Well, this is a very pretty brochure,” Rhaim said, after too long a pause, and thumbing through it again.
“I’d like to go see it, and look at their books in person?—”
“Sure,” Rhaim said, dismissively, and I knew that I was losing him, even though I couldn’t quite understand why. I’d done exactly what he’d wanted me to—to the very letter! But I clearly must’ve missed something. Panic raced through every neuron I owned, but for once it was very different from the horrifying instability I felt whenever my “interruptions” occurred.
No, now for the first time, it was a tool for me, hammering my intellect into the point of a blade—and instead of using it to cut myself, I slashed outwards with it to make sense of the world around me, as quickly as I could so I make myself worthy of him.
I took a step forward and picked up the notepad off his desk that he’d used to write his dinner order down the other night, a pen, and quickly wrote a list, in tiny letters, at the bottom of a page.
It’s five miles from the Atlantic.
It’s near a major highway.
Thus access to both land and sea, and excuses to ship in heavy things, and also ship them out.
You can hide a lot beneath several tons of grain/potatoes/or bottles.