Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [141]
Marcus is watching me intently. Slowly and delicately he removes a stray wisp of cream from the edge of his mouth and continues. “Listen, we know this is a lot to digest. Take a few days. Take a close look at the financials.”
“I’m not a financial expert. I’d like to have my lawyer review them.”
Marcus smiles winsomely. “We wouldn’t have it any other way. Have your lawyer review everything. I’d also be happy to put him or her in touch with our financial people—the accountants who helped put this together. We think the papers speak for themselves. Just tell your lawyer not to delay. One of the reasons we flew you in on the weekend is because we’ve got less than two weeks left until the closing for first-tier investors, and we wanted to give you the opportunity to participate on the best possible terms.
“Of course, your investment will also yield you a voting interest. You will be in the unique position of being an owner, as well as an employee. We will of course pay you a salary as executive chef at Grappa, which should more than cover your living expenses pending the increasing returns you will enjoy as the syndicate grows. As a parent of a young child, I’m sure it will give you great comfort to know that the modest investment you make now will generate substantial returns for years to come. It could fund your daughter’s college education, graduate school, a beautiful wedding—whatever the future holds.” Marcus pulls out his wallet and slides over a sheaf of plastic-coated photos of three towheaded children. “I know my kids are first on my list,” Marcus says.
“Mira,” Jasper says, turning to me. “We are not just recruiting you to be an investor—with returns like this, recruiting investors is not our biggest challenge. We need you at the helm at Grappa. We never intended Philippe to be a long-term solution. He’s a talented chef, but he doesn’t represent the Grappa brand. You do, Mira. You are Grappa.”
The meeting concludes shortly thereafter with the exchange of contact information. I’ve given them Jerry Fox and Avi Steiner’s contact information and arranged to have the papers sent over first thing Monday morning. I’ve heeded Ruth’s advice and agreed to nothing, other than to look at the various documents AEL has promised to send me. I make a mental note to call Jerry Fox the minute I’m alone.
“Mira, wait a minute,” Jake says, stepping out to the elevators and pulling the door to the suite shut behind him. “There are some things I’d like to discuss—regarding Grappa.”
“Yeah, like what?” I tell him, spinning around on my heels. Despite the headiness the offer has induced, I’m still stinging from the news that Jake sold Grappa to a third party right out from under me.
“Can we have dinner? Jasper told me you aren’t leaving until Monday morning.” It’s true. Since Ruth, Fiona, and my dad agreed to watch Chloe and check in on Richard, I’ve arranged to stay in town an extra day to clean out the storage space in our old apartment.
I shake my head.
“Listen,” he says, grabbing my arm. “I assume you saw the review?”
“Of course I have,” I tell him, even though I hadn’t. Early on in my work with Dr. D-P, she’d declared a moratorium on contact with New York, forbidding the daily monitoring of my old life, which had included reading New York newspapers and checking in regularly with Tony, Renata, and Hope.
“Jasper was right. Things aren’t the same since you left. None of it is, actually,” Jake says quietly. “Sunday night, the restaurant is closed. Come to Grappa. Please?”
Jake still has hold of my arm, although he has loosened his grip and allowed his hand to slide slowly down my forearm until it brushes gently against my fingers.
The touch of his skin on mine is electric. I feel as if I’ve been ripped loose from the shaky mooring of my life and hurled by a rapidly rising mistral into someone else