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“Mmm.” His head is down, and he’s focused on whatever game he’s playing. Ever since he’s turned fourteen, it’s been impossible to get him interested in the outside world.
“Dyl? Come on, bud. How will you ever take over the family business if you don’t develop your eye for great opportunities?”
He finally looks up and glances around. “All I see is farmland.”
“And what else?”
“Well…there are a few signs for wineries and vineyards up there.” Dylan nods his head further up the road.
I take my hand and mess up his hair a little. “My boy! That’s it!”
“What do you mean?” he asks, his face a mixture of confusion.
“Who do you think wants to live near exclusive and fancy vineyards?” I ask him.
“Bored winos?” he guesses.
“Exactly! Boy, do you make a father proud.” I can’t help but ruffle his hair again. Just when I think the next five years will be nothing but brooding silence, Dylan goes and says something amazing.
“So, what’s your plan, Dad? Build condos for women with red-wine-stained teeth to live in?”
“Dyl,” I chastise him. Just because ‘women with red-wine-stained teeth’ aptly describes the clientele perfect for my apartments doesn’t mean it's a polite description to say out loud. And, yes, the condos will be for wine aficionados.” Dylan snorts at the word. “But also, it’s for others who just want to live in a more secluded and peaceful area.”
“Huh.”
“Wait a second.” I hit the brakes as Dylan lurches in his seat and shoots me a poisonous glare. It doesn’t have its intended effect. He’s been using it on me so often recently that I’ve become immune.
“What is it, Dad?”
“Who the heck are those people?” I ask.
“Who?” Dylan asks, looking around us.
I point. “Up there, look. That group of people standing on that hill…. the hill that’s on the land I’m buying!”
Dylan shrugs his shoulders.
“Well, I’m going to find out.” We drive up the long dirt road toward the house.
As we approach, I notice that the people include an old man, a teenage girl with a scowl that could rival Dylan’s, and a tall woman in an outfit that looks more suited for a corporate office than the Sonoma countryside.
“Hello?” the woman, who looks to be in her thirties, greets us, as I pull my car into the driveway. Now that I have a better look at her, she’s actually very attractive. She’s tall and lean with long legs. Just my type.
“Hey, there. I’m Dean Cornel—with Cornel and Son Developmental Group.” I get my wallet out and hand her a business card through my rolled-down window.
She takes it and inspects it briefly before saying, “Okay?”
“Well, I’ve been talking to Ernie Cullens about buying this place for a while now.”
“Sorry, pal. I closed on this land yesterday,” the old man speaks up. He’s old, too old to care for the land himself, but there’s a steel to his look. He's definitely not a man to mess with.
“What?” My hands grip the wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. The woman notices, and she crosses her arms. She’s probably gearing up for a fight. I force myself to relax inch by inch. “How can that be?”
“Well, you see…we met at the real estate agent’s office, I wrote a check out to him, and I was given a deed,” the old man says.
Seriously? I think to myself. I’ve been trying to negotiate this deal for months.
I grit my teeth, force a smile, and say, “Congrats on the property,” before driving away.
