3. This is the financial advisor?
Three
THIS IS THE FINANCIAL ADVISOR?
Liv
“Hey, Pop.” I place the phone against my ear, stifling a yawn. It’s nearing dinnertime, but the late spring sun is still shining full force through the office windows.
“Livie, you sound tired.” His coarse, old voice rasps through the other end of the phone. I’m well past tired—I'm exhausted. We’ve been grinding for weeks, shorthanded, no less, with Cori out sick.
“The meeting is on Monday. We’re almost to the finish line,” I reply, watching Viv pace back and forth, whispering to herself. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, you know. Hey, I found someone to mow my lawn this summer. Raphael, from down the street—he’s home from college. He came by today and cut the lawn, then hung out for an hour after, talking my ear off. He’s a little too chatty.”
“Chatty isn’t a bad thing, Pop. You could use the company. I worry about you, you know.”
Viv stops, scribbles something down, then resumes her pacing.
Silence stretches on the other end of the phone.
Gram was his person. They had a love like no other—married nearly fifty years.
She passed away almost a year ago now. I rub my chest with my fingers, pressing into the spot that still aches when I think about her and the idea of Pop being all alone in his house.
“Maybe,” he says, letting out a soft sigh. “It is quiet around here without her. It’s not the same. But hey, don’t lose sleep over me, kiddo. I’m fine.”
“I know, Pop. But this could be good for you.” I suppress another yawn.
Pop clears his throat, switching gears to tell me about his new bird feeder. I listen attentively, trying my best to mask as many yawns as I can, but give in when the need becomes too strong.
“Alright, I’ll let ya go. Don’t work too hard. Life’s for living, not working,” he says, a note of old wisdom in his voice.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Work is what I’m good at. Love ya, old man.”
“Love you, too.”
No sooner do I place the phone down than it vibrates with an incoming text.
Jerry PI: I think I’m on to something. I’ll let you know when I have more information.
We have a two-and-a-half-hour drive to the Berkshires ahead of us.
According to Viv, the original owners of the Hotel EdenReed will be at the pitch meeting today.
They felt it was important to oversee the hotel’s handover.
Along with the new owner of the hotel will be his financial team—to make sure everything aligns with their rebrand budget.
The sky is bright, with a few wispy white clouds floating lazily across it. We leave the city behind, replacing it with leafy trees, winding roads, and quaint little towns.
In no time, the Hotel EdenReed and its sprawling front gardens come into view.
Pushing through the French doors that lead to the conference room, I’m surprised to see only three people around the table.
We greet Eden and Reed Barrows—they’re as lovely as I remember them—and the investor, Carter Winthrop.
He’s younger than I expected. Handsome, though, in a grew up with a ton of money kind of way.
“My financial advisor is running a little late. He’ll join us as soon as he can,” Carter explains. I groan internally. Why is it so hard for people to be on time?
The screen behind Viv is already on, with the first slide of our presentation ready to go. I pass out the printed packets and move to stand to the side of the screen as Viv launches into her well-practiced pitch.
“We’re not interested in changing what makes the Hotel EdenReed a one-of-a-kind experience; we’re here to help show the world why it matters,” Viv says. Everyone around the table smiles, especially Carter.
I’m up next, reviewing the creative solution and visuals when a hotel attendant opens the conference room door.
“Excuse me. Mr. Winthrop’s financial advisor is here,” he says as he leans through the door.
Carter stands, as do the Barrows, and in breezes the financial advisor.
He’s in a black, impeccably tailored suit, with chocolate brown hair swept to the side.
A gold Rolex gleams on his wrist, but I hardly see any of that.
All I can see are the piercing blue eyes of none other than Bradley Casselton.
Bad Date Bradley.
He does not apologize for being late. Just nods his acknowledgement and moves to his seat next to Carter.
“Carry on,” Bradley sits, leaning back in his chair and flipping through the packet. I’m stunned into silence, completely frozen in place, blood pumping through my ears.
This is the financial advisor?
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Viv clears her throat beside me, throwing me a questioning glance. She twitches her head toward the table and says, “Liv, was just finishing up with the visuals and was about to move onto the rebrand rollout and next steps.”
“Yes…” I begin slowly, looking at her and then looking around the conference table into a sea of expectant eyes. “Yes,” I repeat more confidently, picking up where I left off.
From time to time, Bradley leans over and whispers in Carter’s ear. Carter nods, whispers back, and this goes on and on for the next several minutes of my presentation.
It’s rude. It takes everything in me to control my tone and my face as the frustration builds within me.
Bradley, eyes on the packet in front of him, clears his throat and holds up his hand as if this gesture alone will stop everyone in their tracks.
“I’m not seeing comparables here. Can you show me past rebranding efforts and how they’ve paid off so that we can compare your projections to your history?
” He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers, one ankle crossed over the other knee.
I clench my teeth. “This will be our first full-scale rebrand. We are, however, confident in our approach. Our team has done extensive research, and our projections are both realistic and optimistic.”
“So, to make sure I’m understanding correctly, this is something you’ve never done before?” Bradley asks.
“Not on this scale, no.” I clasp my hands in front of me, my knuckles are turning white.
Viv jumps in. “However, we have smaller-scale rebrands that have been very successful. We can—”
Bradley holds up a hand again, snapping his eyes to Viv, as if seeing her for the first time. Something flashes in his expression—interest?—before it becomes a mask of indifference again.
Holding his stare for a beat, Bradley leans and whispers into Carter’s ear. Carter scrunches his eyebrows, whispers something in return, and then upon Bradley’s response, drops his shoulders, nodding his agreement.
“A rebrand of this scale is quite the undertaking. It’s an even riskier investment when working with an agency that hasn’t worked on this level before.”
Oh no. No, no, no.
“We need a more established, larger agency that has both the resources and the knowledge to execute a rebrand of this magnitude.” Bradley’s tone is direct, leaving no room for discussion, but I need to try.
“I understand the reservation, howe—”
“This account is out of your league.” He flips his packet closed and moves to stand. “Perhaps gain a little more experience. Work your way up.”
“With all due respect, our projections are strong. If you look at—” Viv flips the screen to the slide with the projections for the return on investment.
“No. The safest plan, both financially and for this rebrand, is to go with an agency that has the experience and history of success that we need to make this work. It’s my job to weigh the risk and reward for my client and, simply put, there’s more risk with your agency than reward.
” He pats Carter on the shoulder. “I think we’re all set here. ”
Carter clears his throat and stands, shaking hands with the former hotel owners before turning to us. “Thanks, ladies. Good luck to you.” He exits the conference room quickly.
Eden and Reed Barrows appear before us with confusion etched across their faces. They each shake our hands, thanking us for the time spent, and exit behind Carter.
Bradley is the last to leave. He stops in front of me, eyes squinting like he’s trying to work something out. “Have we met before?”
My shock swiftly morphs into murderous rage. Is this man serious?
“Ah!” Bradley snaps his fingers. “The steakhouse, right?” He leaves the recognition hanging there, regarding me with his piercing blue eyes.
His gaze slides over to Viv, giving her a long look before sighing and buttoning his suit jacket.
“Trust me when I tell you this, ladies, I’m saving you a mountain of trouble. Have a nice day.” He winks. Winks!
The room falls still; the clock ticking is the only sound. Viv paces over to the conference table, stopping and planting her hands on the shiny laminate top.
“What the hell just happened?” Viv says slowly, lifting her head to look me in the eye.
“That”—both palms drag down my cheeks—“was Bradley Casselton.”
“Bradley…” She thinks about this for a minute, and then recognition dawns. “As in… you’re too old, your job is cute, Bad Date Bradley? That is Bradley Casselton?” Her voice is shrill as she pieces it together.
“The one and only.” My voice is thick with defeat.
Viv pinches the bridge of her nose, her other hand on her hip, and releases a long breath. “Why is it always the pretty ones?”
Viv and I are quiet in the back of the town car while it drives full speed ahead down the highway toward home.
The silence is deafening.
“Maybe I should have—” I start.
“Nope. Don’t do that.” She closes her eyes, leaning her head against the back.
As if sensing my protest, she continues, “I firmly believe we did the best we could. Our research was solid, our plan was doable, and our projections were achievable. We could not have done it any differently. They didn’t want to give us a chance.
That’s on them, not us.” Viv’s using her no-nonsense voice on me.
She’s upset and trying to make sense of it.
“I just don’t get it. How can we have comparables if we aren’t given the chance in the first place?” My head feels too heavy to hold up, so I rest it against the back of the seat, staring up at the fabric ceiling of the car.
“Our time will come.” Viv reaches a hand out and holds mine, squeezing it gently.
“And if it doesn’t?” I roll my head to the side, not able to look at my best friend without feeling like somehow I’ve failed her. Failed us.
“I have to believe this wasn’t our only shot at something spectacular.”