Chapter 32 #2
“One million dollars.” He says it the way he’d ask for water. “That’s what I’m ready to offer, right now. And in return, every bottle Hollow Gold sells, one dollar in ten comes to me until I’ve tripled my investment. Then 50 cents in perpetuity.”
One million dollars.
The sound drops out of the room. That’s the barn roof. That’s the press we use for the cider, the loan, payroll through harvest, every red number in our desk drawer turning black. My face holds its pleasant half-smile, and keeping it there is the hardest work I’ve done all year.
Across the table, Luna’s chin tips a degree. “One million is light for a piece of every bottle we ever sell. Forever is expensive, Warren.”
“Two million.” No pause at all. “That’s my ceiling. I don’t gamble past two on a story, even a good one.”
He raised himself. She said one sentence, and the man bid a million dollars against his own offer.
What is happening at this table.
Under the cloth, Luna’s knee comes to rest against mine. Steady. Hold.
“Two million,” she says, pleasantly, “for eight percent.”
Holt’s eyebrows make their first honest movement of the night.
“Eight percent of every bottle until the cider has paid you back six million. Triple your money.” She gives it a beat. “After that, your share drops to five percent for three more years. That could easily yield a ten-fold return on your investment.”
Holt looks at her for a long moment. The glass has stopped turning.
“Agreed,” he finally says, one finger up. “But I’ll need a guarantee: one thousand bottles, delivered by the first of December, with every single bottle matching the quality of the one on this table. Prove to me you have solid operational capability and some real skin in the game.”
“And you should know,” he adds. “I don’t sit on my percentages. I will hook you up with Pacific Crest, my wholesale people. They’ll put Hollow Gold in front of every buyer worth knowing in the country.”
A thousand bottles by December first. The math arrives with teeth: possible, barely, if nothing breaks, if the press behaves, if the weather holds.
I look at Luna.
She’s already looking at me. Her chin dips a quarter of an inch.
That’s all the validation I need.
“Done,” I say with a smile.
“Then we lock it in before the ice melts.” Holt twists in his chair, scanning the room. “They’ll have paper somewhere here.”
“I have a napkin,” Luna says.
Holt turns back slowly.
She slides it across the cloth, white and crisp, the Cormorant Room’s cormorant printed in one corner, and looks up at him.
The laugh comes up from his chest, big and genuine, twenty years off his face. “A napkin. Of course. Half my empire started on coasters.” He pats his jacket for a pen.
Luna already has one out of her clutch, uncapped, held out.
Holt writes. The date goes at the top (“my lawyers like their miracles dated,” he says, mostly to the napkin), then all three names in full, then the terms: $2,000,000 to Apple Blossom Orchard (“Hollow Gold”) for 8% of cider revenue until $6,000,000 paid, then 5% for 3 years.
Introduction: Pacific Crest. Contingent: 1,000 bottles delivered to Pacific Crest by December 1.
He signs with a flourish, then spins the napkin around, sliding the pen to me.
I sign, then I slide the pen to Luna, who signs without a flicker. Her name, next to mine, on the founding document.
Holt stands, buttons his jacket, and raises what’s left of his glass. “To Hollow Gold.”
He drains it. Then, to Luna: “If you ever tire of apples, call my office. I find the right people awesome jobs, too.”
“I’m right where I need to be,” she says, smiling. “But thank you.”
A sudden flutter takes flight in the pit of my stomach.
He claps my shoulder, and then goes back to his guests, pointing at our table with what I’m guessing is the story of his new genius discovery.
Across the table, Luna sits very straight, hands folded, face serene. Under the table her knee is bouncing fast enough to power the building, and her scent has gone bright as sparklers. Holt is still in the room. We can’t scream. We can’t dance on the table.
“I know exactly how we should celebrate,” she whispers in my ear.
***
I take the glass elevator up to the sky bar. Stepping out, I spot her at the far curve of the bar. Her spine is straight, her hair pinned back, with half of Seattle stacked in the windows behind her.
For half a second, I let myself admire how gorgeous she is. Then, I cross the room and slide onto the stool next to her. “Excuse me miss, is this seat taken?”
She turns with magnificent slowness, taking me fully—shoes, belt, collar, jaw—and finishes on my eyes with no particular mercy.
“It is now,” she says.
The bartender drifts over, and Luna lifts two fingers without taking her eyes off me. “Two of whatever has elderflower in it, please.” Then, to me, gravely: “Trust me. I hear it’s delightful.”
“Delightful,” I say, leaning one elbow on the bar. “That’s a bold word.”
“I use it without irony,” she says, her eyes fixed on mine.
The drinks arrive in seconds, sliding onto the marble, pale gold.
“Ash,” I say, offering my hand.
“Luna.” Her hand slides into mine, neither of us letting go.