35. George #2
He takes me through Capitol Hill, the neighborhood he grew up in. The streets are narrower and older, lined with coffee shops and record stores that look like they’ve been there forever. Lance walks pointing things out as we go.
“That’s the diner my dad used to take me and Marcus on Saturday mornings. He always ordered the same thing but pretended he was going to try something new.”
We pass a worn basketball court where he used to play, a bus stop with a faded bench he used to stand on, and a corner store he says used to sell his favorite orange soda that no longer exists.
Small pieces of a life I never got to see. He shows them like it’s no big deal, but I feel every one of them.
We end up on a path overlooking the water, Eastlake spread out below us. Boats cut slow white lines across the lake. The wind coming off the water is cold enough that I shove my hands into my pockets for a while.
Lance keeps drifting closer as we walk, close enough that our shoulders bump. Close enough that our hands keep brushing every few steps.
The first couple of times, neither of us says anything.
The third time, he catches my hand. He reaches over and threads our fingers together like he’s been meaning to do it the whole time.
He keeps looking down at our joined hands every few minutes. I shake my head.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he says easily, squeezing my hand once. “Probably.”
His grin stays put.
I keep my face the way it always is, but it won't quite hold. The corner of my mouth keeps threatening to lift every time I catch sight of him.
Ten minutes later, we run into a woman from his old neighborhood. She asks after his mother, and Lance answers easy, like they've known each other for years. Then he nods toward me.
“This is George.”
After a while, I let go before anyone else sees us, easing my hand free without comment.
Lance reaches back and takes it again. No words. He just holds on tighter, like he’s making sure I understand I’m not going anywhere.
We don’t talk about what we are. I don’t know if it matters right now.
I let myself feel it while it lasts.
That evening, Lance pulls me down a hallway I haven’t been in before.
“Dad’s home tonight, finally back from Geneva.” He glances over his shoulder. “Come meet him, officially.”
He pushes open a heavy door.
The room is dim with deep green walls and a fire crackling at the far end. Bookshelves line both sides, many of the spines cracked and worn. A chessboard sits on a low table near the fire, pieces scattered mid-game. The air carries a faint trace of tobacco from an open humidor.
Marcus is already sunk into one of the leather armchairs, ankle crossed over his knee, glass resting against his chest. Their father stands at a drinks cart against the wall, jacket still on, pulling the stopper from a decanter.
He turns when he hears the door.
Older, a blend of both his sons. Broad build like Marcus. The same blue-gray eyes they both have, but on him they read differently. Less of Lance's live-wire openness, more of Marcus's locked door. Silver threads through his hair at the temples.
This is the man who built the Bradford name into one of the most respected legal legacies in the Pacific Northwest. Lance told me his name appears on buildings, scholarships, court filings, and more than a few law textbooks gathering dust on shelves.
He eases the stopper back into the decanter before turning fully toward me. There's no hurry in the movement. No need for one.
I cross the room.
He offers his hand when I reach him. His grip is firm, measured.
“Apologies for not meeting you sooner. Richard Bradford.”
“George Torres-Macklin.”
“Lance has spoken about you.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you too, sir.”
The man gives a short nod. “Please, just Richard.” He gestures toward the seating. “Sit. I hope you’ve been enjoying Seattle so far.”
There are two leather armchairs by the fire. Lance and I take the wide couch across from them. He reaches for the tray on the low table—cured meats, a wedge of sharp cheese, olives, a few slices of bread—and builds a small plate for me.
Marcus watches the fire over the rim of his glass. “How’s the shop holding up?” he asks, looking at me.
“Hanging in there.” I shift my weight, the leather creaking under me. “As you already know, got some pressure from a corporate buyer circling. Trying to keep it from going that direction.”
Richard, settling into the second chair now, glances over. “Really. How does it look? Any real chance of fighting them off?”
“Working on it.” I keep it general. Don’t know how much Lance has told them, and I thought I wasn’t about to lay out the whole mess. “They’ve already talked to my landlord. A couple suppliers too. Feels like they’re working the angles before they even make a formal offer.”
“It’s not just you?” Richard says, leaning forward slightly. “This particular group—what’s the name?”
“ProMotive.”
“Ah. They’ve been moving through smaller markets like this for a couple years now.
I’ve seen the name come up before, peripherally, through some real estate work the firm’s done.
They’re part of a larger group. They don’t wait for one business to crack.
They work a whole stretch of a neighborhood at once—three, four independent shops, same general radius—and let the pressure compound.
Makes any one owner feel like he’s the only one standing, when really the whole block’s getting squeezed at the same time. ”
I’d known it was bigger than just me.
“My business partner’s pulling out. I’d need to cover his share of the buyout to keep him from selling his stake outside the partnership.
That’s the real clock I’m working against. If I can’t put the money together fast enough, the whole thing opens up for an outside offer. ” I turn the glass once in my hand.
“So your partner leaving isn’t really the trigger,” Richard continues. “It’s the opening they were already waiting for.”
“Feels that way,” I say. “Two other shops near me got approached around the same time I did. One folded already. Sold quietly, just a new sign up one week.”
Richard nods slowly, turning his own glass once.
“Sounds like that’s how they operate. Companies like that test resistance before they spend real money.
If they’ve already gone to the landlord, they’re gauging how much fight you’ve got left in you,” he plainly says.
“What’s the actual number you’re trying to hit? To cover the buyout outright.”
I hesitate to give him even an estimate, but he’s asking for it. “More than a hundred. Give or take.”
“If I may ask, are you anywhere near feeling secured with it?”
“Working on it,” I say, feeling a bit more uncomfortable now. “Not there yet.”
Richard’s quiet for a second, doing whatever math men like him do behind their faces.
“Worth documenting their contact with your landlord and suppliers regardless of how the financing shakes out. If this ever turns adversarial, a pattern of pre-offer pressure across multiple businesses in the same window matters more than people think. Might matter later.”
“Appreciate that.” I do.
Lance shifts beside me, one hand landing on my knee, not redirecting so much as easing it sideways. “By the way,” he says, glancing at Marcus, “did you ever sort out the probate mess with Great-Uncle Walter’s place?”
Marcus groans into his glass. “Don’t get me started.”
“What happened?” I ask, curious.
“Man dies, leaves a house to four different relatives with no written instruction on how to split it,” Marcus explains. “Two want to sell, two want to keep it. Nobody agrees on value, or on who gets first right of refusal. It’s been in limbo for two years.”
“At the shop, when a car gets left to an estate, the executor just signs off, we release it. Done in a week. Can’t imagine what happens when it’s a whole house and four people who all think they’re right,” I contribute.
“Welcome to inheritance law,” Richard says, dry. “People act reasonably about almost everything except the things they assumed were already theirs.”
“Basically, every family I’ve ever worked on a car for,” I say. “Somebody assumes the truck’s theirs because Dad always let them drive it. Doesn’t matter what the will says once feelings get involved.”
Richard laughs at that. “That’s a better summary of probate law than half my associates manage.”
Lance grins at me.
A log settles; sparks fly then fall. Marcus pours himself another finger of Scotch.
Richard tips his glass, watching the firelight move through it. “Speaking of money people assumed wasn’t going anywhere,” he says, looking at Lance, almost amused at his own segue. “I got a notice from the trust office last week—a co-trustee copy. Never thought you’d touched that account.”
Lance’s shoulders square slightly.