Because It Is My Blood (Birthright #2)(91)

Mr. Kipling didn’t say anything. Instead, he ran his fingers through his imaginary hair. “I may not be your lawyer anymore, but I am still the keeper of the trust, Anya.”

“In two months, I’ll be eighteen and I won’t need to ask your permission,” I reminded him.

Mr. Kipling looked at me. “Then I think you should wait two months. That’ll give you more time for research.”

I informed him that I had already drawn up a detailed business plan.

“Still, if it’s such a good idea, it’ll be good two months from now, too.”

Two months. I didn’t have two months. Who knew what the situation at Balanchine Chocolate would be two months from now? Who knew where I’d be? Now was the time. In my heart, I knew it.

“I could take you to court,” I said.

Mr. Kipling shook his head. “That would be foolish. You’d eat up money in legal fees, and it wouldn’t be settled by August anyway. If I were you, I’d wait.”

Mr. Kipling put his hand on my arm. I shook him off.

“I’m only doing this out of love,” he said.

“Love? That’s why you killed Nana, too, right?”

I left Mr. Kipling’s office, feeling despondent but also determined. I tried to come up with someone who could lend me the money I needed for the deposit on the lease. It was only five thousand dollars to hold on to the room, and I didn’t want to lose the space. I couldn’t think of anyone, or at least not anyone to whom I wished my brand-new business to be indebted. I thought of whether I had anything worth selling, but nothing was worth much in those days.

I was on the verge of despair when Mr. Kipling called me. “Anya, I know we’ve had our struggles this year, but I’ve thought about it. I’ll draft you the payments if that’s something you really want. You’re right when you say it’ll be your money in two months anyway. In the meantime, though, I want you to sign up for some extension school classes in business or law or restaurant management or medicine. That’s the price of me drafting these payments or any others.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kipling.” I gave him the name of the Realtor and the amount.

“You mentioned a business lawyer? Does this person have a name?”

“Charles Delacroix. I suppose you don’t need me to spell it.”

“Anya Pavlova Balanchine, have you lost your mind? You have to be kidding!”

I told him that I had thought about it, and for a variety of reasons, Charles Delacroix was the person who best met my needs.

“Well, it’s a very bold choice,” he said after a bit. “Certainly unexpected. Your father would probably approve. You’ll need to open a corporate account.”

“Mr. Delacroix said the same thing.”

“Of course, I’m glad to help you with that or anything else you need, Annie.”

On my way to the nightclub formerly known as the Lion’s Den, the place where I was meant to meet Charles Delacroix to sign the lease, I walked past St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I decided to go in to say a quick prayer.

It wasn’t that I was having doubts exactly. But I knew that once I signed that paper, everything would start to become real. I guess I thought it would be a good idea to ask for a blessing for my new venture.

I knelt down at the altar and bowed my head. I thanked God for the return of Leo and for keeping Natty safe. I thanked God that my legal problems were behind me. I thanked God for the time I’d spent in Mexico. I thanked God for my father, who had taught me so many things in the short time we had known each other. And I thanked God for my mother and Nana, too. I thanked God for Win because he had loved me even when I was pretty sure I was unlovable. I thanked God that I was Anya Balanchine and not some other girl. Because I, Anya, was made of pretty sturdy stuff, and God had never given me more than I could bear. And then, I thanked God for that, too.

I stood up. After depositing a small offering in the basket, I left the church, then went southward to sign the lease.

*   *   *

The second Friday in June, I decided to throw a small gathering at the new venue to tell my friends about what I’d be doing next year. Before I even invited anyone, I knew I would have to tell Win about his father’s involvement.

That summer, in an attempt to show that New York City wasn’t so awful, the mayor was screening ancient movies outside in Bryant Park. Win wanted to go, in the way rich, privileged people liked to do things that were potentially dangerous. I told him I’d come, but as was to be expected, I had my machete with me.

No one accosted us at the screening—police presence had been fairly impressive for a recreational event. Still, I could barely pay attention to the movie because I kept thinking about what I had to tell Win.

On the walk home, Win was still talking about the movie. “That part where the girl rides the horse across the water? That was amazing. I want to do that.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Win looked at me. “Annie, were you watching at all?”

“I—I have something I need to tell you.” I told him about the business and the lease I had signed and finally the name of the lawyer I had hired. “I’m having a sort of party to kick the whole thing off next week. I’d really like it if you came.”

Win did not speak for an entire city block. “You don’t have to do this, Anya. Just because you signed a lease doesn’t mean you have to do this.”