Page 137 of Share with Me
“Well, kids were out of school. Nothing better to do.”
“You think that’s it?”
“Yeah. I talked to some city council members. They think if we revitalize the area, it’ll bring up the property values.”
“So? What does that have to do with you?”
“I bought that warehouse in the corner.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. When I bought my new house, I asked my agent to check into that property. The owner is desperate. Short sale. Half price.”
“Still a bad move. It’s over a hundred years old. I know you like old things, but that’s… You should’ve asked me, Brin,beforeyou bought it.”
“I don’t have to ask you about everything, Dad. I think Brooks Reno can turn that entire block into a mix-used development.”
“Work and play? Like Seaside on the Gulf, or Avalon in Alpharetta?” Dad logged into his laptop to look at a map.
Brinley watched him check out the satellite images.
Dad didn’t look up. “Not a bad idea. Go on.”
“The property next door to the warehouse is now available.” Brinley pointed on Dad’s laptop screen. “Would you like to invest in it?”
“With the money you pay me for the rest of Brooks Reno?”
“We could preserve the history of the area. Restore it. Get rid of vandalism. Give kids a place to go in the summer. All at the same time.”
“A daughter after her dad’s own heart.” Dad laughed. “Tell me. How did you end up with the warehouse in the first place?”
Brinley wasn’t sure how to say it. It had begun with Johann Sebastian Bach, threaded through whale-watching and a view from the St. Simon’s Lighthouse. And what Ivan had said when he pointed out that warehouse from the crow’s nest.
Maybe someday I could rent space in that building for a music studio.
Ivan’s left wrist might have been damaged but he’d get it back, wouldn’t he? Even if he couldn’t play in concerts, he could still teach, or at least run a music studio. There had to be something he could do. Maybe even help musicians with injuries. Teach music to special needs students. Music therapy. It was endless what could be done.
Then again, nothing might come of it.
“It’s all my fault, Dad. I bought him the Strad. That’s why he was attacked.”
“We’re talking about Ivan McMillan?” Dad asked.
Brinley nodded.
“Helen Hu and the FBI are all over it. Don’t worry, Brin.”
“I shouldn’t have bought him the Strad.”
“Now you’re trying to make up for it by buying a run-down warehouse? I don’t see the connection.”
“Ivan dreamed of a music studio in that warehouse.”
“You bought it for him.”
“Well, to revitalize the city block.”
“No, Brin. To pay a penance for your sins. And if he never plays violin again? Wouldn’t that warehouse remind him of what he couldn’t have?”
