It's the question we ask ourselves every time we go into a venture with any amount of risk — which is pretty much on a daily basis. What will we be drinking tonight? Toasting with champagne, or drowning sorrows in whiskey?
The closing went well. Interesting assembly of people. A power of attorney for the (multitudinous) absent owners granted the signing power to turn the house over to us. One side's exasperated, though still somehow jovial solicitor, another succession lawyer who was only there to collect her receivables from bills gone unpaid for years — with the most awesome dyed red hair and kick-ass glasses I've ever seen on a woman, incidentally. And the neutral court appointed attorney overlording the procedings.
"Should we wait for the opposing people to show?" asked the head lawyer, half jokingly.
"Maybe we should wait a minute. I'm sure he's on his chartered Gulf Stream jet right now to claim his $2,000 disbursement from the procedes of the house," Ben joked, and everyone laughed.
Smooth sailing through the paperwork. Lighthearted banter from the lawyers about the end of an eight year petty squabble that has been a pebble in everyone's shoe. At 11:20, the head lawyer proclaimed, "Are we agreed that no one from the opposing party is showing up? Yes? Okay then. This case is closed."
We got up to leave, chatting in the doorway to the conference room when a guy walked up. "Hello, I'm Charles."
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