by R. S. Lively
“DreamMakers, Inc.,” comes the voice on the other end. It’s a voice I know all too well, considering it’s coming from my twin brother.
“Preston! Preston, Preston, Preston…” I pause. “Why did you answer your cell like that?”
“Did I?” he groans, sounding exhausted. “Nick is cutting his one year molars. I haven’t slept… ever.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Give the little guy a hug for me. I hope it gets better.”
“Me, too. Did you need something?”
“Yes. If you misplaced something in Diamond Caverns, where would be the first place you’d look for it?”
“What is it?”
“My client.”
“Your client? You lost your client in a cave?”
“I prefer misplaced. Let’s not go with lost until we have to submit the evening news headline.”
“How the fuck did you misplace your client?”
“There was a situation with a crawl-through passage and an underwater pool… anyway, it gets kind of complicated.”
“Have you tried calling him?”
“Of course I’ve tried calling him. His phone isn’t working down here.”
My twin’s laugh is nowhere near as tired as his voice was just a few seconds ago.
“Do you have any idea how mad Grant is going to be at you when he finds out you not only brought your client down into those caverns, but then you lost him?”
That is precisely what I’ve been thinking about as I try to weave my way back through the cave and find Mr. Pfeiffer. None of my thoughts have ended up good.
“I’ve decided this is mostly his fault.”
“How do you figure that?”
“If Grant wants to assert himself as the all-powerful head of the company just because he happens to be the oldest of the five of us…”
“And the one who started the business.”
“…then he can bear the responsibility when things like this happen.”
“So, Grant is the one who came up with the idea of taking your client down into Diamond Caverns?”
“Not exactly. I might not have been totally up front with him about my plans for Mr. Pfeiffer.”
“Dean, you know how much he hates when you do that.”
“And you know how much I hate when he sends me pictures of Emma’s shepherd’s pie, because he knows it’s my favorite and I’m not in Magnolia Falls to eat it. Yet, he does it.”
“I don’t think him tormenting you with his wife’s cooking, and you potentially starting what will be a local haunting legend in a few years, are the same thing.”
He’s probably right. The truth is, this isn’t the first time I’ve gone rogue when fulfilling a bucket list item for one of my clients. To the intense chagrin of at least two of my brothers, but especially the oldest, I often do things spontaneously and without first conferring with Grant. He likes being in control and knowing what each of us are doing, but there are times when that just doesn’t work, and this is one of those times. Mr. Pfeiffer is a special case.
“Look, he came to me without any idea what he wanted. His cousin gave him our services as a birthday present, but he didn’t know what a bucket list was supposed to be or what he would want to put on one. So, we’ve been trying to piece it together essentially as we go. It was an emergency.”
“An emergency?”
“He didn’t feel like he was doing anything interesting enough and was feeling guilty the gift was going to waste. Which brought me to spelunking, which led to me losing track of him somewhere.”
Usually my spontaneity doesn’t involve this type of activity. I rarely put my client’s lives at risk. We have our youngest brother Seth for that. Generally, when a client comes to DreamMakers, Inc. looking to having their wildest dreams made into reality, I get the ones with the creative ambitions. If they don’t contact me directly, Grant funnels clients to me who want to take advantage of my artistic abilities and connections in the worlds of theater, music, and other arts.
Sometimes I’ll get the ones who want to do something directly related to New York City, where I put down stakes years ago after leaving home in Magnolia Falls. The headquarters of the company my brothers and I own is still right outside of there, headed up by Grant and his wife Emma. When they get a request for someone wanting to live out their life’s dream of taking a bite out of the Big Apple, they send it my way. I’m always happy to oblige. I’ve arranged for a private boat ride around the river with a stop beside Lady Liberty. I’ve organized a flash mob in the subway. One client had me throw them a lavish New Year’s Eve party overlooking Times Square, complete with a silver sequined outfit and giant fireman’s pole to slide down at midnight. I’ve done it all.
But this client took me out of New York and back to right outside my hometown to this network of caverns. Not having a clear direction for his bucket list has made the experience more challenging, but also more fun, in a way. I’ve gotten to channel my creativity in a different direction and come up with new experiences on a whim. Rather than being limited by very specific requests, I’m getting to do things I wouldn’t have thought of before—like lose my client in an obscure network of caverns with many more unexplored sections than I anticipated.
“Didn’t you bring a map of the caverns down with you?”
The beam coming from my helmet falters, but a good smack with the heel of my hand brightens it back up.
“It’s with Mr. Pfeiffer. Along with my other flashlight.”
I follow a tunnel that dips down sharply, and a sound stops me.
“Do I need to send help?” Preston asks, sounding exasperated.
“Wait, I think I hear something.” I take a few more steps and the sound gets louder. I let out a sigh of relief. “I found him. Thanks for the moral support.”
“Are you going to tell Gr—”
I hang up before he can finish the question. If I don’t hear the end of it, I’m not obligated to answer. The voice in the distance guides me along the tunnel and through a tight passage into an open, airy chamber. Mr. Pfeiffer sits on a smooth boulder at the edge of a natural pool. My flashlight sits alongside his two on the rocks beside him, creating a shimmer of illumination across the surface of the water. It’s calm like glass, reflecting the rock formations above and to either side. I stand just inside the cavern, not wanting to disturb the bespectacled man’s soulful singing.
“And who will cry when the roof caves in, when my friends are dying all around…It gets sort of grim from there.” Mr. Pfeiffer glances over his shoulder at me. “But that’s the song my grandfather used to sing while he was tending his vegetable patch. I’m not sure what it was about sugar snap peas and wax beans that brought his mind right to coal mining, but ever since I was a little boy I couldn’t think about summer or succotash without worrying about his pet canary.”
“Sure, sure.”
He lets out a sigh.
“You’re a really good listener.”
He thinks I’ve been here with him the entire time.
I’m going with it.
“Always here for a good story.”
I’m still processing the canary and the beans, but I’ll get there.
“This has been amazing. I’m sure if I had a bucket list, this would be on it.”
“Well, it doesn’t need to be, because now you’ve done it.”
“You’re right. I have.”
He sounds delightfully proud of himself, and I can’t help but think about James Pfeiffer’s life outside the bubble of our bucket list pursuits. I don’t know much about him other than that he eats oatmeal for breakfast every other day, keeps the books at his family’s extremely successful steel business even though he definitely doesn’t need the money, and has a basset hound-chihuahua mix named Anthony. And apparently a grandfather with delusions of mining.
“Are you ready to head out of here?” I ask.
He sighs again and looks back out over the water. I have the distinct feeling if he
doesn’t get up in the next few minutes, we’re going to be camping out here to the tune of another miner death song.
“It would probably be for the best. I need to get a good night’s sleep and an early start in the morning so I can get home to Anthony. His sitter says he’s been having trouble eating. He didn’t even finish his dessert last night.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Blueberry cobbler, too. His favorite.”
The image of the strangely-concocted dog licking chunks of blueberry out of a cut crystal bowl flashes through my mind. Mr. Pfeiffer tucks one of the flashlights into his bag and hands mine back to me. Being in the cavern with the pool orients me enough to use the map and find our way back to a more familiar path. Finally, we walk out of the cavern and into the cool evening air. Filling my lungs with it takes out some of the dusty feeling and I can’t help but wish I hadn’t called Preston. That’s going to come back and bite me in the ass.
We might be in our thirties, but tattling is alive and well among my brothers. At least it’s all in the name of a good ribbing most of the time. Except when it comes to Preston. Victoria and their baby Nick have softened him up quite a bit, but the eight-year-old who drew up detailed blueprints for our backyard fort and used a pie chart to try to convince our father not to bring us for a day at the waterpark still lives on somewhere in his argyle-and-wool soul.
We arrive at the hotel and I walk Mr. Pfeiffer to his room. I’m planning on getting a less-than-early start tomorrow morning, so this will be the last time I see him until our next adventure.
“Have a good night,” I tell him. “Get in touch with me when you think of something else you might want to do. Remember, you have three items left on your cousin’s gift. Make them count.”
He nods, his eyes already drooping. I head into my room on the top floor and call down for room service before getting in the shower to wash away the cave. The day is finally over, and I’m looking forward to some relaxation.
Chapter Three
Dean
I have found myself in the very rare and lucky situation of having a week before my next obligation. This is something I’m not used to having, almost to the point of feeling like one of those inflatable tube men thrashing around on the side of the road. There’s nothing specific for me to do, so I feel like just standing around and flailing like it’s my purpose. I love my work, but there are times when there is nothing I like more than feeling like this. Today is one of those days.
The front desk has already called me three times to remind me about check-out. I’m fairly certain my last conversation with them involved rattling off my credit card number from where my head is tucked under the pillow and asking for an open tab to keep the suite for as long as I want. That’s not how hotels work, but they, like virtually everyone else I encounter, don’t argue with me.
Much like the phone that let me confess the sin of losing my client underground, this is one of the perks of my billions. As is starting my day with a truly ridiculous breakfast from room service, which I order now with great enthusiasm. Few things can pry me out from between luxury penthouse sheets like the promise of blueberry pancakes. Add a couple plates of eggs, bacon, home fries, grits, and coffee to the side, and I might even put on actual clothes before the tray gets here. Or at least my bathrobe.
I’m sifting through my streaming queue trying to decide which show to binge when the cart arrives. Someone in the kitchen tucked a glass of orange juice in the corner of the tray and the edges of the home fries are just the right degree of burnt. Be still my heart.
My phone rings halfway through my stack of pancakes and an episode of a series I’m trying hard to like so Seth will get off my back.
“Hello?”
“You lost your client?”
“Good morning, Grant.”
“What client? Did you find him?”
His voice is getting higher with each question.
“I’m not going to point out what it says about you that you first asked me who the client was before you cared about whether or not I’ve found him.”
“Did you find him?”
“No, he’s still wandering around in the cave somewhere. I got tired of being down there, so I came to the hotel to take a break. I’ll go back in a bit, see if he’s made any progress.”
“Dean, I just put money back in your bail account.”
“Calm down. I found him. He didn’t even know he was missing. His name is James Pfeiffer.”
“Pfeiffer? The guy whose cousin wanted him to have a bucket list?”
“That’s the one. I’ve been thinking about it, and that seems like a pretty shady birthday gift to me. Like… hey, you’re getting old so you should probably start thinking about meeting your maker pretty soon. What do you want in your scrapbook when you show it off to Jesus?”
“That is not our new marketing campaign for this spring.”
The last bite of pancake probably should have been split into two, but I manage to fold it and shove it into my mouth.
“Probably wouldn’t be very effective,” I agree after swallowing. “Anyway, there’s no reason for you to get a burr in your petticoat. Like I said, Mr. Pfeiffer didn’t even know I couldn’t find him. He had a blast in the cave. We even had a very touching moment about his grandfather. I’ve told you before, I can handle my clients. You don’t need to do the Boss Big Brother hardline with me.”
“I’d be a lot more convinced if you’d stop going off on your own and doing things without me knowing.”
“Give me to Emma.”
“Why?”
“Just give me to Emma.”
The phone rustles, sounding like it hit fabric on the way over to Grant’s wife. One of my closest friends in high school, Emma, managed to tame the oldest Laurence boy a couple years ago and has since given him a beautiful little girl, Lily.
“Dean, what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything that wasn’t immediately fixable. Make Grant stop being an ass. I’ll be home in a few hours.”
“He’s only an ass because he loves you.”
“Hmmm…I think I’ve heard some PSAs with the exact opposite message.”
“Shepherd’s pie?”
“Make sure Victoria brings a chocolate cheesecake. Not those tiny ones. Well, maybe those tiny ones. But a thousand of them.”
I smile as I hang up the phone. Emma’s right. She usually is, but I don’t tell her that because it would give her too big a head and might become the topic of the high school theater department’s spring workshop. Grant’s constant demanding to be considered the head of the company and to make decisions for us about our clients pisses me off sometimes, but I know he only does it because our success means so much to him.
The idea for DreamMakers, Inc. was his first. Inspired by a particularly crazy uncle of ours when we were kids, he devised a service that allows our clients to hand over their bucket lists and let us make them happen for them. The rest of us – Preston, Asher, Seth, and I – fell into line after him, and we’ve been thriving ever since. Somewhere deep in the offices of our father’s business empire, I’m sure there are offices for each us, so if we decide to go prodigal, he’d be ready for us. But Grant’s fierce dedication to the company ensures that’s never going to happen.
But it doesn’t mean I’m not going to push back and keep doing it my way. I consider it doing my part to keep him from getting complacent.
Breakfast is still sitting heavy in my belly, but the promise of fresh air off the bay, a few days of relaxing at home, and a big plate of Emma’s shepherd’s pie motivates me to get ready for the day. Giving up on the show on my computer, I switch it over to a tried-and-true favorite, crank up the volume, and head for a shower.
Half an hour later, my bag is packed, and I set a tip for housekeeping on the desk before heading out. I stop by the front desk to let the manager know I’m leaving, so there will be no awkward missing persons situation when they don’t hear from me over
the next couple of days, then walk out into the early afternoon sun.
It’s still winter and the air in the parking lot shows it. Pulling my collar up, I hope the season is being kinder in Magnolia Falls. The water surrounding the island often makes cold temperatures feel even more raw, but if I’m lucky, a touch of spring will be starting to take over and at least the sharp edge won’t be in the wind anymore.
Less than two hours later, my car rolls slowly onto the deck of the ferry. As soon as the wheels stop and my seatbelt is off, I feel at home. New York is fantastic. Like so many tourist T-shirts will tell you, I love New York. It’s why, out of anywhere in the world I could have chosen when the time came to dig up roots and leave Magnolia Falls, there was never any doubt. But despite my devotion, there is a feeling to this tiny island that means it will always be home. It’s different from anything and anywhere else, and every time I come back, even if it’s only after a short absence, I always feel centered again.
The ferry reaches the island and I glide forward, stopping by the guard stand to show the credentials that let me drive further. In effect since the first vehicles came onto Magnolia Falls, one of the best-known laws of the island restricts the use of cars only to residents and long-term visitors. Even then, cars are limited only to certain areas. It maintains the quiet, peaceful energy of the island and encourages everyone living here to explore and interact more.
My first stop is my parent’s house at the top of the hill overlooking the rest of the village. No one is home but the staff, who immediately demand the clothes in my luggage and try to force snacks on me. It is another absolute charm of returning home. I could walk into the house wiping barbecue sauce off my chin and carrying all my clothes in a garment bag with the laundry tag still attached, and Louise would still treat me like everything I own is dirty and I have never eaten.
By the time I get my clothes into the safety of my room and escape back out of the house with only a handful of Louise’s homemade cheese crackers, I still have some time before Emma and Grant get home from work. The wind has died down, and the sun is beating down enough to make the temperature pleasant, so I decide to walk to the village and stop at Victoria’s gourmet shop to check her progress on my thousand chocolate cheesecakes. Making my way along the marina, I notice a uniformed delivery driver standing close to the edge, leaning against the railing.
