by Mara Jacobs
No Dunkin’ Donuts or Tim Hortons in the Copper Country.
“I saw it when it came in last night,” Charlie Simpson, one of the younger engineers, said.
Charlie and Deni were the only two on staff under thirty. Andy was a young owner, probably in his late thirties or early forties. There were two older men, Jim and Bob, whom Andy had wooed away from Tech to work for him when he first started the firm. The other five men in the room were a few years younger than Andy, hired fresh out of Tech while Andy was building his company.
“Really? You’re up at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday night?” Andy asked, his eyes narrowing, studying Charlie.
Charlie shrugged. “I don’t need much sleep.”
God, that must be nice, Deni thought. She couldn’t get enough sleep these days, sometimes crawling into bed by eight. “Besides,” Charlie added, “you were up at 2 a.m.”
A smile came over Andy’s face, and he took his seat at the head of the long conference table. “And I’ll tell you why.” He took a sip from his coffee, in what felt to Deni like a planned dramatic pause. He then scanned both sides of the table, making eye contact with all the engineers. Sue, who had her head down ready to take notes, didn’t even notice.
“I was up at two because I was still putting together some preliminary research on something we’re hopefully going to take on.”
A new project? That was what the all-hands-on-deck meeting was about?
They were a small firm, but not small enough that every new project was worth an all-staff meeting.
“And it’s more than just a new project,” Andy said, reading her mind—probably reading everyone’s mind. “Hopefully, it will be the beginning of a new economic growth period for the Copper Country.”
That would be good. The three-county area in the Upper Peninsula’s northwestern tip had been hit hard by the economic downturn. Oh, not as badly as other Michigan cities, but the Copper Country was a tourist destination—for snowmobilers in the winter and families in the summer—and when times were tough and gas prices high people took fewer vacations.
“I ran into Petey Ryan last night,” Andy said, and again took a sip of coffee as that news sank in. Which it seemed to do with everyone in the room but her. They all leaned a little closer to Andy, as if he was about to impart a secret. Even Sue poked her head up from her tablet, interest showing on her wrinkled face.
“Who’s Petey Ryan?” Deni asked, then wished she hadn’t when everyone at the table turned to her with looks of disbelief, or scorn, on their faces.
“Petey Ryan is a local boy who plays for the Detroit Red Wings,” Andy said in a non-patronizing but understanding tone. She really did like her boss.
“I keep forgetting you’re not from around here,” Mac, one of her colleagues, said. She smiled at him because it was meant as a compliment, or at least she took it that way. Mac’s smile in return confirmed it.
“Or that you have zero interest in sports,” Randy, another coworker, said. There was no smile from his direction, and she didn’t give him one.
Randy had never warmed up to her, for some reason, but Deni didn’t let it bother her. Everyone else in the office had been very nice to her the seven years she’d been with Summers and Beck. She wasn’t going to worry about Randy.
“Actually,” Andy said, drawing her attention away from Randy, “I guess I should say Petey used to play for the Red Wings. He just retired about a month ago—knee injury.”
“And he lives here?” Deni asked. There was surprise in her voice, but she supposed there shouldn’t be. She’d fallen in love with the Copper Country and had chosen to stay here though her career would have been better served elsewhere. She probably shouldn’t be surprised that a native son would return home. He probably felt the way that she did about the place.
“Yes. He has a house here. He’s spent every summer here since he’s been in the league. And is back for good now. Or so he told me last night. He was at the Cat’s Meow having a beer with…” Another dramatic pause, another sip of coffee. Everyone leaned in. There was a reason Andy was the owner and the one who secured most of their projects—he was not only a good engineer, but he was a good people person. Not skills that typically went together. Engineers tended to the geek side, with less-than-stellar social skills.
“Darío Luna,” Andy finished. More nods from around the room. Deni kept her mouth shut this time. “He’s a professional golfer. He married a local girl last fall,” Andy said, obviously for her benefit though he addressed it to the whole group. “Apparently Ryan and Luna are in the same circle of friends. They were talking about a new business venture they want to undertake.”
Now Deni perked up. She didn’t care about hockey, or golf, or even local celebrities. But a new business in town—that had her full attention.
“They want to build an indoor driving range,” Andy said. This time he was the one who leaned forward, his arms on the table, hands clasped in front of him. He seemed to know the reaction he was going to get, but Deni didn’t.
All the other men, except Charlie, leaned back in their seats with looks of disappointment on their faces. Some even sighed.
“What’d I miss?” Charlie asked what she was thinking.
“It can’t be done,” Jim said. Bob reached for a Danish and added, “Not up here, with the snowfall we get.”
“What about the Superior Dome in Marquette?” Charlie said. “Same concept. And they get as much snow as we do. Some winters, more.”
“Let me put it a different way,” Jim said. “It can’t be done for the money that a driving range—charging a couple of bucks for a bucket of balls—could sustain.”
“The Superior Dome has Northern’s events and other stuff going on. They generate a hell of a lot more revenue to offset costs.”
“Nope,” Bob said. “Can’t be done.”
At that, several of the men began picking through the pastries, putting them on the little plates Sue had most likely provided, and sitting back to enjoy the free breakfast.
Deni and Charlie looked at each other, then at Andy. “There’s got to be a way to do this,” Charlie said.
“There is,” Andy said. “And you each have until three this afternoon to figure out how.”
That had everyone looking away from their goodies and back to Andy. “We’re meeting back here at three, and we’re going to brainstorm on how we can make this viable.”
“We wouldn’t make any real money from it, anyway,” Randy said.
“Maybe not. But if those two are teaming up, I want to make sure we’re their go-to firm for any other projects they might have.”
That quieted the room. Deni could sense the wheels turning in the minds of the staff.
She didn’t know Darío Luna or Petey Ryan from Adam, but she did know that professional athletes made a lot of money. Money that could be invested in the local economy.
“Why three o’clock? Why don’t we brainstorm now?” Mac asked.
“I want you to do some research first. Maybe even some preliminary numbers, though it will be hard to come up with that so early.” He looked at Gerry and Larry, who, besides having the unfortunate circumstance of rhyming names, were always thought of together as they handled most of the financials and costing on jobs. They nodded their heads in unison at Andy.
“And,” Andy continued, “at three, we’ll be joined by someone else who couldn’t be here this morning.”
“Who?” asked at least three people. Deni wasn’t one of them, but she was thinking the same thing. It was too early to bring the client in. And you typically wouldn’t do that for a brainstorming session. It was too risky that the client would latch onto something that wasn’t feasible.
Andy stood, gathered his coffee cup and plate, and stepped away from the table. “We’ll meet back here at three. Have some thoughts to share with each other, with me, and with…Sawyer Beck.” Then he turned around and left the room.
The men all looked to Jim and Bob, the elder statesmen, who just shrugged.
Then everyone turned to Sue, who looked at them all and shook her head.
“Who is Sawyer Beck?” Deni asked, unable to read the room. Was he yet another professional athlete who lived in the Copper Country? What were the odds of that?
“Beck. As in Summers and Beck?” Randy said, a bit of snideness in his voice.
“Oh. Right. Duh,” Deni said, feeling like a fool. “It’s just I’ve never met him. I guess I wasn’t even sure there was a Beck.” She tried remembering her long-ago orientation during her first week with the company. She vaguely remembered something being said about the co-founder of the firm, but it obviously wasn’t important enough to stick. She was pretty sure it wasn’t on the company website, either.
“None of us have met him,” Randy said.
“I have,” Sue said. Jim and Bob nodded their heads. “But it’s been several years since he’s been in the office. Probably not since most of you were hired.”
“Probably a lot of time since he’s even been out of his hut,” Randy said, snideness again dripping from his voice.
“His hut?” Deni asked. Everyone was gathering up their laptops and coffee mugs and reaching for the remaining pastries before leaving the conference room.
“Well, of course he doesn’t live in a hut,” Charlie said, but there was uncertainty in his voice.
Deni was still seated, her mind fuzzy. She wondered what she was missing. Even Charlie seemed in on it, and he’d only been here a little while longer than she.
“Charlie, what’s the deal?” she asked her closest coworker as he approached the door.
He turned around. “You mean you’ve really never heard the talk? Heard the legend?”
Something tingled at the back of Deni’s neck at the word “legend.” She shook her head.
“I mean, it’s not true. It can’t be true.” Again there was uncertainty in his voice. “But Sawyer Beck—of Summers and Beck—is the legendary Brockway Mountain Hermit.”
He left the room, leaving behind an open-mouthed, huge-eyed Deni picturing a small, bearded man dancing in front of his hut.
Chapter Two
An engineer is someone who washes his hands before going to the toilet.
~ Anonymous
Sawyer Beck ran his hand through his beard. Or rather, where his beard had been until three o’clock this morning. Now, nearly twelve hours later, there was already a pretty good amount of stubble, but they’d just have to deal with it.
At least he’d shaved off the thick beard after Andy had called him, apologizing for waking Sawyer up in the wee hours of the morning. Sawyer hadn’t let Andy off the hook by admitting he wasn’t asleep, nor was likely to be any time soon.
Let his partner feel bad. Hell, he was making Sawyer come to town—and shave!—for a staff meeting when it had been part of their arrangement that he would never have to attend one.
Just the thought of it had him rubbing his non-beard again as he drove down Highway 41 toward Houghton.
Lucy yawned in the back seat, and he stuck his hand back to pet his yellow lab. “I know, Luce. I could use a nap, too.”
He never did get to sleep after Andy called, and though going a day, or more, without sleep wasn’t unusual for him, it was taking its toll lately.
He looked in the rearview mirror at his dog, who was looking back at him. Noticing the gray that took up most of her face, he said, “Guess we’re both too old for all-nighters, eh?”
Lucy yawned again and burrowed into the blanket, which was her home when they were in his beat-up Bronco.
Quincy Hill was a little slick as he made his way into Hancock, and he slowed the Bronco almost to a crawl as he made his way through town and to the bridge that would take him to Houghton and the offices of Summers and Beck.
How long had it been since he’d been in the office? He remembered the leaves were just starting to turn, so sometime last fall. As he did whenever he came in, he’d met Andy late after hours in the office to go over anything that needed Sawyer’s attention or signature.
Sawyer had tried to get Andy to just mail or email anything for him to sign and return, but Andy held his ground on having Sawyer come in at least once a quarter. Since Sawyer got his way with most other things, he gave in to Andy on this one point. But he made sure it was either in the evening or over a weekend, so he wouldn’t have to schmooze with the staff.
Not that he didn’t like the staff. Truth be told, he only knew the old-timers in any way other than a polite nod. Sue, Jim and Bob he knew well, but it’d been years since he’d had any kind of relationship with them.
With anyone.
Once across the bridge, Sawyer made an immediate right down to the Houghton waterfront, where the office was located in an old train depot.
Sawyer and Andy had renovated it themselves when they’d first started the company. They’d had lots of offers on the land as the waterfront area developed and could certainly have afforded more land and better digs by now—but they both felt a connection to the building, so Summers and Beck remained in the depot.
The small parking lot was full when he pulled in, and he felt a tiny sense of dread at the coming meeting. The coming display, really, as Andy would no doubt trot him out to the staff. God, he wasn’t expected to speak to them all, was he?
He got out of the Bronco, let Lucy out of the back, and made his way in. Sue was at the front desk and—bless her—said a quick hello like she saw him every day.
He made his way to the back of the building to Andy’s office, Lucy at his heels. He felt the stares of people, noticed some stood from their work areas as if to speak to him, but he kept his eyes forward and didn’t hesitate until he got to Andy’s office where he shut the door behind him.
“Hey, Sawyer. Glad you made it. How were the roads down?” Andy said as he rose from behind his desk, made his way over to Sawyer, and shook his hand.
“Not great,” Sawyer said. He released Andy’s hand and sat down in one of the two guest chairs in front of the desk.
“I assumed you’d bring Lucy with you. I even put some water in a bowl for her,” Andy said, pointing to a plastic bowl on the floor in the corner of the room.
Sawyer swiveled his head around, only now realizing he’d lost Lucy somewhere between here and the front door.
Strange. Lucy typically never left his side, especially when there were other people around.
“She’s here. I mean, she was,” he explained, getting up from his chair and opening the door. He looked down the walkway he’d just come from and about halfway down lay Lucy, on her back, belly up, legs shaking with excitement as someone scratched her tummy.
Very strange.
What was stranger still was that the hand rubbing Lucy had shocking-pink fingernails.
That was all Sawyer could see. The rest of Lucy’s pleasure administrator was hidden by the cubicles that populated the open floor. “Lucy, come,” Sawyer called. When his dog still didn’t move, he gave a sharp whistle, which caused the pink-nailed hand to disappear behind the wall of the cube. Which, in turn, caused his dog to finally get off her back and head toward him.
When his dog entered the office, Sawyer closed the door behind her and sat down in one of the chairs facing Andy. Lucy circled the area by Sawyer’s feet twice and then sank down next to the chair, her chin on Sawyer’s boot.
“I thought Sue was the only woman in the office,” Sawyer said.
Andy looked puzzled. “You mean Deni? Sawyer, she’s been here for six or seven years. Don’t you read any of the briefings I send you?”
“Yes, of course,” Sawyer said, fudging. He did read them, but it was usually as a last-ditch effort to try to fall asleep. Who knew how much his mind had absorbed. “But I thought Deni was, you know, Denny.”
“With an ‘i’?”
“How the hell do I know how people spell their names? Besides, she’s not mentioned often in your briefings.” He was guessing on that one. For all Sawyer knew, she could have been mentioned in every paragraph
of the succinct, bullet-pointed emails Andy sent him every month. Yeah, they were pretty much insomnia aids to him.
Wait. A thought was tickling his brain. “Wasn’t she the lead on the restoration on the church in Calumet?”
Andy’s face perked up, obviously pleased—and surprised—that Sawyer did read his emails.
“Yep. That was her.”
“That was nice work. I checked it out once it was done.”
“You did?” Surprise had turned to shock.
“Yeah.”
“When?”
Sawyer shrugged. “I don’t know. About a year ago, I guess.”
“Why didn’t you stop in at the site while the project was going on?”
Sawyer deflected the question by asking, “Has she worked on much else?”
“Not as lead, no.”
“Why not? She any good?”
“She’s very good. The restoration jobs seem to be her forte, and we haven’t gotten a lot of those lately.” He looked down at his desk, folded his hands together and sighed. “The truth is we haven’t gotten a lot of jobs lately, period.”
“I know,” Sawyer said quietly. He might not read the briefings with much interest, but he did look at the financial reports quite closely. He was a silent partner, but he wasn’t a stupid partner.
“There should be enough in the reserves to get us through this economic downturn, though,” Sawyer said with as much encouragement as he could muster. Which wasn’t much.
Andy’s head was bowed, but he was nodding. Then he seemed to gather himself, and his head came up, the nod more jaunty. “Yes. We do. But that’s why getting this job, making this feasible for Pete Ryan and Darío Luna to do, could help weather the storm. Open up a whole new revenue stream for us. If this business can succeed for them, who knows what else they might do. It could really help the area.”
“Whoa,” Sawyer said, holding up his hands. “We’re talking about one project that may not even be doable. And even if it is, it’s only going to employ about three people.”
“I know, but it’s a start,” Andy said, his enthusiasm back. Andy was never down for long. That was why Sawyer had become partners with him. At the time, they’d both been like that—so optimistic, ready to save the world by creating great buildings.
