by Bo Reid
I thank him and sit on my bed with the package. I smile as I look at the name on the return address. My Hart. I’m not sure when she became my Hart, but somewhere along the way she did.
She’s mine. She just doesn’t realize it yet.
The package contains a letter, pictures, and two books. One is The Pacific Crest Trail: Exploring America’s Wilderness Trail, and the other is The Forgotten 500: The Untold Story of the Men Who Risked All for the Greatest Rescue Mission of World War II.
I flip through the PCT book first and smile at the extra pictures tucked into the pages. There are pictures of Hartley and Brooks in the woods camping, backpacking, and Hartley rock climbing.
I read the back of The Forgotten 500. She remembered that I like history books.
Dear Kasen,
We’ve been extremely busy lately which is why we haven’t been able to come in and visit. For that, I am sorry. The PCT book is one of my favorites. I would love to get to show you the trail one day.
I hope you haven’t read The Forgotten 500. I haven’t read it yet, but the man at the bookstore recommended it for history buffs. He said it is an exceptionally well written depiction of the events. Enjoy!
Pretty sure Brooks is missing his friend. We will come and see you soon. I kind of miss our visits, too.
-Hart
Chapter 7: Dahlia
Hartley
Walking into the parole board meeting is nerve wracking and I’m not even the one whose freedom is on the line.
Over the last three months, Kasen has become such a good friend. I know in my heart he’s a good man, and I’m determined to help him. I didn’t tell him I was coming here today. I didn’t want to give him false hope.
Not only was I avoiding giving him hope but mostly I didn’t want to admit to being the Hartley Montgomery, heir to the Montgomery fortune as well as co-owner and founder of Wild Hart Outfitters.
He doesn’t know I come from money; doesn’t know I have my own money. He knows me, the real Hart. I don’t have to pretend with him, and I love that. I don’t want that to change due to the number of zeros in my bank account.
So, yeah, I have a secret. I’m a millionaire. Actually, I’m a multi-millionaire. I’m a trust fund baby, and yes, while I grew up around a lavish lifestyle, my father never subscribed to the thought process of babying his children, Sol and me.
His Hart and Sol.
Instead, we lived in a modest house, and we went to public schools. We got into college on our own, not with a large donation and our name on the side of a building.
We didn’t wear designer clothes and still don’t. When our father passed away, Sol and I inherited everything in a lump sum to be split between us how we decided because Father trusted us. It would be nearly impossible to spend that kind of money over ten lifetimes, let alone one.
We built our dream, Wild Hart Outfitters, an outdoor store now on the verge of expanding across the nation. We offer outdoor classes -- everything from training for month-long hikes on the Pacific Crest Trail or Appalachian Trail, to climbing Mount Shasta, and Survival Skills 101. We even have a basic camping class where we take a group of people camping in the woods. We have rock climbing classes, from beginners on an indoor training wall to free climbing, to experts free climbing outdoors. We have hunter safety training. Our training for a Concealed Carry Weapon (CCW) permit is taught by a certified firearms instructor and recognized by the sheriff's department. We’re one of the only stores with indoor and outdoor gun ranges.
We also sell all the best gear: backpacks, tents, ropes, harnesses, and dry foods. You name it, we have it. Wild Hart is our baby.
Sol and I have always loved the outdoors. We belong in the trees, not rubbing elbows with stuffy politicians and trust fund brats. They’re the type of people who only care how big my bank account is -- not my heart.
However, being the Hartley Montgomery and growing up surrounded by the American elite has taught me many things, including how to carry myself into this meeting. When I stand in front of the parole board, I’m not a twenty-four-year-old single mother. I’m a multi-millionaire, and I intend to make sure they know that.
I’ve forgone my jeans and faded t-shirt for classy low heels, a black pencil skirt, and a cream-colored blouse. Gone is my messy mom bun. Instead, I have a classic French twist. My usually bare face is sporting just the right amount of makeup to draw attention to my blue eyes.
My posture is the kind developed from years of being in the spotlight. I carry myself like the tycoon I know I am. I am formidable, and there is no doubt I radiate power.
When I enter the room, there is one lone chair in front of a large table. Behind the table sit two men and a woman in suits next to a parole officer in a crisp black uniform.
“Ms. Montgomery, you’re here on behalf of Inmate Kingston. Is that correct?” asks the women. She has cold, calculating blue eyes and blond hair that is graying around her face.
“Yes, ma’am. I am here to speak about Mr. Kingston’s character,” I enunciate because to me he’s a person, not a number on a sheet that they can write off. I won’t let them.
“And how do you know inmate Kingston? I see no mention of you in his early files,” she says while glancing at the open file in front of her. No doubt she is merely skimming it.
“We met three months ago, when I was in a car accident and he saved my baby,” I state. That gets their attention.
“And how is that possible?” an older gentleman inquires, knowing three months ago that Kasen was clearly still incarcerated.
“Kasen was participating in the fire conservation with the work crews. He witnessed the accident and was able to save and comfort my three-month-old baby while I was still pinned inside my vehicle. Since then, I have visited Mr. Kingston on several occasions. You may confirm that with the prison visitors' log. In addition, I have spoken on the phone with him many times. Kasen has become a good friend. I feel he has served well beyond what he should have, considering he was not aware of any criminal acts taking place at the time of the crime,” I state, not trying to hide my disdain. Clearly, I don't believe his conviction was just.
“Furthermore, when Kasen is released, I am willing to give him both a job and a place to stay. As I’m sure you’re well aware,” I take a moment to make eye contact with the only actual parole officer present, “inmates that are released and can avoid a halfway house are more likely to properly reintegrate into society. Kasen has no family and no close friends. He wishes to be a successful member of society and does not want to turn to his old alliances for help in any way. He is determined to continue to distance himself from any and all criminal elements.” I pause for a moment, take a deep breath, and let my emotions shine through.
“I want to give Kasen his best chance to succeed, something he has not been accorded for most of his life. He has a job at my store if he wants it; he will have the standard salary offered to new hires, as well as benefits starting after he completes his first one hundred and sixty hours. Same as everyone else. Kasen will not receive special treatment, but he will receive fair treatment. He will be regarded like a real person, which is what he is -- a person. Not a felon, not a convict, and most certainly not a murderer.” I see the parole officer raise his eyebrows, clearly wondering who the fuck I am to offer this.
I look back at the woman.
“And he can stay in one of my spare bedrooms until he gets on his feet enough to afford his own accommodations. I have already prepared my home for a visit from the board to check that everything is in order. I understand his felony conviction and have prepared my home according to the basic rules I was able to find: all firearms, ammunition and supplies have been removed from the property, as well as knives that did not meet the size restrictions. If there will be specifications to his living conditions, I’m happy to accommodate those as well.” When I’m done, every member of the board is shocked. They’re trying to hide it, but I read people very well.
“What is it that
you do, Ms. Montgomery?” the older gentleman queries.
“I am Hartley Montgomery, founder and co-owner of Wild Hart Outfitters,” I state simply. The man on the end who has yet to speak sucks in a deep breath.
“As in, heir of the Charles Montgomery fortune?” he asks, clearly floored.
I pause, for dramatic effect, of course, before I look him in the eye and say, “One and the same. Charles was my father.”
Chapter 8: Japanese Maple
Kasen
Preparing for the parole board was nerve wracking, even though I've kept my nose clean. During my time here, I've been awarded work release, more yard time, and jobs within the prison walls.
This could mean nothing to the board. They could dismiss me as easily as the judge did three years ago, but I’m fully prepared to argue my case.
All of them stare at me dispassionately as the guard leads me into the room."
“Inmate Kingston, please have a seat,” the woman invites, so I do.
I wait, not sure how this works. Do I start talking? Do they ask me questions?
“Your release date is one week away. You will be picked up at 9 a.m. out in front of the prison. You are to report to Parole Officer Ducanon within one week of your release. Is that understood?” she asks and glances down at her papers.
There’s a pause as I stare at the people on the board. “That’s it?” I can’t help but ask.
Of all the ways I saw this going, that was not one of them. She raises her eyes back to mine.
“It seems you have rather influential friends, Mr. Kingston,” she deadpans.
That sounds rather ominous. I don’t have influential friends. I don’t have any friends, well, except Hartley. When I don’t respond, she narrows her eyes at me.
“A Hartley Montgomery. You do know her, do you not? If not, then this is rather awkward, as she’s offered you a job and a place to live after your release.”
“Yes, I know Hartley. I just didn’t realize she would be considered influential,” I say, honestly not really understanding.
The man at the end of the table leans forward, resting his elbows in front of him. He takes a moment to study the confusion on my face before a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“How well do you know Ms. Montgomery, exactly?”
“I helped look after her son three months ago in a car accident. She’s visited me regularly since then, but I don’t know much about her life outside of here. I briefly met her brother, but I don’t know him well. I know her personality. She didn’t tell me she was coming to the board,” I pause and swallow, “or that she would be able to give me a job and a place to live.”
“Are those things you are willing to accept upon your release?” the parole officer asks. I immediately agree to Hart's offer.
How could I not?
The man on the end shakes his head and chuckles a little. “Son, I think your friend has some explaining to do when you get out. She already has your release date and time and has agreed to pick you up. Understand though, she may not be who she seems to be,” he cautions.
And with that, I’m being led out of the room, confused beyond belief. What does that mean not who she seems to be?
Once I make it back to my cell and have a minute to collect my thoughts, I mentally run down the list of things I know about Hartley:
She likes hazelnut coffee creamer at home but orders a caramel latte if she’s at a coffee shop.
She’s twenty-four.
Brooks is now six months old, and he was born April 10th.
Brooks’s father is not in the picture, but I don’t know why.
She has one brother, Sol, and no other siblings. Sol is two years older.
Her mother left when she was a baby. She knows nothing about her mother.
Her father died four years ago.
She loves the outdoors, hiking, and camping. She rock climbs and rock-climbing every major mountain peak in the world is on her bucket list. She’s gotten six under her belt so far.
After her father passed away, she took four months off and hiked the Pacific Crest Trail. In other words, she’s a fucking boss.
She’s kind, a great mother, and a good friend. She doesn’t judge people before getting to know them, and she follows her gut.
I sigh and scrub my hands down my face. I feel like I know Hart, but maybe I don’t know who she truly is. I realize I don’t know what she does for a living. I’m not sure what she studied in college, or if she went. I don’t even know where she lives. All her mail comes from a P.O. Box.
I assumed she lived close enough to the prison, because she comes out once a week. I didn’t think she would drive more than maybe forty-five minutes to get here.
In seven days, I’m about to meet a whole new version of my Hart.
Chapter 9: Birch Tree
Hartley
Friday morning, I wait outside the prison for Kasen; I’m a bundle of nervous energy. Brooks is at the store with Sol today so I can get Kasen settled at home. I really want today to go well. What if I have built up our friendship in my head and he doesn’t feel how I feel?
I’m not second-guessing my choice to help him; I’m just nervous because he’s about to get a ton of new information about me, and I’m not sure how he’s going to react to it.
Will he care that I have money, or that I didn’t tell him about it? I never lied to him, but I did omit the truth. It just never seemed to come up. I can’t remember him asking about my job. I know if he had, I wouldn’t have lied. We've talked about a lot of things over the last three months. It’s hard to remember everything.
I think over all the things I have learned about Kasen in the past few months:
He is twenty-six.
He's an only child, as far as he knows.
He never met his father; his father walked about before Kasen was ever born.
His mother walked away from him when he was barely sixteen, and in order to survive alone, he made friends with the wrong people.
He likes history, especially learning about the different US wars, it’s something about the strategy and tactics and how wars affect the government as a whole.
Before Brooks, he had never been around a baby.
He doesn’t understand the value of good coffee creamer.
And he has never hiked, ever.
When the gate to the prison slides open, Kasen steps out into the sunshine. He doesn’t have anything but the clothes on his back and the books I sent him. Three years in that hellhole and he didn’t accumulate any personal possessions other than what I have given him in the last three months -- at least nothing that meant enough for him to take with him.
He looks at the world surrounding him. I’m sitting cross legged on the hood of my Jeep Wrangler. He scans the parking lot, and when he sees me, I give a little wave. He makes his way towards me.
“Ms. Montgomery,” he says by way of greeting. I inwardly cringe a little, but otherwise don’t react. Instead, I nod to him curtly.
“Mr. Kingston.”
We stand there for a minute assessing each other. I’m not sure what to do here. Do I explain or wait for him to ask?
“Are you ready to head out?”
“I thought you would never ask,” he laughs.
I love his laugh.
When I hop down off the hood, I stand in front of him and tilt my head to look at his face. He is so much taller than me. I guess I’ve never noticed because we’re almost always seated in the visitor's area.
“Well, I guess let’s go, then,” I say, and turn to the driver’s door before he catches my arm and pulls me in for a hug.
I melt into him. It’s our real first hug, and it’s not awkward at all. It feels like old friends coming together after being apart for too long.
“I’m not sure what you did, Hart, but thank you. Thank you so fucking much,” he says into my hair.
“Oh, I didn’t do much. I just told them the truth about how great you are,” I say. When
he releases me, I smile at him. I turn again to head to the driver’s door and hop in. He climbs in and joins me.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to talk to the board?” he asks.
I start the Jeep and put it in gear, pulling out of the parking lot.
“Honestly? I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case it didn’t matter what I had to say. I didn’t want to tell you I was going to try to help and have you get excited about the possibility of freedom, only to have it ripped away. You were always so careful to say you had a hearing in X amount of time, not that you were getting out. It seemed like you weren’t convinced they would parole you. I wanted to tell you I would do anything to help, but also knew you wouldn’t let me. So, I just kind of went behind your back and helped you anyways. Are you upset?” I ask.
He looks over at me and smiles.
“I already told you, Hart, I could never be mad at you. Especially not when we’re having this conversation on this side of the bars,” he grins.
“Good, ‘cause I don’t think I could’ve handled you being mad,” I say and laugh a little.
“We’re about two hours from the house. Sol has Brooks today, so we have plenty of time to get you squared away. Your first day of work is Monday…” He interrupts before I can finish.
“Which reminds me, what is it that you do? How can you just give me a job? And a place to stay? The board told me I had a very influential friend speak on my behalf, but I don’t know what that means. So, can we talk about all that first?” he inquires.
I cringe a little, but I owe him an explanation.
“You know how much I love the outdoors?” I say, and he nods. “Well, I love the outdoors so much that I made it my job. Sol and I are founders and co-owners of Wild Hart Outfitters. It’s an outdoor guide store, pretty successful. But, unlike other stores, we don’t just do sales and gear. We also do classes. You can take a class for just about anything relating to the outdoors or survival.” I look at him to gauge his reaction. He’s just looking ahead and nodding slightly, so I know he’s with me so far.
