by Mims, Lee
In my estimation, Bud—born Franklin Donovan Cooper IV—was by far the smartest and most-visionary member of his family since they’d first arrived in Georgia back before the American Revolution. Those original Coopers had turned a small cotton farm into an immense plantation. Subsequent generations did likewise, spreading the plantations and cotton gins from Georgia to North Carolina. It was Bud, however, who’d moved the family into the twenty-first century with diversification into other industries—everything from computer chips to parts for spaceships. The man was amazing. Controlling, but amazing.
Fortunately, I’d had the presence of mind to jam a change of clothes in my Chloe tote when I unloaded my stuff from the rental car. My bag, empty tanks—sans regulator valves—and other scuba gear were already stacked in the baggage area, so now that I felt up to freshening up, I headed for the ladies room.
Fate, however, put Bud in my path. He was balancing a coffee in one hand and a soft-sided leather briefcase in the other. “Babe! What a surprise, you’re early! This is great!” He leaned forward and planted one right on my guilty, speechless lips before I could back out of the way. “Ah,” he said, setting his stuff on a nearby table. “I got away with that one. Let’s try another.”
Before I could answer, he’d wrapped his arms around me, lifted me off my feet, and given me cause to remember just how it was that I kept backsliding with him.
Acting unimpressed, I pushed away firmly, “Very nice,” I commented. “Now put me down.”
Gently complying, he gave my left bun an affectionate squeeze before pulling my damp thong from my back pocket. “What’s this?”
My heart stopped briefly. Blood raced from my brain. Undaunted, I plastered on my best poker face. “Really, Bud, what does it look like?”
Usually you couldn’t shut him up, but now he wasn’t cooperating, so I offered a sizable hint. “Pale yellow lacy thong. Probably Victoria’s Secret.”
“Honestly?” he said, stepping back to look at me, a vision in yesterday’s cutoff jean shorts, faded T-shirt, and salt-encrusted ponytail. “I’d have said it looks more like evidence of a fun night. Actually, from the looks of you—like a cat left out overnight in a downpour—a really fun night. Want to tell me about it?”
“Good grief. Talk about suspicious minds. You could teach an advanced course in conclusion-leaping.” I snatched the offending garment from his fingers. “Get a grip, why don’t you?” I told him before stomping off to the bathroom.
He had me at a definite disadvantage. Fortunately I’d thrown most everything I’d need into my tote, including dry shampoo. Forty-five minutes later, only minutes before boarding—on purpose, to cut down on chitchat time—I sauntered back into the passengers’ lounge in fresh J Brand jeans, a sleeveless white linen shirt, untucked, and killer Brian Atwood strappy snakeskin sandals. I might be a practical dresser when I’m working, but any other time, watch out. Fortunately, I had plenty of money these days to indulge my expensive tastes in clothes, the only place my taste are expensive. In fact, I still live in the same house and own the same car I’d had before I made a small fortune—regrettably not a huge one—when I found a granite deposit in eastern North Carolina and turned it into a tidy little income for life.
Bud was quiet as we waited for the attendant to load my bags and equipment into his King Air 350 Turboprop and for the pilot to make his final inspections. I knew he was angry—really angry—about the underwear in my pocket and that I wouldn’t confide in him, but I wasn’t worried. Never in our entire married career had he ever shouted, screamed, ranted, or raged. As a result, we could boast that as long as we’d been married, we’d never had a real knock-down, drag-out fight. We were divorced, but still, we’d never really fought. Great record, huh?
I climbed into one of the window passenger seats. Bud ducked into the flight deck, took the copilot’s seat, and adjusted his headset while the pilot went through his checklist. About ten minutes into our flight to Wilmington International Airport, I felt sure I’d dodged the bullet.
Then my ex-husband flopped down in the seat beside me.
I gave him a sweet smile and batted my eyelashes. During our twenty years of marriage, this was the signal that meant “case closed.” Bud grinned back, sucking his front teeth. The standard interpretation for this was “okay for now, but I’ll get to the bottom of it later.” It was a familiar Mexican standoff, lasting until he asked, “Want something to drink?”
“Maybe a Coke.”
Just as he rose from his seat, my iPhone vibrated. It was another text from Julia:
Give hottie y’r beach address?
I shut my eyes for a second as my headache returned to pound in my ears. I thumb-slammed a return message—No way!—and shoved it back in my pocket just as Bud returned with the Coke. “You didn’t even ask how Manteo One is coming along,” he pointed out reproachfully.
“Don’t be melodramatic. If you recall, I didn’t have a chance to say anything before you went all vice squad on me.” Then I softened my tone. “You’re still feeling positive about things out there, aren’t you?”
My text tune sounded. I discreetly slipped my phone out again.
2 late. lol.
Suppressing a grimace, I turned off the phone and tossed it in my tote.
“I don’t know about geologically, but as far as Global is concerned … well, they just laid off another thousand employees. I’ve had several emergency meetings with the company executives, who insist those cost-cutting measures will stabilize things.” He sipped his Coke and added optimistically, “And, honestly, they’re probably better off than they were back in ’84.”
“That was when Global was part of SunCo?” I asked knowing he’d recount the whole sorry affair of how SunCo—after losing a pantload when the State of North Carolina closed them down before they could drill their first exploratory well—ditched the upstream end of the company (the exploration and production part) in favor of the downstream end of refining and marketing. Reclining in my seat, I tilted my head in his direction, feigning attention while dimly recalling his indignation at SunCo. Some of the fired executives had been close friends of his, and I wondered at the time if he would charge in and save them. He didn’t. As it turned out, those executives formed a new company, Global.
Bud droned on, the cabin was cozy, and I fell into what I used to call in my graduate school days, my “key-word state.” While thus engaged, I looked wide awake, but my mind was a million miles away, maybe resting in some pleasant daydream. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in my first venture in the land of big-boy investments. I was. But I was also exhausted. Anyway, all it takes is a key word and I’m right back to reality.
The overhead air vents hissed pleasantly as I thought about getting home and back to work when I heard Bud say, “… leased those four blocks, remember, Cleo?”
“Right. Sure,” I replied nonchalantly, adjusting my position, “How could I forget? I was twenty-one, just finishing up my geology degree …”
“And marrying me, don’t forget that.”
“Yes, I remember,” I said, turning to look out at the fluffy clouds below us. “We were just babies.”
“I thought we were pretty grown up. After all, as a result of our merger we got two of the greatest dividends ever paid out.”
He was referring to our two children, Henri and Will. Sensing where this conversation was headed, I returned to safer ground. “Getting back to the Manteo Prospect, I especially remember how exciting the idea of discovering a vast deposit of gas right off the outer continental shelf of North Carolina seemed to me. I couldn’t believe it when the North Carolina Coastal Management Act found SunCo’s plan inadequate and stopped them in their tracks.”
“But they did. And yet it’s all the better for us because now, twenty-seven years later, we can be part of it.”
“And a lot’s changed in the meantime. SunCo
is back in the exploration business and what a behemoth they are. Has anyone seen any sign of them out at their four leased blocks in the mid-Atlantic yet?”
“I talked to our site manager yesterday and the answer’s still no. But don’t worry, babe, I have faith in you and the part you played in picking the blocks Global leased.”
“Whoa!” I said. “Don’t get carried away giving credit. Global made the decision to stay with the four blocks SunCo originally leased back in ’84. I think they were just taking advantage of having me as an investor, figuring I might want to add my professional opinion, being as I have money riding on the well.”
“You do still feel okay about it, don’t you?”
“Of course. The geology’s sound. Your analysis of the financial end of things has left me a bit queasy, though. What’s the bottom line on their actual debt?” I asked, even though I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to know.
“About one-point-five billion.”
My gut tightened as I considered this. It sounds crazy, I know, but he’d never mentioned actual figures when he let me come in. Honestly, I never asked. I’d always trusted Bud Cooper to know a good thing when he saw one. “You were aware of all those things you’ve just been talking about—low inventories, high unresolved debt—and yet you still put this venture together?” I wasn’t being disingenuous, just legitimately curious. After the fact, as it were.
He looked at me squarely. “Consider this. Manteo One is Global’s chance for redemption, a way to pull themselves out of debt and prove to their investors that they’re a solid, competitive company, a true independent that creates its own opportunities even in less than shiny times. They’ve stripped the company to its bare bones and totally reconfigured management. If they feel confident enough to throw another hundred million at this venture, then, yes, I feel good about it too.”
Slugging down the last of his Coke, he absently crunched the can. No matter what Bud said, I sensed he was nervous about this deal. There was little he could hide from me. “Having said that,” he continued, “I’ll feel a lot better knowing you’re on the job.”
“What do you mean, ‘on the job’? I’m just an investor.”
“Things changed with this last big purge. Global’s trying so hard to calm investor fears, they’ve agreed to let you and me, as leaders of our private equity group, go out to the exploration ship for a tour. They know you’re a successful, published geologist with a well-respected client base—their words, not mine—and they want you on the team in a more active role.”
“Uh. More active role?”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. When Global let all those employees go in this last round of layoffs, it included most of mid-level management and many of the higher level—and higher paid —geologists and geophysicists.”
Sweat was starting to break out on my upper lip at the thought of how precarious my investment was becoming, minute by minute. “Good lord, Bud, that’s horrible.”
“I know. But they just couldn’t meet the payroll if they didn’t. I’ve talked with the top scientists on their U.S. offshore development team, in particular, their senior geophysicist—Phil’s his name. He said he was so pleased with your input on which blocks to lease, he’s come up with a plan. He’d like me to run it by you.”
I waited. There was nothing to do but listen.
“He said that, traditionally, the wellsite geologist is a highly-skilled person hired from outside the company for their objective opinion. Normally, this person would answer to Phil back in Houston and to the company executive on the ship—”
“I am familiar with the role of a wellsite geologist, Bud,” I interrupted.
“Right. Anyway, Phil said that due to budget cutbacks, Global went with a lesser-known consulting firm and hired a kid still pretty wet behind the ears. He doesn’t feel all that confident with him, so he suggests you supervise him.”
“Me?”
“Yes. But the kid would be responsible for being there twenty-four/seven, filing daily reports and everything else that falls under his job description—”
“The job description for a wellsite geologist is huge,” I cut him off again. “And they hired someone wet behind the ears? What are they thinking?” It was a hell of a lot for me to take in. As far as I was concerned, this all had come out of nowhere.
“They’re doing the best they can, is what I think. You can’t imagine how demoralized and shell-shocked these people are, not to mention overworked. You’d be out there only as often as you deem necessary, but we’ll get a better feel for that after our tour.”
“Tour? What tour?”
“The one I just told you about. You know, out to the drillship, of course.”
“When”
“Tomorrow.”
“Bud! Good grief! I have to make a living now that all my funds are sunk into this investment. I’ve been gone eight days. I’ve got a ton of work to catch up on. Started out, I was just an investor in this venture, now I hear I’m going to have to babysit too. My schedule will have to be juggled—”
“Babe, this is a big deal for me. I know you understand that. A lot of people are counting on me, and not just investors. Think of the people who’ll lose everything if Global goes under—their jobs, stock options, 401(k) plans … everything.”
I looked out the window at the tiny world below, then back at Bud. As long as I’d known him, he’d never asked me to use my job skills to help him. The truth was, it felt kind of good. Plus, I had my own investment to consider too.
“So? What do you say?” Bud asked anxiously, jolting me from my thoughts.
“Yeah, yeah, okay. What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at your house around eight tomorrow morning. We’re catching a helicopter in Beaufort. That’s as close as they could get to Morehead City, Global’s base of operations for this venture.”
Great. I get to ride in a rock with a fan on top. As many copters as I’d been in, my feelings about them never changed. “Okay,” I said, trying to keep the fatigue out of my voice. My eyelids were getting so heavy I could hardly hold them up. “Do you know my summer address?” I was having my house in Raleigh repainted inside and out, along with a little remodeling in the bathrooms and kitchen. I’d decided my dog, Tulip, and I needed a change of scenery for the summer, thus the need for the rental.
“Of course I do. I’ve been there.”
I gave him a questioning look, trying to kick my sleep-deprived brain into gear and remember when he’d been to my new digs. I’d only moved in at the start of May, and it was only the first week in June.
“While you were gone. To see the children.”
Oh. That at least made sense.
One of my eyes started to droop without the other. I gave up. Reclining my seat and turning to the window, I closed them both and said, “Wake me when we get to Wilmington.”
Once we’d landed, my beloved Jeep was waiting right where I left it in the short-term lot. I felt about it like I did about myself: hard-used, but still with plenty of get-up-and-go. And fairly attractive when cleaned up, occasionally even shiny.
Bud insisted on helping me stow my gear. “I hope your nap refreshed you enough so that you don’t drive off the road on your way home.” He fiddled with my tanks, positioning them so they didn’t clang together. “You’ve done that before, you know.”
I opened the driver’s side door, put my tote bag on the seat, first burrowing in it for my emergency stash of BC. My headache was coming back with a vengeance. I tossed back the bitter powder, washing it down quickly with some stale, hot water from a half-empty bottle in the console.
“Hangover?” Bud asked solicitously. Didn’t he have something better to do?
“The only time I’ve ever run off the road was owing to a rattlesnake crawling out from under my seat, and you know it. I appreciate your concern even though
it’s not necessary.”
“If you say so. You just looked so pitiful earlier this morning, I wasn’t sure you’d recover.”
“Oh, like you haven’t looked just as bad after an all-nighter with one of your own young things,” I snapped.
“You were out all night with a young thing?”
Seething at myself for letting my mouth pop out of neutral, I shut the door in Bud’s face, started the engine, and proceeded to back out of the parking space.
He was still standing, palms out, innocent as a lamb, as I exited the lot.
FOur
The drive from Wilmington to Morehead gave me time to calm my ragged nerves and recover from letting Bud get one over on me. Finding an hour of Chopin on the radio helped. I felt much soothed by the time I was closing in on Bogue Sound, and the glimpses of water completed the cure. Since it was early afternoon, it was the perfect time for a quick boat ride.
For all the years I was married to Bud, my summers had been spent at his oceanside family home in ritzy Wrightsville Beach. This house, facing Evans Street with Bogue Sound at its back door, was a whole different world. I guess that’s why I’d chosen it.
The town itself was attractively old, offering quiet streets lined with century oaks, magnolias, and azaleas. On the property I’d rented, an expansive green lawn led to a dock with a boatlift. Across the Sound, marshes and sand bars were feeding grounds for a variety of shorebirds and crustaceans. There was an energy level quite different from that of an ocean property, and I was enjoying it for this very reason.
Tulip, a wonderful deer hound who’d adopted me while I was prospecting in the woods of eastern North Carolina nearly two years ago, adored it too. So did my children. In fact, upon seeing it, they’d instantly decided I needed company for the summer and had already spent more time here than I had.
