The Five Times I Met Myself

by James L. Rubart

  “I like it when you call me that?”

  “Ever since I graduated from college.”

  “We’re friends. We have a good relationship.”

  “Yeah, I sure think so.”

  “And we’re solvent.” Brock glanced around the room. “More than solvent, aren’t we? And we’re not meeting with these people because we’re on the verge of bankruptcy . . .”

  “What did you eat this morning?”

  Brock stumbled across the room till he reached a poster of himself kneeling beside fourteen or so children in what looked like Costa Rica. “We do relief work?”

  Ron gave a nervous laugh. “Seriously, Brock, you need to stop screwing around and get ready for this meeting.”

  As if on cue, there was a rap on the door. It swung open and Michelle stood in the frame.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, your guests are here.”

  Behind Michelle stood three men and two women. But Brock could focus only on the man on the far right. Mitchell. And based on what Brock had learned about himself, his cozy relationship with Ron was about to be extremely short-lived.

  Mitchell glanced at Brock, but there was no acknowledgement in his eyes of what they’d done. That’s when the realization struck Brock. He’d planned the takeover with Mitchell in a different time line, not this one. Relief filled him and he strolled with Ron toward the group just inside the doors of the conference room.

  “Welcome.” Ron said and opened his palms as they reached their guests. “Good to see you all.”

  Ron proceeded to greet each of the party while Brock stared at Mitchell, trying to catch his eye. Brock was still flying blind, but at least he knew he’d fight signing the company over to Mitchell and crew, no matter how late the hour. But first, he’d listen, try to learn anything that might tell him where the negotiations stood. And he’d have to trust that this moment was not random, that it was orchestrated by Someone far greater than himself.

  Brock moved slowly around the table. Mitchell was on the far side of the group, engaged in an animated discussion with Ron, so Brock greeted the other members of Mitchell’s consortium. Brock produced the required smiles and pleasantries, and one by one they moved to grab a cup of coffee from the serving table at the back of the room before settling into the chairs around the conference table.

  “Brock Matthews. Wow.” Mitchell’s voice snapped Brock out of his contemplation. “It’s been a long time since high school, hasn’t it, Brock?”

  “It has been a while.”

  He studied his old rival’s eyes—a mixture of defiance and arrogance—and the slight upturn of his mouth, and heat rose inside Brock. There was no question. He instantly realized that they were still coconspirators in this reality. Why? It made no sense. Hadn’t he changed everything?

  Mitchell turned slightly so his back was to Ron and the rest of the group and whispered under his breath. “Nicely played, amigo. We are about to score major Saint-Tropez for the celebration, huh?” He stuck out his hand. Brock took it and squeezed hard.

  “Good to see you again after all these years.” Brock gave a grim smile.

  “Wow, you been working out.” Mitchell pulled his hand out of Brock’s. “That actually hurt.”

  “Good.” Brock winked at him and relished the peeved look on Mitchell’s face.

  Then, inexplicably, Brock felt a sliver of peace. He didn’t know the details, but the overall scheme was as clear as an alpine lake, and he could see straight to the bottom where a layer of silt covered the truth. A layer Mitchell created, and Brock was just as culpable. But it didn’t matter who was to blame. All he cared about was the truth.

  During the next twenty-five minutes, Mitchell and his team laid out their plan for buying out both Cuisine to Live For and Black Fedora. There were no holes. The money, the trajectory going forward, all the elements were perfect. The plan was diamond solid. The shares they were offering were of far more value than the two companies were worth. No wonder Ron was pushing them to say yes.

  Once Mitchell and company made their final statements on why the buyout made sense, they began discussing the details. Questions and clarifications went back and forth for ten minutes before Mitchell waved his pen at Ron.

  “So, do we have a deal?” Mitchell glanced around the room. “I know we’d need to work out the rest of the details, but in principle? Is this going to happen?”

  Ron glanced at Brock before giving Mitchell a slight nod. “You need three yeses. You have mine. You have our CFO’s. Brock?”

  “I need more time.”

  “No input? No comments? Anything to add? What are we missing that would allow you to give an answer?”

  An idea shot through Brock’s mind. Was it possible? Would he find the files in this time line? Maybe.

  “On second thought, yes, I do have something to add. But before I’m sure, I need to check a file in my office.”

  “What?” Ron grimaced. “Let’s get this done. You’ve had weeks to analyze this deal from every angle. This meeting was supposed to be more of a formality than a negotiation. What do you need to check in your office?”

  Brock stood and glanced at his watch. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  He strode from the room, slightly surprised he was about to lay his own head on the chopping block, knowing the ax would fall hard.

  Chapter 51

  Brock burst into his office, woke his computer, and did a search for Project Gilgamesh. Half of him wanted it to be there, half didn’t. More than half didn’t. Because if he found it, there was no going back. He would have to confess, and he would destroy his relationship with Ron.

  He thought it would take ten minutes to find the recordings. It took three. Another thirty seconds to find the one that would make the biggest explosion when he detonated it in the conference room. He transferred the file to a flash drive and shoved it into his pocket.

  Brock strode down the hall back toward the conference room intent on pulling open the door, striding inside, and lighting the fuse that would blow up, but when he reached the door he stopped, his hand clutched too tightly around the knob. Was this the right move? If it wasn’t, too late now.

  He pushed the door open and marched into the room. The buzz of small talk died and all eyes in the room focused on Brock. Ron gave him a look that said, This better be good. Brock gave a look back that he hoped said it would be.

  He pulled the flash drive from his pocket and wiggled it, then slipped it into his laptop. “This recording would never hold up in a court of law. I doubt the other party knew I was recording it. So this is merely a personal confession.”

  Ron stood and put his hand on Brock’s arm to stop him from hitting play. “What are you doing, bro?”

  “Setting myself free. I meant to have this conversation with you later, but now will work.” Brock gently lifted his brother’s hand off his arm. “All growing up, the only thing I wanted to do was beat you. I thought you and Dad were against me. Thought Dad didn’t love me. And those things fueled my obsession to win at all costs. But it isn’t true. You’ve been a good brother. And I don’t have to win any longer. I’ve thrown that idol into the fire.”

  The auburn-headed woman named Teresa spread her hands on the table. “I think we’re all really liking this family-reunion hour, but what is going on?”

  “Blind eyes now finally see.” Brock turned to face Ron full-on. “I betrayed you. It doesn’t matter if I knew it or didn’t know about it in this time line. It’s inside me. There are dark places in my soul, and the only hope for those shadows is God’s grace, God’s mercy. I can’t do any of it on my own. I’ve finally figured that out after fifty-three years of trying. So I’m throwing myself on his unquenchable mercy, that unquenchable grace. It’s all I have, and for the first time in my life, it’s all I want.”

  Brock hit play on his laptop, turned, and ambled toward the poster of himself holding up his eggs Benedict. Humpy Dumpty and his pals were about to take a fall.

  �
��You say you’ve figured out how to do this.” On the recording, Brock’s voice sounded tinny and far away.

  “It’ll be simple,” another voice said. Mitchell’s. “The timing is perfect for us to make an offer. Black Fedora and Cuisine to Live For are exploding, but that means limited cash flow, right? So over the coming months, we form a dummy corporation. Buy up dummy shares and when the buyout happens . . .”

  “I’ll have control of both companies.”

  “You say you want to win the competition? Finally put your little brother in the position he should be? This will do it like a guillotine falling on his neck.”

  “And you’ll get?”

  “When the two companies go public six months later, I will be an extremely wealthy man.”

  The sound of two hands slamming down on the conference table made Brock spin. He didn’t have to guess who the sound came from. Mitchell stood with enough force to knock over his chair. He took two strides toward Brock’s laptop and brought his hand down on the computer. The entire table shook. Brock’s and Mitchell’s voices were silenced.

  Mitchell whirled and jabbed a finger toward Brock. “I’m going to take you down so far you’ll be looking up at Hades.”

  “Sounds good.” Brock glanced at the smashed keyboard of his laptop. “Give me a call.”

  “Mitchell.” Teresa stood and took two precise steps toward him. Her voice was just about a whisper. “Look at me.”

  Her tone told Brock everything he needed to know about her. Mitchell was not their leader. This woman was. She held her upturned palm toward Brock, then drilled Mitchell with her gaze.

  “Is there any defense you’d like to give to counteract what I just heard?” Her voice remained almost too soft to hear. Brock couldn’t tell if she was enraged or deeply pleased.

  “Yes, it’s true.” Mitchell returned her look with eyes full of scorn. “But this move would put serious coin in your coffers.”

  “Well done.” She nodded three times, then strolled around the table with a smile on her face. She held out her hand to Mitchell, who took it. She shook it once, then let go and smiled again. “Yes, very well done.”

  “So . . .” Mitchell cocked his head. “You’re okay with not knowing about this? We’re good?”

  She turned to Brock and Ron. “I pride myself on being an excellent judge of character. I rarely miss. But obviously this time I did.”

  She turned back to Mitchell. “You fooled me.” She stepped back to the table, gathered her papers, and walked over to Ron.

  “My deepest apologies. I should have seen this coming.” She extended her hand to Ron, glanced at Brock, then fixed her gaze back on Ron. “I’ll be in touch.”

  She sauntered out of the room, followed by her four companions and finally Mitchell. Before leaving, Mitchell stopped and zeroed his gaze on Brock.

  “Why’d you cave? This is what you say you’ve wanted your entire life.”

  Brock didn’t answer.

  “At least tell me, was it worth it? You’ve just destroyed your reputation, probably both companies’, and your relationship with your brother. So was it worth it?”

  “Yes. It was worth it.”

  The moment the conference room door clicked shut behind Mitchell, Brock turned toward his brother. “Forgive me.”

  Ron closed his eyes and bit hard on his lower lip. He started to say something to Brock, but then turned and strode out of the conference room.

  “It was the best of meetings; it was the worst of meetings.”

  It was the only way to describe to Karissa what had happened in the conference room at Black Fedora. He’d set himself free and saved the company but at the price of his friendship with Ron. And he wouldn’t believe God brought him this far just to destroy his relationship with his brother. So he would trust and take one moment at a time.

  Karissa and he sat on their veranda talking as they watched the lights of Bellevue and Seattle come alive against the encroaching night sky. He told her every detail about the past weeks and ended with the confrontation in the conference room. After answering her numerous questions, they sat in silence for a long time till Karissa took his hand and squeezed three times.

  “Do you find it amazing that I believe you?”

  “I’m just glad you do.”

  “Things with Ron will be okay.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.” She squeezed his hand again. “Any regrets?”

  “If I start counting them I don’t know if I’d be able to stop.”

  “How can you say that?” Karissa put her other hand on Brock’s.

  “You mean because everything supposedly turned out better than I could ever dream of it becoming?”

  “What do you mean supposedly?”

  “It’s bittersweet, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  Brock sighed. “It sounds so ungrateful to say this, after the change God made in me and the life I now see in front of us, but there’s so much of my life—this time line—that I don’t remember.” He sat up and turned toward her. “I don’t remember any reconciliation with my dad. All I know is what a photo tells me. Apparently Ron and I became friends somewhere along the way, but I don’t remember any of it. The times cooking with Tyson? Just hearsay. My life with you? I didn’t get to watch you step into your dreams of being a teacher and make it real. And so many other things.” Brock slumped back in his chair.

  “Anything else?”

  “Tough to discover there are places inside me dark enough to do what I did to Ron.”

  “Yes, it would be.” Karissa ran her fingers along the back of his hand. “But even with that, would you trade this life?”

  “No, of course not. I’m just venting. Like I said, being ungrateful. I’m simply realizing I didn’t live this life.”

  “That’s not true.” Karissa turned and took his face in both her hands. “You did live it. Just as you lived out the dark parts inside, you lived out the good ones as well. And you’ll discover more and more of it as you taste the fruit of having been a tremendous dad and an extraordinary husband. Plus, you were always quite attentive with the camera and video camera. I’m guessing you’ll find a great many files to explore that will fill in the gaps in your memory.”

  Brock pulled her close and kissed her. “You’re my wind.”

  “And you’re mine.” She rose and stepped toward the doors leading to their bedroom.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to give you some time alone.”

  “How did you know I need that?”

  “I think I might know you just a little.”

  An hour later Karissa returned.

  “Enough time?”

  “Perfect.”

  After a swath of silence, Karissa asked the question Brock had been praying about off and on from the moment he left Black Fedora.

  “What are you going to do about Ron?”

  “I’m going to talk to him. Tell him about my bizarre existence during the past weeks. I have to believe he’ll believe. But I’ll give him a few days to cool down.”

  Karissa gave a sly smile, then turned away.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  Before Brock could ask a second time, his cell phone rang. It was Ron.

  “Tomorrow morning we’re going to my cabin.”

  “We are?” Brock stared at Karissa.

  “Yes. I already talked to Karissa about it. She’s good, so you’re good. I’ll pick you up at nine.”

  Ron hung up without waiting for a response.

  Karissa looked up from under her eyelashes. “Who was that?”

  “As if you didn’t know.”

  Her smile grew.

  “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “When did he talk to you? Is that the real reason you left me out here by myself for an hour?”

  Kari
ssa kissed him on the forehead. “Have a good time with your brother, okay?”

  JUNE 17, 2015

  At ten the next morning, Ron and Brock pulled into Anacortes; at ten twenty they drove onto the ferry that would take them to Ron’s cabin on Orcas Island. By the time the ferry reached the San Juan Islands, the sun had torched the morning fog, and light reflected off the water like jewels. Lopez Island slid by on Brock’s left and he stared at Spencer Spit, the spot where years ago he’d gone on a perfect scouting trip with his dad before the dark years came. Twenty minutes later they landed on Orcas and began the drive toward Garden Lane.

  The road was full of switchbacks, but it wasn’t till Brock’s ears popped that he realized how high they’d climbed.

  “Are we going to continue to pretend what happened in the conference room didn’t happen?”

  “No.” Ron glanced at Brock. “As soon as we get there and settle in, we’ll talk.”

  After five minutes and three more switchbacks, Brock broke the awkward silence.

  “Your place is up a ways.”

  “On top of the world.” Ron gave Brock a puzzled look. “But you’ve only been here a dozen times, so I suppose it’s easy to forget that.”

  “I’m getting old.” Brock tapped his head.

  He’d never been to his brother’s cabin in his life before the dreams started, but soon he’d tell Ron his entire story, and pray he believed it.

  As they turned a corner thirty-five minutes after leaving the ferry, Ron’s cabin came into view. Not huge, but he guessed at least two thousand square feet. The home was painted Eddie Bauer green, with huge picture windows framed with dark wood on either side of the maple front door.

  “Welcome back to my escape.”

  Ron slid his key into the lock and pushed the front door open. He motioned for Brock to step inside first. High ceilings—ten feet he guessed—gave the home a majestic feel, and the rich brown color of the walls made Brock feel like he was stepping into a luxury hunting lodge.