by R. S. Lively
I can see a gentleman sitting at the table in one of the conference rooms before we enter. The glass wall is thick enough to prevent sound from traveling through so meetings are completely private, but the transparent walls also allow anyone walking down the hallway to quickly identify what is happening in each room. The man's chestnut brown hair looks out of place, and I have to remind myself this is not Mr. Hayes, the principal from when I was in high school, but Mr. Norton, the replacement who took over after he retired three years ago. It's still hard for me to imagine the halls of the high school without Mr. Hayes’ vigilant presence roaming through them. He wasn't the type of principal to make dramatic, rousing speeches at pep rallies, or try to blend in with the kids by spewing whatever haphazard combination of slang he happened to absorb. Instead, he roamed the hallways almost entirely in silence, observing everything that was going on, and keeping students in line with only a stern glance. I knew plenty of guys who strutted their way through the school like they owned it until they saw Mr. Hayes coming their way. One look from him and they would scatter. By the time I dropped out, there were even whispers that people had seen Mr. Hayes in one section of the school at the same time he was in another section. The outrageous legends about him only seemed to increase the magnanimous presence around him, and I walked out of the school for the last time knowing full well that if he walked out with me, he would be remembered in those halls long after I was.
Mr. Norton doesn't possess the same intensity. Far younger than Mr. Hayes, he seems to be the very definition of mild-mannered. He smiles meekly when I walk through the door of the conference room and reaches for my hand, rising partially from his chair as if he doesn't want to commit to standing all the way.
"Mr. Norton," I say. "Thank you for agreeing to come out here to meet with me. I'm Cade Sawyer."
"Nice to meet you," he says. "Please, call me Michael."
I nod as I settle into the chair at the head of the table.
"Well, Michael, as you know, I've been asked…" My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pause only for a moment before continuing. "I've been asked by the donor…" My phone buzzes again, and I glance at Franklin, who gives an almost imperceptible shrug. One more time. "I've been asked by the donor to be your resource as you build the woodworking program at the high school. Today, I'd like to talk to you about why encouraging the students to learn woodworking will…" My phone buzzes again, and I see Mr. Norton's eyes dip to my pocket and then back at me. "If you'll excuse me for just one moment. Franklin, if you could answer any questions Michael might have."
I grab my phone out of my pocket as I stalk out of the room. Without bothering to look at the screen, I smash the button to answer the call.
"What?" I snap.
"Well, that's a lovely way to answer phone calls. Is that how you talk to your clients?"
I sigh, my eyes closing briefly. I should have taken a few of the aspirin I keep in my top drawer before coming downstairs. This is going to be one of those days.
"Hello, Grammie," I say. "I'm sorry. I'm in the middle of an important meeting right now."
"Oh, that's alright. I'm sure they'll understand. This will only take a minute."
I can't help but smile. Anyone else would realize I am trying to get her off the phone. Not Grammie Rose Helms. She’s not that kind of woman.
"Are we still on for lunch next week?"
"Well, that's actually why I'm calling you."
"Oh, no. Are you in Mexico again? Where are you? Do I need to –"
"No. I won't be going anywhere for a while."
I walk into the coffee room and make myself a cup, pausing when I hear a sudden weak, strained tone in her voice.
"Grammie… is something wrong?"
"I fell and hurt myself," she says, sighing deeply. "It's this house. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten."
"What's wrong with the house?" I ask. "I was there just a few weeks ago to change that lightbulb for you, and it seemed fine."
"Not that house," she says. "That house is fine. I'm at the country house."
"Why are you all the way out there. Hasn't it been years since you lived in that house?"
She lets out a withering sigh.
"Yes. But I'm getting into my golden years, and I've been missing my sweet Rupert so much, I felt I needed to be back here."
She doesn't sound like herself, but I'm going to let her keep going. I never know when it comes to Grammie.
"So, are there some things at the house that need fixing?" I ask, trying to push her into revealing the reason for her call before she bursts into her rendition of 'Sunrise, Sunset'.
"Oh, a few. And you know I just can't trust anyone but you, Cade. Ever since Gramps taught you woodworking, I've known you were going to carry it with you. Now you have your own little company. It's so wonderful. He'd be so proud of you."
Grammie sniffles, and I smile again.
"I tell you what, Grammie. I've got to finish up with this meeting, and then I'll call you back, and we'll talk about what's going on."
When I walk back into the conference room, Franklin is rattling off all the details about the program, and Mr. Norton looks like he's about to fall asleep. I wonder if he has an increased sense of sympathy for the students sitting in front of teachers who never quite mastered the art of public speaking. I watch the presentation for a few moments, fascinated by how fast Franklin is talking, and the way he hasn't lifted his eyes from the notes in front of him in the entire time I've been standing here. I realize Mr. Norton must be making him nervous, and I glance at the principal's hand. No wedding ring. Maybe I should give Franklin more of the responsibilities of implementing this program after all.
Two hours later…
After the meeting with Mr. Norton, I decide to take the rest of the afternoon off. I had enough time in the office for today, and I'd rather be back at my house. As the privacy glass panel slides up into position between the driver and me, I dial Grammie again. She answers the phone after the second ring, and I notice her voice sounds even shakier now than it did the first time I talked to her.
"I'm so glad you called me back," she says.
There's a note of surprise in her voice that strikes me as odd.
"I always call you back," I say.
"I know," she says. "But you're so busy nowadays. I know you're working hard on your company. It would be easy for you to not have time for an old lady like me."
"I always have time for you," I say. "What do you need?"
"The house needs some attention, and I don’t trust any other company. There are some local people around here, but I don't know them. What if they take advantage of me?"
"Grammie, you don't have to convince me. If you need some help around the house, I can arrange for it to get done for you. Just let me know what's going on, and I'll set up a team."
"No, no, no team. I don't trust anybody else in the house. Is there any way you can do it? I understand if you don't have the time. You have to make sure your clients are happy."
As soon as she says this, I get a twinge of guilt in my chest. Grammie isn't trying to be condescending when she talks about my company or my clients. The truth is, she doesn't know the extent of Endeavor’s success. She believes I took the carpentry and woodworking skills her husband taught me during the summers I spent time with the family when I was younger and turned them into my own company that is allowing me to stand on my own two feet. In her mind, I'm successful enough to live comfortably, but she doesn't know my bank account rakes in billions, and that most of my life is spent alone in my home, arranging for donations and endowments to various organizations throughout the community. When I'm not able to find a program or organization that fulfills a need in the community, I just start it myself. I do it all anonymously because I don't want the recognition. All I want is to see the people of this community have more opportunities and resources than I did when I was younger.
Grammie and Gramps were that resource for me. If I hadn't met t
hem, I wouldn't be where I am now. I have them to thank for everything. It's not that I purposely want to lie to Grammie about my success. It's not her I'm hiding from, or who I don't want to know about my wealth. Instead, it's my own family I pulled away from years ago, and never intend to go back to. I know if they find out about my money, they will treat me differently. I don't have much to do with them as it is, and that is my choice. I've made sure they have enough for their basic needs, but that's where I draw the line. My parents have never looked kindly at wealthy people, viewing them as entitled and dishonest. At the same time, they had no qualms taking every advantage they possibly could. They always have. They have always been irresponsible and flighty, and if they were able to get their hands on my money, they would burn through it as fast as they possibly could and end up in the exact same place they are now.
I don't dislike my parents. I don't hold any animosity toward them or wish ill on them. Not anymore. As an adult, I'm able to look at them clearly. Thinking about my childhood, I know they could have been there for me more. My parents should have taken better care of me rather than expect me to be the one to care for them. I always felt the compulsion to save them, until I realized I had to save myself and walk away. Now I make sure their rent and bills are paid when needed, but otherwise, I stay out of their lives, and they stay out of mine. I can't remember the last time I met with my parents, but I see Grammie at least once a month, if not more frequently. There was a brief time in my life, about two years, that I didn't have contact with her, but I don't like to think about it. I've tried to put that all behind me and live the life I want now.
As much as I believe Grammie is milking the hell out of whatever led to her getting hurt, which I'm not convinced was a simple fall, there's a part of me that is terribly worried about her. It's hard to accept, but she is getting older. Although she has lived more in her life than five or six people could have, it may have finally caught up with her, and she really could be having a harder time managing things alone. I can't leave her in a dangerous situation or expect her to trust another team when she wants me. The least I can do for her is to use the skills her husband taught me to fix up the house where I spent some of the best summers of my life.
"I'll make sure my projects are in order and head down there," I tell her. "I'll see you tonight."
"Thank you, Cade," she says. "You don't know how much this means to me."
The wavering is gone from her voice, and I give a short laugh as I end the call.
What in the hell is she up to?
I quickly dial Franklin.
“Yes, sir?” he answers, sounding far calmer than earlier in the conference room.
"Franklin. I am going away for a few days. I'm sending instructions to your email. Review them. They'll get you through the meetings for the rest of the week, and help you handle anything that might arise."
"You're leaving? We're at a critical time in the recreation development, and there's still a ton of planning to do for the high school program."
"I'm sure you'll be fine. You can handle it. That's why I hired you. I don't know how long I'm going to be gone. I'll let you know when I know more."
It's entirely possible Grammie is just lonely and looking for some extra attention, or that the problems with the house are as serious as the ones she often calls me over to her other home to handle, like replacing light bulbs and driving screws back into pieces of furniture. If that's the case, I'll spend a couple of days with her, then head back home and to the office. I'm confident Franklin can handle anything that might happen until then. I put enough fear into the vendor for the recreation development to ensure that even an idiot like Ian can get the permits put through immediately, which means the original plans can move forward. I’ve also created extensive and detailed plans for the high school woodworking program. All Franklin needs to do is present those to Mr. Norton and get his approval – and I know he is up for the task. He's given far more complicated presentations before, and if he can manage to talk at a normal speed, he'll do just fine.
Ending the call, I spend another hour in my home office, finishing up the notes for Franklin. Hitting 'send', I head to my bedroom to pack my suitcase and change. There's no point in wearing my suit to the country. There's no one out to look good for. Not anymore, at least. I force myself to push that thought away. If I go too far down that path, I might talk myself out of going at all. I shove my feet into my trusty work boots, grab my suitcase, and walk out of the house. My driver walks out of the gatehouse, having seen me on the screen that monitors each of the entrances to the house.
"Thanks, Jacob, but I don’t need you this afternoon. I'm going to take my truck. I'm going to be away for a few days or so. You should go ahead and take that time off. I'll text you when I'm coming back."
Jacob gives a single nod. He's never been a particularly verbal person, which is one of the reasons I’ve been so happy with him as my driver. At the end of a long day at work, the last thing I need is a chatty driver wanting to shoot the breeze about it.
I walk around the side of the house on the brick path that weaves through the lawn toward a converted carriage house behind the main house. Opening up the doors, I head directly toward the pickup truck parked in the first row of my vehicle collection. I toss my bags into the back seats, climb behind the wheel, and head toward Grammie's house. I could have had Jacob bring me and drop me off, but I wanted the solitude, and quiet, of making the drive by myself. By the looks of the clouds overhead, it's going to start raining soon. It will be nice to sit on the porch tonight, glass of bourbon in hand – Grammie always has the best stuff – and listen to the storm roll in.
3
Fiona
I can barely see anything in front of me. The windshield is so smeared with dust, dirt, and ick that I'm struggling to see what’s ahead of us clearly. I try to rise a little bit higher in the cracked leather seat to look over the broad swaths of mud along the bottom of the windshield, only to be stopped by bugs who met their untimely demise across the top. I hunker down further and dip my head to see if I can look through a miraculously clear corner. Finally, this lets me see enough to confirm we've turned down the road of fields close to Grammie's house.
"Something wrong?"
I glance over to the driver's seat. The man Grammie sent to pick me up from the airport looks approximately one-hundred-years old, and his voice is so faint, it’s barely louder than a whisper. Despite his fairly crotchety appearance, he shot out of the airport lot and has been driving like a bat out of hell since. I grab for anything I can hold onto as the truck skids around a sudden corner. Unfortunately, the truck may have come into the world the same time he did, and several of the structural features that should be on the interior of the door are long gone. My hand slides across the surface, and my body sways sharply across the cabin. Finally, I manage to fight gravity and resume a seated position. When I'm reasonably sure we've returned to all four tires, and are moving in a forward direction, I shake my head.
"No," I say. "It has been a while since I've been out here, though, and it looks different."
"Don't look much different to me," he drawls.
My eyes slide over in his direction.
"Has it been a few years since you’ve seen it, too?"
He shakes his head.
"No, ma'am. This is my grandson's farm. I moved out here to be with him last year. I walk these fields just about every day."
"Isn't that nice," I say.
He performs a sudden and drastic swerve in the middle of the road, and I whip around to look through the back window. Nothing seems to be there that might have inspired the maneuver, which disturbs me more than if there actually was something. Suddenly I hear the crunch of gravel beneath the truck tires, and I look up to see the dark outlines of buildings just ahead. A sense of relief washes over me as I begin to recognize my surroundings more. It surprises me just how much I have forgotten the area that was once so familiar to me. I look around and know I'm
close to what was once my summer home. I know these are the fields I would count to determine how long it would be until we arrived at the house. I know I've ridden down this road countless times before in Gramps' pickup truck. He even taught me to drive along one of these back stretches. Yet as we draw closer to the house, I still feel strangely disconnected from everything.
As the country house begins to come into view, I feel especially relieved because right around the fourth inexplicable hairpin turn this man had taken on the way from the airport, I started to wonder if I had gotten into the truck with a complete stranger who had orchestrated a complex murder scheme. Thinking back, I probably should have waited for my driver to approach me rather than walking up to this man, the first person who looked like he might live out as far as Grammie, and asking him if he was my ride.
The truck barrels toward the sprawling house and finally pulls to a stop. I look through the truck window at Grammie's house and feel myself sink a little bit. The house looks tired of holding itself up, as though no one had been inside in a long time. But I know that's not true. Grammie is in there right now, and she needs me.
"Well, let's get a move on," the man who never introduced himself says. "That sky is looking mighty angry and likely to open up any second. I'll help with your luggage."
I open the door and gingerly climb out of the rusty, creaking truck. Walking around the back, I watch the man release the tailgate. He gets up on his toes and reaches for my suitcase. I'm stunned it's still there. With only the front bench in the cabin, the truck couldn't accommodate my carry-on, my oh-so-pleasant driver, me, and another huge bag, so I had no choice at the airport but to put it in the bed. At the time, of course, I didn't realize not tethering it down meant it would have to perform several death-defying feats just to make it to the house. But it has miraculously survived the drive, and now seems to be cowering from Old Man Driver at the back of the bed, as he reaches toward it with his skeletal fingers.
