I furrowed my brow at the paper. I had known that my mom had been an activist in her earlier years, but until Marcie had talked to me, I’d never heard things like this—I had thought she’d simply been passionate about environmental topics.
But my mom really had been against the idea of a bridge. When Marcie had mentioned it earlier, I thought she might have been bluffing or misremembering. But this was clear as day.
The second piece of paper I pulled out was another copy of something, this time much smaller. It was a clipping from the newspaper, from the same year as the police report.
The headline read Bridge Proposal Denied; Residents Speak Out, and the article itself was mostly a collection of comments residents had made at a public hearing, many years ago. One of them was from my mother.
Barbara Bell, co-owner of Bell Camera: “I love this island, and I plan to make it my home for the rest of my life. I don’t want it to become another homogeneous part of Seattle. I hope that Kinley can keep its character forever, as somewhere I can raise my future children and grandchildren.”
There were a few other scraps like this in the envelope—so many things my mom had said in her twenties, describing how much she disapproved of bridge proposals.
There hadn’t been a bridge proposal in Kinley since I was four years old. Throughout my childhood, the topic hadn’t come up, and my mother had moved onto issues that she became much more passionate about. She was a champion of the environment, volunteering even for things like trash pick-up all around the island, but there had never even been a question that a bridge wouldn’t be built.
I’d had no idea she was so passionate about it earlier in her life.
The last clipping in the envelope was a simple picture: my mom, holding me as an infant in her arms, my dad nearby. They were smiling, and the caption under the photo was simple.
Barbara Bell with her one-year-old son Gavin and husband John, outside Bell Camera.
I hadn’t thought it was possible to cry more tonight—I had already done it more in one night than I had in years. But the contents of the envelope were like nothing I’d ever seen.
How had my father kept this from me?
I didn’t speak to him often, but at least once in the last eighteen months, I’d mentioned the bridge project to him.
He hadn’t said a word about my mother protesting them.
All he’d wanted to know was how much money Alto stood to make from the project.
And that was what devastated me more than anything. Not the fact that my mother would have hated what I was doing, but the fact that there was a whole side to her that I’d never even known. If she’d still been alive, I would have been able to talk with her about everything.
But I’d never get that chance.
I stuffed all of the papers back in the envelope and scrubbed my palms over my face, leaning back to look up at the sky.
I’d been trying to get the project off the ground by using my mom as an example, and she would have hated every minute of it.
I collapsed to the ground, hitting the gravel hard, as sobs overtook me again.
“There’s got to be another way,” I said. My voice sounded strange, cold and emotionless, but it was only because I was afraid if I showed any more emotion, I would crack and break into tears again.
“I’m sorry, what?” Vance said.
He’d been in bed when I arrived at his cottage. It wasn’t too early—couldn’t have been past six in the morning, and I knew Vance got up at five. But apparently after celebratory drinks last night, he’d decided to sleep in. Now, he was sitting at the edge of the mattress, still in his sleep shirt and shorts, scratching his head as he looked up at me.
“We can’t do it the way we’ve been planning,” I said, shaking my head. “We can’t.”
He wiped at his eyes, standing up and taking a step closer to me. “Jesus, Gavin, you’re—you’re still in your clothes from last night. Did you sleep?”
I shook my head.
“But you always sleep,” he said.
“Last night was… not easy for me, Vance,” I said. “But it’s for the better. I needed that pain to know the right thing to do. I’m… I’m…”
I trailed off, slumping onto the mattress next to him, lying back and staring up at the ceiling. The sun was only just starting to come up, a pale, pinkish sunrise peeking through the windows.
“Are you okay?” Vance asked. He was already up, opening his mini fridge and pulling out a cold bottle of water for me. “Drink this. Jesus. When was the last time you ate? Where have you been all night?”
I sat up, accepting the water and chugging half the bottle at once. “Out at the water,” I said.
Vance eyed me quizzically. “Doing what?”
I was silent for a moment. “If I picture myself, ten years from now, with all of my goals successfully completed, it doesn’t feel right,” I said.
“Gavin…”
“I mean it,” I said. “Every single one of them. Envisioning the bridge, gleaming and fully built, developments in Kinley successful and more underway, the island turning into the next neighborhood of Seattle. I can picture it so clearly. It’s all I’ve been doing for months. But you know what I haven’t been picturing? My own life.”
Vance watched, waiting.
“What will I have to show for any of it, other than a bunch of money and thousands of people who hate me? A best friend who I’ve made an enemy of, and my mother, rolling in her fucking grave because I’ve done something so wrong?”
“Jesus, Bell, your mother would be proud—”
“No,” I said. “Nobody would be proud. A select few people would be richer, and so many more would be hurt.”
“Right,” he said, skeptical. He clearly thought I was out of my mind. “Okay. Well, I can’t believe I’m the one saying this to you, but you probably need to get a proper sleep before you do anything else today.”
I nodded vigorously. “And usually, I’d agree with you. But this is different. Everything—god, everything has changed.”
“You didn’t take LSD or something, right?”
I sighed. “No. I’m as sober as I’ve ever been. But... we can’t build the bridge.”
His expression flattened, like I’d just told him I was going to jump to the moon. “Oh. So you definitely need a good night’s rest.”
I shook my head. “We can’t build it. Not like we’d been planning.”
“Go sleep.”
“I need you to call a meeting with everyone. The team, hell, maybe conference in with Dieter and Rothford, all the other firms.”
“I’m protecting you from yourself, Gavin, and the answer is no. You’re going to wake up in twelve hours and ask me what you were even saying right now, because you’re delirious.”
“Show some respect, Vance!”
It wasn’t something I’d ever had to say to him before. It almost felt ridiculous—Vance did respect me, more than anyone. But this was the first time he’d ever challenged me this much.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I understand that this is… shocking. But we can still develop on Kinley without the bridge. We can still make money. Just not this way.”
“What are you talking about?”
I shook my head, staring out the window. “I’ve been trying to make Kinley the next neighborhood of Seattle,” I said. “But what we need to do is make Kinley the best version of itself.”
Vance didn’t look enthused, but after a pause, he nodded at me to continue.
“So we can develop. We fund a hospital. We improve the roads. We build residences—but not twenty-story glass highrises. We invest in better ferries instead of a bridge. Hell, all of it will cost a quarter of what the bridge would cost. And people come to Kinley because it’s unique, not because it’s more of the same. This is something the people would want and we would want, too. We’d make far less profit, but still stand to make more than enough. That isn’t what’s important.”
“But...
that’s what’s always been most important to you,” Vance said. “Money.”
“No. Success has been important to me. But if we build the bridge, it won’t be true success. It never will be. Did you hear how Royce was talking about the island residents? Saying they’re just dollar signs to him?”
He shrugged. “Yes. Sounds like business as usual.”
“Sounds inhumane,” I said, shaking my head. “Every project I’ve been involved with in my career so far has been different from this. In Seattle we were solving problems, not creating them. And I thought we were going to be solving one in Kinley, but all we’ve done is make a huge fucking mess. And it took last night to make me see it.”
“You knew the hearing wasn’t going to go well!”
I paused, taking a deep breath. “It’s not just about the hearing, Vance. It’s everything.”
Vance let out a long, exasperated sigh, raking his hands through his hair. “Listen,” he said, his eyes wide. “You have an interview on TV tonight, and you need to be in a sane state of mind before it happens. I don’t care what you have to do—intense meditation, chanting, lying around in a damn hammock—you need to get some sleep, and then take a nice, long shower when you wake up.”
I shook my head. “I told you. I know it seems sudden. And… it is. But my intuition feels more in tune than it has in months.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I might go for a run, actually.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“No,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m finally doing the right thing.”
All Around Kinley was a night-time talk show that aired only on Kinley’s own small local TV station. From what I remembered, channel twelve usually played infomercials for the first half of the day, a couple talk shows aired in the afternoons and evenings, and the rest was dead air.
I had almost forgotten that All Around Kinley existed until I’d set up this interview, but it was a widely watched program on the island, even if its target demographic was mostly elderly people. The show had always been on the old TV in my parents’ house every Saturday night, and while I’d had zero interest in it as a kid, I remembered the show well.
The studio was in an old, nondescript brick building, down the street from Kinley High. I’d walked past it hundreds of times without ever knowing that it was the station. But immediately after walking in it was obvious—there was the small set at the front of the room, bathed in spotlights: two tall chairs with some plants and a table in between them. I hadn’t seen All Around Kinley in probably fifteen years, but I still recognized the set from so many years ago. It hadn’t changed a bit.
I was greeted by Helena, the production assistant who I’d been speaking with over email for the past few weeks. I was worried that she might be cold to me—she was a Kinley Island resident, after all—but she was cordial and professional as ever.
Time was passing in a quasi-unreal state. I’d been deliriously tired for hours, but I was also completely wired, like I’d downed eight cups of coffee on an empty stomach. I’d gone on a long run, taken a long shower, and spent hours agonizing over the future plans for Kinley. I’d written countless goals in my journal and pored over some rough budgeting sheets, trying to decide what would be feasible with the new plan.
I hadn’t spoken with anyone on my team all day. I was more than a little anxious about it, and I knew I’d receive a similar reaction to Vance’s.
After arriving at the studio I asked if there would be hair and makeup assistance. Helena looked at me like I was nuts. I’d appeared on Seattle investment talk shows a few times and it had always been standard, but I realized now that this was a whole different ball-game.
So I sat in the back hall, perched at the edge of a metal bench, and I waited. I got up and paced the hall when sitting didn’t feel right anymore, and I felt like my whole body might vibrate out of existence.
It was such a different nervous feeling than the one I’d had last night. I had known that a whole island of people would be going against me last night, but I had planned for that for a long time.
Tonight was going to be something entirely different. I was going in unplanned, unprepared, and ready to speak from the heart. And I was fully aware that it might destroy my career, but I had to do it.
Twenty minutes later, David Enderfield, the host of All Around Kinley, appeared in front of me, smiling wide and shaking my hand.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Bell,” he said. It was so strange to see a face I’d known from TV so long ago, right in front of me and twenty years older than I’d remembered it. He still looked damn good, a classic TV face and a well-manicured salt-and-pepper beard.
“Very good to meet you, too. I’m excited to be on the show.”
“I bet you are, after last night.”
“You were at the hearing?”
He nodded once. “I was indeed. It was a very unique experience.”
I was continually surprised as I realized that people weren’t immediately acting hostile toward me after last night. At this point, I figured I deserved it—but all I’d seen since was kindness and respect.
“We ready in five?” David asked Helena, and she nodded.
“Feel free to take your seat, Mr. Bell,” she said.
There were only two camera operators, no teleprompter, and no fanfare as the minutes counted down toward going live on air.
Everything was relaxed, even though my insides were doing backflips over themselves.
“Mr. Enderfield,” I said, one minute before air.
“Call me David. What’s up?” he said, adjusting his tie as he lifted an eyebrow at me.
“David. Thank you for this opportunity,” I said. “I mean it. And… don’t be alarmed by what I’m going to say on air. It’s different from the script draft I sent your team.”
He paused, furrowing his brow. “Different how, exactly?”
“A lot different.”
“Mr. Bell—a loose version of the script has to be approved before we can conduct the interview—”
“And, ten seconds!” Helena shouted from behind the cameras, continuing the countdown with her fingers.
“It’ll be okay,” I said, looking David in the eye. “I promise.”
“This isn’t acceptable,” he said.
“Five! Four! Three!”
The last two numbers were counted in silence, and then I saw as a large red light illuminated over each camera in front of me. David collected himself quickly, knowing he had no other option, and he began the show.
I waited as he made his usual introductions, and then he welcomed me onto the show.
“Thank you so much, David,” I said.
“Thank you for being with us,” he said. “Now, I was at the public hearing for the bridge project last night, and I know lots of our viewers were, too. I wanted to start today by asking: how did it feel? Did you anticipate such a high turnout?”
I nodded. “I’m glad you brought it up. While we did expect a high turnout, it was incredible to see so many passionate residents all collected in one space. I…” I cleared my throat, taking a deep breath. “I actually don’t want to talk about last night, though. There’s something crucial that I’d like to discuss today.”
David’s face froze. “But—you’re here today to talk about the bridge, correct, Mr. Bell? We need to go over what happened last night, if we are going to talk about the bridge project at all.”
I swallowed. I looked out at the cameras, pointed at me like big, dark eyes. The lights overhead were hot, just like the ones at the hearing last night, but this time it felt different. More claustrophobic, even more intense, in a way. I knew that even though this room was small, the same number of faces as I’d seen last night in the gym were probably watching the show right now. Maybe even more.
“I have something to say to the people of Kinley Island,” I said, swallowing hard. “I am going to pull my company, Alto Ventures, out of the Kinley Island bridge project. As of
today, Alto will no longer be one of the main investors on the project.”
“What?” Helena said from behind the cameras. Immediately she cupped her hand over her mouth. I got the impression that she’d probably never accidentally spoken while on air before.
David coughed like he’d just choked on something. He looked behind him, all around the studio, as if he thought he was being pranked.
“D—do you mean that you’ll be changing how you plan to build the bridge, Mr. Bell?”
I shook my head. “No. I will no longer support the building of a bridge to Kinley Island.”
A slow smile spread across his face. He turned to the camera, cocking his head to one side. “Well, you heard it here first, ladies and gentleman.”
I recognized that gleam in his eye. David knew that no matter what, the recording of this clip was going to go viral online very quickly. I wasn’t sure whether he believed me yet or not, but he sure as hell knew that his local show was going to be a household name in all of Washington overnight. Hell, maybe even nationwide. I could see the headlines now: Seattle Investor Has Total Meltdown on TV.
But I didn’t care. It was worth it.
For the next half hour, I talked with David, in fairly vague terms, about why I was deciding to pull Alto out of the project. As we spoke, I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket incessantly. This show was being aired live, and I could picture the types of messages and calls I must have been getting from various levels of my company.
It was the kind of thing that I would have called a nightmare, just a few months ago. Knowing so fully that what I was doing would upend my company completely, and blindly going forward with it anyway. Without a plan. Without forethought.
But as I spoke, I didn’t think about any of the thousands of people on the island who might have been watching. I didn’t think about the people in Seattle who would likely want to wring my neck, or the business contacts that I was inevitably burning bridges with, literally and figuratively.
I thought about Hunter, and I thought about my mom.
I thought about what he would think about what I was saying, and hoped that he would be proud. I imagined that if my mom was looking down at me, she would be pumping her fist in the air, cheering at the decision I had made.
Come Home Page 19
