Caribbean Crossroads (31 page)

Bryant turned at hearing her footfall. “Leaving early?”

“Thought so, I—” She had been about to say couldn’t sleep but only said, “Couldn’t waste this kind of morning.” Which was true.

He stood up and gave her his chair, then sat one leg on the corner of the large wooden picnic table, his arms folded. Megan sat down, both of them staring out at the garden—golden light filtering through the variegated leaves, the cobblestone paths, and old stone fountains now still.

For a few minutes they enjoyed the garden silence.

“My mom and sister appreciate all you’ve done,” Bryant said.

“It’s not been much.”

“And with Jakey,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her. “I think especially with Jakey.”

Megan smiled. “He is so like my brothers.” Thinking it sounded too personal but not knowing what else to say, she crossed her legs and looked out at the lush landscape. When had it become so hard to talk to each other? Probably since they got the job offer. And she had told him to leave Nevada. And made him pass all kinds of ridiculous made-up tests that now made her cringe.

A bluebird chirped from the lonely copse of Aspens. A tension began to fill the small space between them, a humming kind of feeling that seemed to suddenly crackle. She could feel something coming and began searching for a way out.

“It’s gonna be hot today,” he said.

“I know. I should really get a head start,” she said, and rose to leave. He sat where he was but reached out one arm to the side to stop her. “Just a minute.”

She paused, and turned her face to him, not moving closer. Gently, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. She leaned into his chest, looking out at the intricate garden. Where did they go from here? It was all winding paths and forks in the road, and she desperately needed to know which one to take.

He paused then said in a slow clear voice, “I’m at the yard now.” He dipped toward her head. “For good.”

Like a punctured ball, her insides folded into one another. Megan knew what he meant. He’d made his decision. And ironically, it was the stable choice she had originally wanted. Before Mrs. V.’s job offer. He was saying she could do whatever she liked, take whatever job was offered, he wouldn’t stand in her way. But he wouldn’t wait around for two years while she figured things out either.

Of course not. Now she had to choose for herself—be that freedom-fighting Megan taking the new road without letting a guy determine her life, or work through her emotional stuff in small-town USA and hope in the process she could ultimately keep Bryant.

Either way, time had officially run out for her. The tears were expected—though she’d never let him see—but the squeezing sensation in her lungs surprised her. She focused on breathing normally.

It occurred to her that he was waiting for a reply.

“I understand,” she said. But she didn’t. Not any of it. Not him, not what he said, how she felt or why she couldn’t throw her arms around him and never leave.

They stood in silence for a moment. Nestled close to her hair she felt him nod, curt and final. Still they stood, neither opting to go. The same bird called to its mate, a lonely, mourning kind of sound. It didn’t fit with the shimmering sunlight and evergreen branches.

He kissed the top of her head. The squeezing in her lungs became unbearable. Disengaging, she turned and walked robot-like, picking up her travel bag, focusing on the door, then the front stoop, then her car. Like a dream, she pulled out of the driveway, ignoring the image from the corner of her eye—of Bryant now standing on the stairs, watching her go.

***

Six weeks.

Leaning back in the old office chair, Bryant looked out the west office window but without seeing. He knew that wasn't much time to decide what to do about Megan McCormick. Six weeks and she'd be gone. Mrs. V. had said it was a two-year commitment. Either he let her go fulfill her dream, or he did what he really wanted to do—drive up and drag her back like a sheik claiming his harem prize. That seemed to be the only thing that could work with her.

Bryant tossed a miniature hard basketball onto a matching miniature backboard hanging on the trailer wall by the window. It bounced back to him. He bounced it several times on the same worn spot and each time it came back. He surveyed the busy yard. Same old yard, same old day. Same old problem with Megan. And no real solution in sight. Yes, he could go and stand in her apartment and beg her to be with him. But he was sick of begging. If she wasn't ready, she wasn't ready. And all the pleading in the world wouldn't change that. He had to face the truth: this was out of his control and there was nothing he could do about it but wait or move on.

 Neither option looked good.

Bryant swung around, staring at the dust-covered office. “Command Central” Megan had called it. He laughed, a short, deprecating one. The “office” had been a double-wide trailer, which had been added onto and make-shifted into an office space. His dad hated to spend money. “Why build a new office when this one works just fine?” Except in winter, when the heater malfunctioned. Or summer, when the fan blew nothing but hot air.

The whining sound of buzzing saws and men hollering back and forth came to him through the closed window. He heard the beep of the forklift as it backed up to load another order of lumber. Bryant put hands behind his head, thinking about the years of working in this same office—since he was five. He could remember running in and his dad saying, “Get a hard hat on son, this ain’t no play-place here.” And Ross, with his big belly even way back then overhanging suspender-held Wranglers—always Wranglers. And his worn out cowboy boots, and his kicking off the dirt by smacking the stair tread every time he entered. Ross had a year, maybe two left, especially after his double bypass. Already it was hard for him to work part-time.

Bryant shook his head. Whichever way he sliced it, this yard was part of his future, like it or not. Now it was time to accept it. Still no major solution had come from the sky, though he’d been looking. If only something pulled him, made sense to him, something that said yes, this is what I should do with my life.

Megan.

Surprising him came the clear picture of her sitting by the lake, laughing about their childhoods. Megan sitting on his lap at her office, eyes wide and childlike, telling him she couldn’t go. Megan pulling the sliver from Jakey’s hand, talking to him sweetly, right over there on that desk. Megan standing in his arms on the deck, leaving. Always Megan. Always leaving. Why did she resist so much? Why did he care so much? There were a hundred girls who showed interest. Well, not a hundred, but more than her, and more predictable, that was for sure. She was like the late summer sky—warm and inviting one minute, crackling thunder and lightning the next. Who needed this kind of stress?

He shook his head. Where did he go with either choice? He didn’t want to work at the yard, but that’s where fate pushed him. He wanted Megan but she and fate actively pushed him back.

The metal door swung open with a squeak. Bertie entered and stood in a kind of hesitant nervous way. At 24 and looking like an Ivy League computer nerd, he was completely out of place at the yard. But an internship two years before had made him useful in the legal department and indispensable in the accounting department, as he was the only employee in both.

“What’s up, Bert, my man?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking.” He looked around the office and through the window to his right.

“I’ve told you before, Bertie, that’ll get you nowhere around here.”

He half-heartedly smiled. “If you have a minute, can I run something by you?”

Bryant pointed for him to have a seat. “Hit me with it.”

Bertie took a minute, looking at the rolled up scroll of paper in his hand, then decisively said, “Where do you see the yard going, in the future, I mean?”

Bryant sat up. “No idea. Why?”

He took a perceptive breath then let it fly. “Well, I have some ideas, if you’re interested. The yard is in decent shape for now, financially and physically, though it could use some upgrades. But if we want to compete, really compete, we need to go online, get more technology involved on the lumber side, and network with local and regional connections to push sales.”

“Okay,” said Bryant slowly. “What would that look like?”

Bertie’s right leg started moving up and down. He played with the paper in his hand. “We could start with a few things, just to get the wheels really rolling. Now that we’re selling directly to more retail stores, we could build a more loyal clientele by being the connection to the products. Work with better wholesalers up and down the west coast. There are five right here in our local region, another eight within twelve hours of us to the north and south. These are solid suppliers, people who could get us better and niche lumber for cheaper prices, all depending on their market prices.”

Bertie’s legs were bobbing up and down so quickly Bryant thought he might take flight.

“We could personally visit the stores, hand pick the specialty ones, and do like a mass road trip. Go meet and shake hands, schmooze and tell them the kind of business we do yearly and what needs we have. It’s a scratch-the-backs kind of deal: they get us better prices, we deliver more orders. If they make us their number one go-to, they become our first referral to customers.”

Bryant nodded—thinking, envisioning. “The only problem is I’m not a salesman. That’s Dad’s job.”

“You’ve been a salesman for the past three years.”

“And hated every minute of it.”

“But you can
sell.
”

“Since when?”

“Since you were twelve. You’re a natural. People trust you and you know what you’re talking about. And that’s why the technology angle has to involve you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, we need a personal touch to it. We can have online access for customers at the retail locations. Here too,” he gestured to the window at the showroom. “At a touch, customers can see the wood samples and not just in small squares but a whole room in a house. By pressing a button they can see exactly how it would look in a large space. But the personal touch”—he was sweating the excitement was coming so fast—“is you. You’re the connector. ‘Ask Bry, the Lumber Guy.’ What do you think?”

Bryant was speechless.

“You’ve got that kind of face that chicks and old grannies love. You’d be wearing an official Johnson Lumber shirt and a friendly smile, right there on the home screen. And the women push that button right below it and bam, their home dreams come true.”

“Wow.” It was almost nauseating but he couldn’t dismiss that Bertie had a point—several, and on a few fronts.

“Listen, your dad is a good man. He likes things done the old-fashioned way, and that’s fine. Mitch is a great guy too, but he’s been busy with his kids, and I know he’s been job hunting so he’s basically been pinch-hitting. But I’m thinking, now that you’re here, you’ve got some energy, some vision. You could do something with this place.”

“A mass road trip, huh?”

“Five or six days tops. Nail it down with the wholesalers and store managers, in person.”

“What about the yard?”

“Ross can deal with it, a lot better than he lets on. Of course, actually walking around and doing something might put him in traction for a week afterward, but that’s life.”

Bryant tapped his fingers on the chair handle. “This is sounding pretty good, Bert-man. What about the online side. I know zero about technology on that level. And to be honest, it sounds expensive.”

“Look, it’s either that or eventually we die on the vine. Or in the yard. Literally. I’ve been doing the numbers for a couple of years. The cost for change-ups isn’t too bad when you think of the results. A simple website based off a blog template is cheap and easy to manage. Customers make their choices using the online information, e-mail for a consult, or pre-order after they’ve already done most of the work. If they want to come here, you bet. That’s where the ‘Ask Bry’ buttons come in, big ones that we all wear, like a bright orange or green. It’s unusual—I mean, Bry, what kind of a name is that, right? Well, I mean—”

“No offense taken.”

“Okay then.” Bertie shifted again. “I’ve got a friend who could do the site, easy.” Bryant looked doubtful. “Seriously, he’s home from MIT. He’s got a couple of weeks before he starts his new job, and he could use something fun, really power up a site this simple.”

“This would be fun?”

“You haven’t met my friend. Nerd does not begin to do him justice.”

Bryant leaned forward on the desk. He should run it by Dad, but he was in the hospital. He would run it by Mitch, but what could he do with it? It was up to Bryant, bottom-line, and about time he acted like it. “Okay, Bert-man. Work up the numbers, the time frame, contacts, all that jazz and if it looks good, let’s do it.”

“Seriously? Man, that’s great, wow, that’s . . . I’m telling you, a few months from now you’ll be living the life.”

Bryant shook his head. “I’m holding you to it.”

Two weeks later, Bertie hurried up to Bryant in the middle of the yard, bundled up in a parka and woolen beanie though it was 65 degrees.

“Bertie, you look like you’ve had one too many sodas. What’s got you all worked up?”

“It’s done, Bryant, the whole thing.” He handed off a red presentation folder to Bryant, who quickly thumbed through it. “If you can swing it, go to the office, I’ve got it online. The computer desk stuff for the customers is supposed to come this afternoon, and check these out.” Bertie opened a black duffel bag to show DVDs, binders, and new color hats, shirts, and “Ask Bry” buttons. Standing like a high-schooler waiting for his test score, Bryant glanced at the products. He was impressed. Very impressed.

“I think you deserve a bonus, Bertie,” said Bryant, grinning. “I’m taking you to Arby’s.”

Bertie’s face fell. Bryant laughed out loud as he grabbed him by the shoulder and headed to the showroom.

***

Four days later, Bryant was in yet another hotel room. Bertie grabbed his shoes and said, “I’m getting food. Be right back.”