That evening after collecting Caldwell and dining out, Lydia had words with him that inclined her to believe he might not love her so much after all.
“To make money a person needs to take some well-leveraged risks. Or just any risks, Lydia,” Caldwell had muttered as he ran his hand through his well-coiffed hair.
“Well risks aren’t everything, sweetheart. Although I guess being alive is something of a risk we all take. And you know, it is a risk to decide to be joyful. That’s what I’ve decided to be. Joyful.”
“For God’s sake. Do you have to keep spewing that drivel?” He rolled his eyes. It was something he did with increasing frequency these days. “New Age isn’t new anymore, you know,” he continued as his face became flushed. “You might want to try developing a brain cell for a change.”
Lydia lowered her gaze. She demurred, as she often did when she could see Caldwell was getting stressed, and said she would mention his new business idea to her lawyer.
“Oh for God’s sake!” He threw his hands in the air. He was only suggesting she invest some of her yearly disposable income, not shift her assets or renovate her portfolios. Her income was breathtaking from Caldwell’s perspective and he felt an urgency about its going to waste. He found spending money on simply enjoying life over the last two years was now beginning to feel a little hollow. He was a doer, a deal-maker, a mover, not some over-age gigolo. He still had ideas and great things to do. He had passion and imagination. All he needed was the start-up money.
Lydia, long made well aware of her poor grasp of money matters, had vowed never to invest without speaking to Jordan’s appointed advisers. Even if she could do what she chose with her own income, it was just one of the things that helped keep her mind clear. “It’s just how I do things, sweetheart. You have to understand this about me,” she said.
“I understand nothing about you,” Caldwell sputtered. “You abdicate your power at every turn. In fact it drives me crazy!” Caldwell straightened to his full height. “I just don’t know that I can put up with this anymore.” He strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him, got into his 1969 refurbished MG — a birthday gift from Lydia that year — and sped off into the night.
#
Lydia’s daughter, Mel, called about two weeks after Caldwell had driven away. “Mummy, are you okay? You sound like you’ve been crying.”
“Oh. I suppose I’m not exactly at my best.” Lydia tried laughingly in her Southern manner to keep the conversation light and pleasant, as she always did. But then her daughter asked about Caldwell and Lydia couldn’t hold back the tears.
Mel had trouble hiding her jubilation. Caldwell might finally be out of the picture. “Mummy, you know what we must do? We must take a week or two at Rosefields. It’s perfect this time of year. You know it will cheer you up.”
Rosefields, Lydia’s country estate three hours outside the city, was an old farm that had been in Jordan’s family for years and was completely rundown by the time he took it over. Jordan poured almost a million dollars into its restoration and expansion. He bought up adjoining farms too. The grand house became even grander, with several gardens, a patio that looked out over the hills and a pergola that framed the view. The old barn and sheds were rebuilt. A new horse stable and indoor riding arena were erected. The outbuildings were all state of the art inside but the exteriors matched the colonial style of the house. The same approach was taken for the new five-car garage with an apartment over it. There was a swimming pool in addition to the Great Pond. There were tennis courts, paddocks and numerous riding trails with jumps dotted here and there throughout the six hundred acres of fields and woods. Along with the horses, there was a flock of sheep and some barnyard chickens. At the far side of the property was the farm manager’s house, another fine if more modest example of colonial architecture. It too had been restored and the interior renovated to achieve modern functionality and comfort.
Lydia drove the three hours to Rosefields while Mel periodically quoted Steinem, Faludi and any other feminists she felt were relevant to her mother’s plight. Lydia had to remind her daughter that unlike her, she had not grown up privileged, had not gone to the best boarding schools and had certainly not been subjected to the dark expectations that women in prominent families often endured. No, Lydia had been raised simply, in a suburb of San Antonio. She was undoubtedly blessed and cursed with genes that had made her tall, attractive, photogenic and something of a prize in her youthful days. “I’ve always viewed that as providing opportunity, not some means of subjugation. Men are very susceptible you know. Am I supposed to ignore God-given appeal?” Why of course she got more attention than she wanted sometimes. And some of it not very pleasant either. But she hadn’t suffered. Not much. And she chose well. “Look where it got me! And who it got me!” Lydia reached out for Mel’s hand and smiled brightly as they cruised slowly up the quarter-mile driveway to the estate.
The paddocks on either side glowed with the green grass made even more brilliant by the darkened post-and-rail fences still wet from the rain a half hour before. Down the hill by the old weir where the Great Pond spilled into the creek, the honeysuckle were blushing as they nodded over the tumbling water. The hydrangeas opposite the five-car garage lolled in the gentle breeze, like a wave of cool magenta. As they got closer to the house, wild rose vines, white and pink with flowers, climbed the fences that overlooked the borders of mauve petunias. Two of the four mares Lydia owned had new foals and they were all out in the paddock closest to the house, prancing, kicking and chasing each other under the watchful eyes of their mothers. And watching over them, while weeding the oval garden, with its prize roses in front of the house, was Carl, the farm manager.
“Welcome to paradise,” Carl shouted as Lydia and Mel emerged from the Mercedes SUV.
“See?” Lydia said.
#
Country life was so good for the health. The mind could rest and the body flourish. Nothing like a hack through the woods on horseback and taking a few fences before breakfast. And nothing like planning some landscaping. On Carl’s advice, Lydia had decided to expand the pond. The land next to it was so poorly drained it wasn’t good for anything but it wasn’t wet enough to constitute a marsh either — Mel held the view that all marshes must be preserved. Lydia and her daughter helped Carl stake out the area. It would all be finished by the next time they came back. Then they could look out upon the Even Greater Pond of Rosefields.
The two weeks weren’t all bliss for Lydia though. Caldwell was often on her mind and knowing her daughter’s view of him she couldn’t talk about how much she missed him. They’d had no contact since he’d stormed out. She’d left two messages passing on appointment reminders: his yearly physical and another from his dentist. Caldwell had left a message saying he was going out West for three or four weeks. West would mean California or Utah. Maybe Washington. Caldwell had relatives in each place, though he was no longer on speaking terms with his son who was holed up in the mountains east of Seattle. Oddly, Caldwell also had relatives living not far from Rosefields. In fact as a teenager he’d spent three years with a cousin’s family about twenty miles east, right outside Hullbrooke, after his father disappeared. But in all the times he and Lydia had been at the estate, he’d never once tried to contact the Hullbrooke relatives.
Lydia didn’t know whether to wait and see if Caldwell would come back to her or to make some offer that might entice him. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to run Caldwell’s business idea by Cyrus. Her lawyer would have an opinion anyway. Lydia had no opinion at all about it, but Mel, ever mistrustful of Caldwell, saw it as utterly preposterous. It was nothing other than an investment scam to bilk her mother of her money and an invitation to get in bed with organized crime.
Lydia waited a few days. She served on a number of volunteer committees, and there were two luncheons and a charity auction coming up. She didn’t want to have her daughter’s admonishments and dark thoughts still running through her head when s
he talked to Cyrus. And maybe she wanted to have a chat with Corinna too. Corinna had become her newfound confidante; she worked at Lydia’s favorite spa. It was amazing how comforting it was to talk with that woman. Lydia knew she would feel much better about Caldwell after a facial. Corinna understood people’s hearts.
So as Corinna applied the final deep-penetrating herbal moisturizer, Lydia noticed she was feeling much happier. Corinna had pointed out that Lydia had lived most of her adult life without Caldwell and had not only survived but prospered. She would do so again. Whether he returned or stayed away need not affect her happiness. This was something of a revelation for Lydia. Corinna believed that for a woman of Lydia’s qualities and experience, a man should be no more than icing on the cake. And if he failed to meet the criteria of good icing, never mind caused her suffering, well she should move along and find herself a better batch of raspberry truffle buttercream, which was Lydia’s favorite.
When Lydia finally called the lawyer’s office, Cyrus was on holiday — Spain or Portugal, they thought — where he was incommunicado. “Is it an emergency?” the receptionist had asked, which meant, was it something a junior partner might be able to deal with? It occurred to Lydia that perhaps a more objective opinion might be helpful in this instance. “Yes,” she’d replied.
#
Three weeks later Lydia’s little team of lawyers and accountants held a meeting. Before them was the quintessential opportunity to implement dearly departed Jordan’s Plan D — What to Do If Lydia Is Smitten With a High Risk Investment. Luther Cohen, the junior partner from Cyrus’s firm, was pumped. And he’d been doing his homework. Since meeting with Lydia he’d spent three weekends and almost every evening digging through journal articles, corporate legal history, financial reports and everything he could get his hands on about cannabis. Yes indeed! Good old weed! He’d never imagined a plant could have such a long and varied involvement with the human race. Or such a bizarre and calamitous legal history. It had been used for everything from building materials and clothing to medicine and sacred rituals. Given its utility it was astonishing that it had also become illegal and so vilified.
“Look at the history of liquor after prohibition.” Luther’s finely drawn jaw fairly jutted with eager confidence. He was a clean-shaven fellow, though long hours with his head in case files often found him sporting a dark shadow, and his unruly dark locks had to be kept in line by frequent visits to the barber. He cleared his throat. “We need to be very medically minded to get our foot in the door. Make the application cut. But personally I think we have to look to the future. And it looks like it’s bound for pleasure, not prescriptions.” He grinned at everyone as he moved to the next slide and even his glasses seemed to glint with excitement. Not being blessed with any great height, Luther cultivated a trim, dapper and energetic image that best staged an intellect he regarded as more shrewd than brilliant. His brains got him where he wanted to go and that was the main thing.
The younger generation at the meeting all agreed, recreational marijuana use was just a matter of time. The feds, the FDA and the DEA were gradually losing their teeth on this as states opted for legalization. Once it went recreational, the medicinal side of the industry would probably operate like herbal supplements. Or maybe it would disappear altogether. Drug companies would probably never be able to generate sufficient returns on research investment. Regardless, the money would be in recreational.
Malcolm, Lydia’s accountant and financial whiz, was initially appalled they had even contemplated this meeting. His son had blown so much white stuff up his nose, Malcolm had to take custody of his grandchildren. But the previous Friday night over drinks and oysters, Cyrus had reminded Malcolm about a small matter only the two of them knew anything about: the significant sums Jordan had left in accounts elsewhere, offshore and deemed very . . . un-American. The funds had been languishing for such a Plan D. So Malcolm reached for another oyster, sucked the slimy thing down in one gulp and blinked a few times. “Yes,” he said still blinking. “Quite right.” The rumors and hype were worth consideration. The future of marijuana was looming. It really could be the Next Big Thing.
And so the meeting had gone on for a full morning, Luther not once waning in his enthusiasm, while the others weighed risks and considered the devilish details. By the end of it they agreed Lydia’s estate should throw its hat into the application process. The state would award licenses to only fifteen companies and they would be allowed two dispensaries each. Luther had heard rumors that several hundred applications were expected. They’d need to get up to speed quickly and of course milk any contacts that could be advantageous. And Lydia should be called immediately. They wanted to see Caldwell’s business plan.
#
Lydia phoned Caldwell to tell him the news. She told herself she must remain measured and calm. Corinna had advised she not roll over like an abandoned spaniel. She would be pleasant but cool as a cucumber for at least another month or so. It would give him lots of time to notice what he was missing. After talking to Corinna, Lydia realized she was still smarting from Caldwell’s comment about her brain cells. He’d gone back to his studio apartment over the laundromat in Queens. Maybe a little more time there in the summer heat might lead him to revise his opinion.
But Caldwell had been busy. Crazy busy, like a dog in a slaughterhouse boneyard. He hadn’t stopped since he’d left Lydia’s. He’d been calling everyone with whom he was still on speaking terms. He’d been reaching out to contacts of old contacts, especially if the original contacts were dead and buried. He was hoping to drum up any kind of investment money. This new project took hold of him in a way he’d never felt before. He was obsessed with growing a plant that defied all simple definition. It was legal. It was not legal. It was a wonder drug. It was a curse. It was risky. But whatever way he looked at it, the payoff would be enormous. He was hooked. He’d even used the tiny bit of money that remained in his San Francisco bank account to fly around the country. As it turned out, he did have contacts. His year hiding in the old beat-up Airstream along the Green River had not been a wasted one. It led him straight to Colorado, the holy land of weed’s second coming. Turned out Caldwell wasn’t the only genius hiding between the towering mesas watching the river flow and the cryptobiotic crusts form.
Lydia instructed him that the advisers would need to see a business plan. It dawned on Caldwell during this conversation that the money being considered far exceeded the five-figure scraps he was hoping for from Lydia’s income. This would mean hundreds of thousands, possibly millions of dollars. It was extraordinary. It could mean only one thing: Lydia’s advisers, stalwart professionals all, clearly had faith in him. He could finally build a great company, maybe even an international one. He would revolutionize the marijuana industry. Destiny was singling him out. The realization brought him to tears. “Lydia,” he said choking up, “you don’t know how much this means to me.”
Normally Lydia would have been brought to tears herself by Caldwell’s response. His uninhibited expressiveness was one of the things that impressed her most about him. A man who could cry. It touched her deeply. But this time she was not so moved. Perhaps it was the memory of Mel’s sulky, mean-spirited observation about this. “Sure, and he has all the impulse control of a six-year-old to go with it.” Or perhaps it was the unhurried and very practical tone Cyrus had taken when he spoke to her about the matter. Anyway, Lydia did not cry this time. “Well, that’s a happy outcome, I guess. The meeting is next Tuesday at nine thirty.” She went on to give him the address and parking information. “See you then.” She put down the phone and smiled to herself. Corinna was right. Being cool with Caldwell was actually very easy.
Chapter 3
“I can’t even.”
“That’s just not possible!”
“Seriously. Hullbrooke?”
It was a warm and clammy evening. Three young men sat slumped in a swing seat on the veranda. They were friends from early childhood and had many things
in common. They all lived in the old residential section of Lyston and spent long hours gaming in each other’s basements. They hated school. They’d always hated school. They’d all been kept back at least once at various grades by concerned parents, psychologists or teachers who’d fussed about their emotional development, the stress of remarriage families and a litany of cognitive challenges including myopia, possible dyscalculia, probable language-processing disorder, delayed executive functioning and the old standby, attention deficit disorder. As the young men saw it, they’d soon be ditching the Ritalin and coming to the end of their high-school careers. They had better things to do and better drugs to use. In fact in this last regard they had long been devotees of the humblest of them.
From time to time their faces were softly lit by the glow from their cell phones.
“I’m tellin’ ya, Hullbrooke’s got a lit skate park! It’s awesome AF.”
“Awesome as fuck? Hullbrooke’s not even on the map!”
“Map’s basic. Find a local one.”
“It’s like two hundred people maybe!”
“More. They got three pizza places.”
“So. Nothin’ else there.”
“Yeah. See. It’s got a hardware store. Gas stations.”
“Tavern.”
“So?”
“Tellin’ ya, bro. This park is lit. Ginormi. Like a football field!”
The Buds Are Calling Page 2