Undertow (Dragonfly)

by Moore, Leigh Talbert

  Her trip home for the summer was also taking the pressure off me being in school. Lexy and Meg spent almost every day together, and as a result, Meg completely stopped nagging me about my course load. I imagined Lexy must’ve talked some sense into her. If we were going to do all the things we’d planned, somebody had to bust his ass.

  The only problem with summer was that it ended. Fast. It was so much easier for me to concentrate on my classes knowing Meg had someone keeping her away from that Hayes woman. I was sorry Lexy was heading back to Savannah, but we all had things we were working on.

  Bryant and I decided to have a meeting to see where we stood and what still needed to be done, and I was pleased with our progress.

  “My dad’s got some good ideas for roofers,” Bryant said, flipping through the small notebook he always carried. “And he’s found this guy in Destin who’s working on a way to reinforce the walls to get them to Cat 5 zoning cheaper. I’m going to meet with him next week.”

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  “How’s school coming?” he asked.

  “Getting there.” I had my calendar out, counting off the months until I was free. “I think eight’s my limit, but that still should put me finishing in two and a half years. And I’ve had a few professors give me names of potential investors in Atlanta. You and I should go out there by Christmas and start feeling them out.”

  “I’m in. Just tell me when and where.” He folded his book, and put it in his front pocket.

  I figured I’d run my other idea past him now that we were close to starting. “What do you think about bringing Lexy onboard to head up marketing and design?”

  “Lexy?” His brow creased, and he rubbed his chin. “I thought she hated our ideas. What changed her mind?”

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s changed or not,” I said, my hands going to my pockets. “But I was thinking about approaching her with an offer. If you’re in agreement.”

  “You know I trust you, Bill. Need me to do anything?”

  I smiled. “Doubt it. I’ll let you know. For now, I’m just pushing through as fast as I can.”

  “We’ll get there,” he said.

  That’s what I like about Bryant. He’s straightforward, cut and dried. You always know where you stand. He isn’t trying to pull any fast ones, and he’s always ready to offer a hand. Partners like him aren’t easy to find. I’m lucky our dads were friends.

  I couldn’t remember not knowing Bryant, and I was looking forward to the day when these preliminaries were done and he and I could show this town what we could really accomplish.

  I drove out that evening to the Romar Beach Pavilion and parked the truck. To the east there were a few old motel buildings. What was left after Frederick flattened this place a few years back. They were low-end and crummy, typical South County fare. People didn’t expect luxury down here, they just wanted to bring the kids and flop out on the sand. Drink beer and fire up the grill.

  I got out and walked down to the shore. The sun was setting to my right, and the sky was lit a brilliant pink color. With the help of these blue waters and shimmering white sands, I was going to change all of this. Those rednecks could stay up in Dolphin Shores or Port Hogan, but East End Beach was going to be different. The Phoenician complexes would be replete with luxury and high-end opulence.

  But the clock was ticking. I knew I wasn’t the only one with these ideas. We had to get here first. I had to be the one to stake that initial claim on these acres of sand just begging to be developed. In ten years’ time, you wouldn’t recognize this place, and it would all be the result of one man’s dream.

  I grinned. One man’s dream. Bryant would love that. Okay, one man’s dream and the belief and support of his best friends. We were all working hard, and it was going to pay off. Patience was the hardest part.

  Sept. 7, 19--

  The death of Meg’s father was an unexpected blow. First week of classes, and I got the call to come home right away. Luckily, since it was the first week, I wouldn’t get too far behind, and a death so close in the family warranted a few days off.

  Naturally, Meg and her mother were a wreck, so I took over all the business arrangements, settling up the finances, and making sure Mrs. Weaver was taken care of.

  I liked Dr. Weaver, but he was always more like the wrath of God waiting to hit me over the head if I screwed up than a kindly father-in-law. I didn’t think he ever approved of me dating Meg, even when we were in high school, much less our getting married. Still, I liked to think I’d begun proving myself to him toward the end. He didn’t seem to scowl at me so much, although that could’ve been Will’s doing. He softened up a lot once that little guy made his appearance.

  Dr. Weaver was originally from Birmingham, so many of his relatives would be driving or flying in for the funeral and then heading back out almost immediately after. Luckily the old Magnolia Hotel in Fairview was still in operation. It needed restoring badly, but it would do for the large group we were expecting.

  Meg called Lexy, and she was coming back for the funeral. I was surprised she could get the time off from school, but it was her first week of classes, too. She probably had plenty of time to get caught up on what she’d miss.

  Once the day came, I was pleased at how many people packed Our Lady of the Gulf Catholic Church for the funeral mass. The family all sat in front, but Lexy and Miss Stella were in the row behind us. Lex sure cried a lot. I never realized she was so close to Dr. Weaver. Or maybe it was sympathy for her friend.

  Later that night when we were all back at the cottage, I heard the girls talking about that professor she’d been dating. Seemed he’d taken up with some new student since school started back, and Lexy was considering dropping out of art school. I thought about approaching her with my plan for working with us but decided to wait. She might say no without even considering the offer just because she was upset. I’d give her a chance to get over that loser then we’d talk.

  Oct. 23, 19--

  Looking back on my academic career, I’d have to chalk this semester up as being the hardest. Even more so than my first when I was dealing with all the logistics and trying to get to class on time. Even more than last spring, when Meg started hanging around with Winnie Hayes and wouldn’t stop nagging me to slow down and be at home more.

  For starters, Dr. Weaver’s funeral almost killed my schedule. I lost two weeks helping wrap up his business and supporting Meg and her mother. I’d hoped the two of them would lean on each other, but instead Mrs. Weaver took off for Arizona. She went to stay with a friend in Sedona for several weeks, and Meg was left home alone with the baby.

  Meg said it was her idea, but then I found her crying and trying to sort through old papers and pictures. I finally convinced her to leave all that to her mom. Mrs. Weaver might be out of commission now, but she’ll come around. And it’s still her business.

  We had just put that behind us when Dad called to say he intended to sell the ranch and move back to Opelika. My grandfather’s Alzheimer’s had gotten worse, and Dad wanted to go home and take care of him.

  I hadn’t spent much time with my dad since I started school, but knowing he was there was reassuring. Although I wouldn’t admit it, the ranch was my safety.

  I took a Saturday and drove alone to Midlind to visit him. I found him in the barn brushing down one of the horses. It was so familiar being back, I could almost hear the sounds of tractors running and men whistling and shouting back to each other in the distance. It had been years since this place was up and running at full capacity, but Dad still kept a few horses. I leaned my arm on a mare and scratched her neck as we talked.

  “Been a while since you made it out here,” he said, pulling the hairs out of a brush.

  “I’ve been working pretty hard at school,” I said, patting the red-brown beast beside me, inhaling the sweet-sharp scent of hay and manure and horse sweat.

  “I figured as much,” Dad said, going to the tack wall and stowing the brush.
Gonna make a name for yourself.”

  “Trying to.”

  He walked back and leaned down, patting the front of the horse’s lower leg, prompting her to lift her foot. I watched as he inspected her hoof then lowered it and moved to the next one. I hadn’t thought about what I wanted to say when I’d decided to make the drive southeast to see him. Now all I could do was stand and watch him work.

  “How’s Grandpaw?” I finally said.

  Dad’s lips tightened as he slowly shook his head. “Not so good. Keeps calling me Stuart.”

  My lips pressed together. “I’m sorry to hear that.” My great-uncle Stuart had died ten years ago.

  “It’s pretty bad,” Dad nodded. “I hate to tell you, son. Don’t think he’d know you if you made the trip.” He exhaled and walked to the door of the stall. I followed him slowly.

  “I figure if you don’t want the ranch, it’s the only thing holding me here. And he needs me now,” Dad continued.

  “I hope you don’t think I didn’t love it here.”

  His smile was tired. “You just never were into ranchin. That’s something you got from your mama. That itch to do something big. Make a name for yourself.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say next. We didn’t talk much about her. But I’d always wondered, so I asked. “After Mom left, did you ever think about trying to go get her? Make her come back?”

  “Nah,” he breathed. “You can’t make somebody love you if they don’t.”

  I nodded at the familiar words. “I’ll miss you, Dad. It meant something to me knowing you were out here, and I could come home if I ever needed to.”

  “You can still come home if you need to, son.”

  “But you know what I mean.”

  He stopped walking and clapped my shoulder. “You were always a good boy, Bill. And you’re smart. You’ll do fine.”

  We spent the afternoon cleaning up the place. He gave me an old photo of him and my mom when they were younger, and I looked at my blue eyes staring back at me from the face of a stranger. All I remembered of her was she ran off when I was little, broke Dad’s heart, and left everything a wreck for him. He never saw another woman, and on those bad nights when he started drinking and missing her, he’d usually pass out around nine. I’d take a horse and ride down to the creek. The water there fed into Coyote Bay and eventually made its way to the Gulf.

  I didn’t know that just like her, one day I’d leave this place for good, too.

  Nov. 28, 19--

  Dad’s leaving hit me harder than I expected, but I buried myself in schoolwork. And when I looked up, we were almost through November. Only two semesters to go and I’d have my degree. Nonstop coursework had paid off, and I was finishing in record time. Two and a half years, with honors.

  My professors had been extremely encouraging, and one of them introduced me to Abe Mitchell, the president of the college. He put me in contact with Rex Harding, chairman of Peachtree Investments. They were a fat-cat investment group in Atlanta that Abe said was always looking for new blood to throw money at. A few of the board members were heavily involved in some South Walton developments, so they knew how hot the market was down here.

  Bryant and I decided to drive north and meet with them. To feel them out. It was a dead week for everyone, and I had a few days before finals started. It was a good time to talk about future plans and places to throw money. So we made an appointment to speak to their board after their regular meeting.

  It was our first meeting with investors, and I was more than ready to go.

  Dec. 1, 19--

  I don’t remember who said it first, but I love it when a plan comes together.

  That trip to Atlanta was an incredible success from start to finish. There was even an unexpected perk—I got to teach a prickass art professor a lesson about mistreating one of my future team members.

  But backing up, the whole thing started with our meeting at Peachtree. We agreed I’d lead the charge because I was more comfortable talking to groups. Bryant tended to ramble when he got nervous, and while he was very good at handling crews of burly construction workers, these sharks in suits threw him off. He preferred to sit back and answer any technical questions while I painted the picture of what was coming in their minds.

  Peachtree Investments was located in the penthouse suites of a forty-floor office building in Buckhead. We booked hotel rooms at the Winfrey directly across the street, and I spent the day going over our charts and projections. I had Lexy’s drawings in my briefcase, and I was ready to show them our plans, discuss their opportunity and give them a glimpse of South County’s future.

  We also made dinner plans with Lexy for after the meeting, and I decided it was time to make the big pitch to her as well. I should say to Alex now. When I called and talked to her, she said she preferred Alex since she’d started her career. I kind of liked it, too. Sounded more grown-up or something.

  She’d been up here working for some advertising company, and I didn’t want her getting so entrenched that she wouldn’t want to come home. That professor was supposed to help me. Instead he’d sent her flying to Atlanta with a school friend. But you couldn’t keep successful people down. I just had to link her success with ours.

  Rex Harding could’ve been the same age as Dr. Weaver, and at our first meeting he was already sizing me up. It paid to be good-looking when you asked people for money—something about investors wanting to be associated with attractive people—but my face was a major drawback with these old guys. I looked too young, and it meant I had to work extra hard to be taken seriously. But I was ready, and it helped that Bryant was an ex-football player. He towered over most of these guys, and he outweighed them by about sixty pounds, too.

  “Mr. Kyser, Mr. Brennan, welcome to Atlanta,” Rex said, shaking our hands. “I hope you’re having a pleasant visit.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Harding,” I said. “It’s always a pleasure being here.”

  “Call me Rex,” he said, holding my arm and motioning toward the door. “We’re looking forward to hearing your proposal. Doris, I see Bill has handouts for everyone, please pass these out. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Just water,” I said, following him into the room. “And since it’s late, I’ll go ahead and start. I know everyone’s ready to call it a day.”

  The board consisted of nine silver-haired men in glasses and three younger guys ready to eat me for lunch. I walked to the front of the room and placed our first elevation on the easel that had been set up for me. Doris lowered the lights, and I switched on the projector.

  “Gentlemen, I know there are several of you here who’ve worked in beach development in the past and who are currently involved in such projects now.” I started the presentation. “You know the markets are changing, consumers have more disposable income than ever before, and populations are migrating to the water at rates that are unmatched in history, both for recreation and to live.

  Next slide, map of development trends. “Up until now, the panhandle of Florida has been the most popular destination in our area, and we’ve watched development creep westward from Panama City to South Walton to Destin, Fort Walton, and now Pensacola. It’s only a matter of time before it crosses into Alabama, where the first stop is Hidden Pass followed closely by East End Beach.

  Enter Kyser-Brennan. “Our proposal is to meet that demand with a series of luxury high rises that feature a mixture of time-shares, rentals and outright ownership condos complete with amenities such as indoor tennis courts, high-end restaurants, shopping, a convention center, even nightclubs. The complete, five-star experience.”

  “I don’t know about this,” one of the younger members interrupted. “Aren’t there plenty of high rises in East End Beach? And I haven’t heard the market there is changing so much. When most people think of beach luxury, they think of Sandestin, Tiger Point, places like that.”

  “It’s true, they do. Right now,” I said, undeterred. “Those places were specifically developed to attr
act the executive golf and country club market. But they’re not going to be enough.” I pulled up the graphics, Lexy’s drawings of the Phoenicians. “These areas are just taking off, and two developments won’t hold the numbers that are being projected for the next ten years. That’s why we’re ready to break ground as soon as we’ve got the investors in place.”

  “But south Alabama isn’t thought of as high-end. It’s more Redneck Riviera,” an older member chuckled.

  “Dolphin Shores is proudly the heart of the Redneck Riviera,” I smiled, pulling them back to me. “But East End Beach and Hidden Pass are just getting on the board. They’re waiting to have their reputations established. I’m saying if we jump on that, we can shape that image and have people thinking of it as the more refined next door neighbor.”

  “Sounds risky,” the gentleman to Rex’s left spoke. “We’ve got more security in Florida. People know about Florida, and there’s still plenty of space to add more developments when we’re ready to do so.”

  “Of course it’s risky,” I said. “What investment doesn’t come without risk? I’m asking you to look ahead. In the packets you’ll see all the numbers. We’ve had the best market analysts in Newhope and Sterling look at them, and at our projections, and they all agree this is a sure thing. For someone. I’m suggesting that someone be you.”

  “And you, of course,” the old man laughed.

  “I’ve heard enough,” another young member spoke. “Who is this kid? And we’re supposed to trust him with millions of dollars?”

  “With all due respect,” I said. “You don’t look that much older than me, so I take it somebody must’ve trusted you at some point when you were younger. Our numbers are sound. Just read our proposal. Run it through your own analysts.”