“Hon, we are desperate—just not that desperate. Meet us at No Coast, then. Jules has the table.”
No Coast was a bit informal for entertaining a visiting dignitary. Perhaps Hungerman had been over-subjected to the country club by now. If he couldn’t appreciate a sushi bistro in a strip mall next to an aquarium shop, he wasn’t going to do very well in this town.
Panhandlers harvested the traffic at the intersection where Meg waited for the light. At her corner, a young woman with a pit bull in a red bandana flashed a cardboard appeal: I’M OK BUT MY DOG WON’T EAT RAMEN. Meg smiled enough to show she liked the line but not enough to invite the woman off the curb. On the cross street, a beaming regular waved a peace sign to passing cars while his dreadlocks shouted at drivers not to stop. A third panhandler on the diagonal corner strolled along the queue, dropping large white cards one at a time. He faced away from Meg and she couldn’t read the message but when her lane started to move, he turned and walked back to gather the cards from the ground. Yoga Man.
Jules Lodge had already arrived in the back room and commanded the corner furthest from the door. She threw off a striking but aloof confidence. The aura had no doubt served her in business school and so far in her banking career. Meg didn’t expect Jules to stick around forever. She was too feline for a dog town.
Two tables were pushed together and set for six. Meg took the end next to Jules. “I see you wiggled out of the welcoming party, too,” Meg said.
Jules didn’t like pointless displays and was much better than Meg at letting people know it. “Once was enough. I went with Vince Foyer—you know how he loves to ferry people in his Jaguar.” It was a double dig. Vince was a deeply closeted commercial broker. “Lew Hungerman shows up in this linen jacket over a stretch tee you know has to be dry cleaned, and he sets down his gorgeous Paul Smith flight bag. I thought about lugging it out to the car just so I could caress the lambskin, but Vince beat me to it.”
“I feel like I’m way behind on this,” Meg said. “Eve’s already sending me vibes I’m supposed to marry him.”
“You should. That would help a lot. He’s a little too anchormanish for my taste.” Jules, dark and intelligent, was more foreign correspondentish herself. She made a motion of pushing away a plate and Meg couldn’t help envisioning it covered with men’s bones.
“What’s wrong with that?” Meg asked.
“It’s not the looks and the nice clothes. It’s that underlayer. You know, is he sincere or reading from a script? Does he go for me or does he just like me looking at him? But I can see why Eve thinks you might be attracted.”
“Meaning what?”
“That you have such discerning standards—and you’re so good at dealing with mixed messages.”
How could I be your friend if I wasn’t? It was nice to know that was the impression she gave. “Everyone seems to have heard something about his project but nobody’s willing to share.”
“How would you stay in business if everyone knew everything?” Jules allowed her martini to tilt close to the rim before righting the glass. “So what have you heard?”
She had read Eve’s bag of documents, conveyed as if it were a diplomatic pouch, but most of the contents were background. Enough to see the Betterment Health headquarters would mean hundreds of new jobs and potential contracts for local support businesses and could possibly attract associated development. Meg assumed Jules, who chaired the downtown development authority, knew all that and more.
“From what I can tell, Betterment Health’s a glorified collections agency with some special software for hospitals. It seems to be a legitimate six-hundred-million company, but I can’t see how it needs more than an office building here. Eve’s talking about this being the city’s biggest land deal ever. It’s hard to connect the two.”
Jules nodded. “It’s easier to find Hungerman’s triathlon times than his record as a developer. He’s been working through consultants here and locking up people with confidentiality agreements, so if we want the whole scoop we may have to get him loaded tonight and steal his laptop.” A Cheshire smile. “I hear you’re showing him some houses.”
“He might rent a place for a month. Eve says he wants to get a sense of the community for his family.”
Jules rolled her eyes. “Spare me divorced fathers pandering to their kids. Nobody uproots a company that size for his personal life. Look for the story he isn’t telling, because there has to be one.”
As if Meg didn’t know. Every deal she’d ever done involved a dance of concealment. Rodents, leaks, mold, loud neighbors, failing appliances, bad septic, phantom partners, dodgy income. It seemed her whole life was about looking for the rot.
“It sounds as though you don’t care for him.”
Jules raised an eyebrow, nipped at her olive and resubmerged it. “A sushi place is nowhere to go for a decent martini.” She lasered a brilliant smile toward the doorway. “Oh, here they come.”
Dan McCallam could be counted upon to be at the elbow of any visiting business dignitaries but it was Eve who ushered in Lew Hungerman. Perhaps the sharp-dressing Chamber of Commerce director sensed how off-the-rack he appeared next to a man whose cashmere jacket draped as if it were his own pelt. Hungerman radiated warmth from his blazing smile and cool from ice blue anchorman eyes that were not network but definitely major market. He zeroed in on Jules as men invariably did, with the lingering appreciation of a car show shopper regretting his full garage. Then he turned to Meg and took possession of her hand as if he’d intended to save the best for last.
“So you’re going to be my guide,” he said. “I hope we’ll have time for more than a parade of homes.” His eyes flashed an invitation to read between the lines—or perhaps go for a swim. His ease was disconcerting and he knew it. Oh, God, did he know it.
“Is there anything special you’d like to see?” What a stupid thing to say.
“I’ve heard about your amazing mountain bike trails. I’d love to get out on Tabeguache—is that how you say it?”
It was and it threw her. Brian had a touch of the same quality: the laid-back swagger of outdoorsy men with indoor jobs who couldn’t be blamed for disappearing at any moment because something—the sun, the trail, the river, the snow—was always calling them out the door for an afternoon. Or forever. This man’s version was more exquisitely rendered than Patagonia—a boutique label you might find, say, in Aspen, in a shop called Hungerman.
“I could line up somebody to take you out there,” Meg said.
“Meg’s more the literary type,” said Jules.
All right, so she didn’t bike. It seemed more explanation than necessary. Eve and Dan McCallam were still standing, waiting to see where Hungerman would sit. When he took the chair against the wall next to Jules, Eve quickly moved to the end next to him, leaving McCallam with his back to the room.
Vince Foyer appeared, beaming. In his trademark black and white, bow tie and austere wireframe glasses, he’d always seemed to Meg a giddy amalgam of Italian architect and Orville Redenbacher.
“Success?” Hungerman asked him.
“He wouldn’t part with the big placards,” said Vince, “but he was handing out these.” He fanned three hand-lettered index cards.
“Was he a preacher or a panhandler?” Hungerman said.
“Hard to say,” said Vince. “He said he was creating awareness. I offered him a twenty and he accepted it.”
“That’s still soliciting without a license,” said Dan McCallam. “Or is it religious freedom?” The new panhandling ordinance had everyone confused.
Eve made a sour face. “We’re supposed to be selling Lew the highlights of our city.”
Hungerman studied the cards. “Oh, this was, seeing the guy do the Bob Dylan bit. Don’t Look Back, right?”
“Of course!” Meg said. They were talking about Yoga Man. “‘Subterranean Homesick Blues.’” Dylan dropping the cards: basement, medicine, pavement, government. The song did seem about being strung out
and homeless.
“Lew collects street memorabilia,” said Vince.
Jules covered her mouth and bugged her eyes in Meg’s direction. Vince could be a prig but Meg wasn’t about to mock him.
Hungerman held up one card. “Okay, literary type: ‘Do not listen for something you have heard before.’ Is that Dylan?”
“I suppose it could be,” Meg said.
“Sounds like a fortune cookie—or a greeting card,” said Vince. “Look at number two.”
Hungerman read, “‘It is not enough turning bread into dung.’”
“Oh, that’ll make a nice greeting card,” said Jules.
“Here’s the one we saw when we drove by: ‘You must ask for what you really want.’”
Impossible! Hearing the line now pierced Meg as when she’d first read it, copied in Helen’s hand. It sounded wrong in Hungerman’s voice. Her fingers flew to her temple, as if to adjust the reception.
“It’s from a Rumi poem,” she murmured.
“You see?” said Jules to Hungerman, toasting Meg with her replenished glass.
“The poem’s not his to sell,” Meg said.
Hungerman considered the point. “I would assume even a panhandler would know poetry doesn’t sell. Maybe it is just about awareness, like he said. So how do we interpret it? ‘You must ask for what you really want’ or ‘You must ask for what you really want’?”
“Or ‘You must ask for what you really want’!” said Vince, who was always closing.
Meg had rolled the line through all those interpretations, searching for some insight into Helen’s state of mind during her last days. The entire verse was about being aware of how close this life was to another world of the spirit. Why had Yoga Man picked it? Was he turning the tables, reminding us of the times we passively want something and fail to make it known? Why should we look down on a beggar holding his sign if we stumble through life without expressing our own deepest needs?
“That’s not what I get out of it,” said Dan. “He’s a transient mooching with lines that sound like something out of the Bible.”
And what if the transients wear tailored clothes and have eyes like melting glaciers?
Dan McCallam dropped the last edamame pod into the bowl and folded his hands at the edge of the table. He leaned forward slightly, as if he were about to deliver a confidential stock tip.
“Last year, the city’s economic development office did not bring one new job to town. There’s been little outside commercial investment here for years before that. Half of Main Street’s for lease. The reality is, oil and gas bring in jobs but it costs us when it’s here and costs more when it leaves.”
Meg felt Jules’s toe nudge her foot. Yes, hearing Dan follow “the reality is” with a statement about actual reality was mildly shocking. Dan never expressed doubt about the energy industry. He’d blamed state environmental regulations instead of global prices for oil’s fickle relationship with the area. Dan had also led the cheer squad welcoming big box retailers who’d put some of his members out of business.
He continued. “This is not just an issue for the business community. It’s a community-wide leadership issue.”
Meg looked to Eve, expecting daggers. How could it not be a criticism of her? Dan McCallam’s real focus was not attracting new businesses; it was packing the council with business-friendly members to benefit the good old boys. The mayor presented an unreadable front. As unthinkable as it was, perhaps Dan was also talking about himself.
“We have pursued an all-of-the-above economic development strategy and it has brought us nada. We have too many competing interests cancelling each other out. Our message is…” Dan groped for the word.
“Unfocused,” suggested Hungerman.
Dan nodded. “I’m excited by Lew’s proposal. The scale of his vision takes getting used to, but that’s because it represents such a giant leap forward. The Chamber Board’s committed, and we need the council behind this, too.”
Meg caught Eve looking at her. An inscrutable, one-eyebrow commentary. Dan’s speech did seem a bit overblown. This wasn’t a meeting of his local powerbrokers. Vince was the local contact on the site search and Jules represented the downtown development authority, which had little actual power except what the council granted. Certainly, the City would be on board and Eve was already fired up. And who am I, the tour guide?
Lew Hungerman accepted a fresh tonic and watched the waiter leave the room before he began.
“Let me start with the big picture and why I’m here. I’m new to the west but I’ve come to understand why prosperity is moving to the Rockies. Aspen, Telluride, Steamboat, Park City. These towns’ve tried to maintain a link to the past, but they aren’t mining and ranching towns anymore. I understand why people may like their hometown the way it was, but the world has moved on. The economy has. I’m from Detroit where we can’t escape that reality. You can’t, either.
“Eve, merchants like you ensure your town is not like every place else and local ownership keeps more dollars in the local economy. That’s important. But a community truly prospers when it attracts wealth from elsewhere. I’m not talking about corporate franchises or tour buses. I’m talking serious money that can define your whole community for better or worse. Do you want to be a Gillette or a Jackson?”
Energy boomtown or retirement mecca. Bars full of roughnecks or a ski resort in a valley where it snowed money. Was that even a question? But those were much smaller communities. Grand Junction was too big to be defined by one thing and too small to pretend it was like Denver.
Hungerman paused to gauge his effect. Dan McCallam and Vince Foyer nodding, Eve impassive, Jules drawing her bow.
“I’m sure you’re not trying to insult us,” Jules said, “but maybe you could not try a little harder.”
Hungerman accepted the zinger with a nod. “I’m sorry if that sounded arrogant. My point is, decide what you really want to be, not just how many jobs you want. If you’re willing, together we can draw this community’s assets together in a far more compelling and ultimately rewarding way.”
He picked up a rolled towel and methodically cleansed his fingers. So far he had not said anything Meg hadn’t heard said by consultants or progressive town leaders like Eve, who seemed especially intent on Hungerman’s hands as they caressed each other.
“Baby Boomers, the wealthiest and most self-indulgent generation in human history, are retiring with little intention of surrendering their youth. They constitute a large proportion of the forty million elective medical procedures performed each year in the U.S. Sure, if they have serious medical problems, they’ll go with the name brands—Mayo, M.C. Anderson and the Cleveland Clinic—but who wants to hang around a bunch of really sick old people when your goal is enhancing your quality of life? Have you been to Houston in the summer? Minnesota in the winter? Mayo’s added campuses in Florida and Arizona, which is great for the golf cart crowd. But what if your lifestyle tends more to hiking and biking, outdoor photography, maybe some less intense skiing, wineries and—let’s say it—recreational marijuana? There’s a niche you can fill very nicely. Grand Junction is already a regional medical center. You’ve developed your own accountable health care model that has driven down costs and improved patient outcomes. You’ve got abundant sunshine and world-class access to public lands for recreation. In my view, your sweet spot’s there—a place to visit or retire where there’s good medical, natural assets and a livable-scale community.”
She’d read the article about Mayo and other renowned medical clinics in Eve’s document dump. But those were big players, well-established where they were. This was Grand Junction.
“I’ve transformed my company once before by anticipating opportunity and it is gratifying personally to help something tired become robust again. But what I’m proposing here goes beyond my organization and beyond myself. It will take an entire community’s buy-in to realize the whole thing, and the entire community will benefit if we tackle this toget
her. Our headquarters and a hotel partner will anchor the Betterment Longevity Institute, dedicated to holistic rejuvenation of body, mind and spirit for active individuals who seek more out of life.” Hungerman smiled to himself. He had probably just quoted from the prospectus. “And as you can guess, we are very interested in partnering with a community eager and able to rejuvenate itself. Our team has met privately with many here who love that our positioning puts health and outdoor recreation in the spotlight, which fits with your city’s emerging aspirations. The market is out there and we know how to reach them. All the Betterment Longevity Institute needs is to find the right home for our brand.”
He dropped the towel in his plate, leaving a mounded, snow-capped peak. Was the ascent he described Mt. Elbert easy or treacherous like Crestone Peak? Dan McCallam wore an expression he could have carried straight into heaven. Vince Foyer adjusted his tie and appeared about to propose marriage. Jules tapped a ruby nail into the tabletop and the mayor delivered a penetrating look in Meg’s direction.
Her father liked to tell a story about a field trip when he was an insurance company trainee. His boss was considering whether to invest in land surrounding a new ski hill in a narrow mountain corridor. The boss was not impressed and her father wondered who would drive there from Denver to ski when Loveland, Arapaho Basin and Winter Park were closer. Aspen was already renowned as an international destination. There was nothing year-round in Vail, never had been, not even in the gold rush days. The boss shook his head in disbelief all the way back to Glenwood Springs, which had scarcely grown since its boom as a resort town in the 1890s. Nothing big ever grew on the west side of the divide, he said.
Meg took that to mean ambition had to leave town, and certainly she acquired her own experiences to support the assumption. But here was a successful man from a major city ready to invest in Grand Junction. Maybe the vision to make something great had to come riding in from out of town, blind to the past.
She asked the obvious question. “Where are you going to put this?”
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