Caribbean Crossroads

by Connie E Sokol

  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.”

  “Something without oil. Or gravy.”

  “Don’t I know it. I’ve been backed up since Tuesday.”

  “I’ll confirm with Mike for tomorrow morning.” Bryant sat on the chair with his feet stretched out before him. He could have slept right then and there, but something kept him restless. He clicked the remote and channel checked. Nothing good on, not even a good game. Turning back to his cell phone, he skimmed the addresses looking for McIntyre and thumbed past “McCormick.”

  Megan. He sat for several minutes, staring at the name, the number, his finger millimeters from the button.

  Bryant scrolled on to McIntyre and pressed it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sitting on
her bed, Megan sighed and picked up the cell phone. She paused, double-checking with herself one last time that this was the right thing to do.

  After saying good-bye to Bryant, and knowing his final decision, there was nothing to be done. For whatever reason, she wasn’t able to commit, and he wasn’t waiting. Not that she blamed him. Megan clenched her fist around the phone. Why couldn’t she get over this? What was it that still held her back?

  Timing. It had to be timing. And there was no forcing that. Abruptly, Megan remembered making bread alone for the first time as a young girl. She'd had all the right ingredients but the bread still fell flat. Loaf after wasted loaf, she was about to give up until one day she realized the yeast was the problem—it was out of date. It then made sense why there hadn’t been the froth, the chemical reaction she’d expected. After correcting that one issue, making bread was a cinch.

  Yes, timing was crucial. Which meant a stalemate as far as she and Bryant were concerned. On the drive back from California, Megan had been sure that meant a yes for Mrs. V. and a new chapter in her life. And yet, the peace had not come. Until she considered turning the job down.

  Megan looked down at her phone, thinking of the job offer. It had been five days and no real answer. But something told her if she took the job, she would be pushing that too. A perfect opportunity, with the right ingredients, but the date was all wrong. Praying that this was the right answer, she dialed Mrs. V's number.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Van De Morelle? It’s Megan McCormick.”

  “Megan, dear, I’ve been looking for your call and finally, here you are—yes, Keenan, it’s all right, it’s on my direct number. Sorry, dear. All right, well, let’s get down to cases, shall we. You know how I despise the chitchat. Have you thought about my offer?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Wonderful! Believe me, dear, you will be just what the doctor ordered.” She went on to detail several notable people already involved in her new plan and Megan could hear the new energy in her voice. Every moment became harder for her to say what needed to be said, especially when she wasn’t completely sure of it herself.

  And yet. Hadn’t she known from the first what she should do? If she were honest with herself, yes. Now it meant being courageous, doing the difficult thing, taking down other typical Megan wall bricks of Job Security and Future Plans. Well, that was all right. She was the Old-New Megan McCormick, and she could do hard things.

  “—and the committee is completely on board with the idea. You’ll fit right in—have I been talking too much? I’m not overwhelming you, am I?”

  Megan smiled into the phone. “Mrs. Van De Morelle, you are always a delight, and I mean that sincerely.” She paused. “I can’t express how much this offer has meant to me. It’s made me feel like myself again, back to being capable, and of bigger things. It’s clicked something for me, something important. So I want you to know that, and feel that from me. And,” she swallowed, “I have to say something difficult.”

  “You’re not taking my offer.”

  “No, I’m not taking your very generous and lovely offer.” Megan exhaled. Two bricks down. Maybe a whole section. “I know it’s unprofessional and, in fact, insane not to, and I can’t really explain my reasons.”

  She heard a deep and elderly chuckle through the line. “Oh, I think I know. Bryant is a very good man, I’ve told you that before. And even though he’s not taking it either, and I am deprived of the help I want, I believe you’re both right, my dear. You two have something to develop right there at home.”

  “No, no, it’s not entirely that. I don’t even know if anything will happen.” Megan faltered. It felt hollow and sad to articulate but the conversation was giving her answers, even as she spoke the words. “There’s no guarantee, is what I’m saying, but this time, I don’t feel there needs to be. I’m hoping, and trying, and still running around the next corner I guess, seeing where it will take me. And I don’t want to do anything that would keep me from making the best choice for what I really want.”

  “And what’s that, my dear? What is it you really want?” She had that grandmotherly voice, and Megan could almost hear the pearl glasses tapping her chin.

  Megan thought for a moment. “Peace. And to be loved by someone good. I want …” She wanted Bryant. A warmth, sure and blanketing, filled her insides even as she thought it.

  “Then you’re absolutely right. Let me tell you, dear, all this”—Megan could see her gesturing before the cruise line cabin—“is not worth more than my Harold. He made it fun. Now, it’s just a chore, really. Always the handout, the connections, everybody wanting something all the time. Harold gave it meaning. Whatever you do, Megan, be with someone who gives it meaning.”

  The elderly woman sighed. “All right then, I’ll take my double losses. I’ll return to my committee and discover yet another spritely, intelligent couple who can immediately replace you both. No harm done, my dear, but if you should have any news, of any sort”—she heard the deep laugh again—“don’t hesitate to give me a call. Or an invitation.”

  How Megan loved this nosy, elderly woman. They said their good-byes with promises to keep in touch, and hung up. Part of her felt relief and clarity, the kind that comes from discovering what you feel only in the moment of saying it. And part of her felt . . . she couldn’t say.

  Megan surveyed the room. So, what now?

  Thinking, she walked downstairs to the kitchen, weighing her options. Facing a full-time work week at the temp agency with its pale yellow walls and worn foyer furniture was not a joyful prospect. And yet, the decision to reject the cruise offer felt right. She knew it. But what did that mean from here?

  Okay, God. No exotic cruise job? Fine. What's the next best thing?

  Opening the fridge, she pulled out the orange juice. Pouring and drinking a glass of it, she stared at nothing in the kitchen—thinking, wondering. Should she call Jillian? With Derek’s job in Arizona and Jillian a new wife, connection hadn’t been as frequent or easy. But with Thanksgiving weekend approaching, Jillian would be here visiting her family, and they could see each other at least for a few days. Together they could think of something.

  Besides, Megan had bigger things to deal with. Kara and Jackson were visiting for Thanksgiving too, and already a thin dread wound up through her esophagus every time she had to talk about it. So, she didn't.

  Megan sipped her juice, looking aimlessly at the cozy kitchen in its red and white gingham curtains, scrubbed white walls, and knickknacks of deep red ceramic roosters and green apple placemats.

  Slowly, she put the glass down. Clear and simple, Megan knew exactly what to do. Picking up the cell phone, she pressed Sylvia’s number.

  Before the week was out, more than one brick would come down.

  ***

  Several weary days later, Bryant and Bertie ambled into the trailer office. Ross swiveled in the office chair and laughed at their rumpled clothes.

  “Well, well, you’ve returned with the spoils of plunder, I hope?”

  Bryant sank into the nearest chair. Bertie slapped his portfolio and briefcase down on the desk, flopping into the chair next to Bryant.

  “‘Victor and Victorious,’” said Bryant, and closed his eyes. “I never wanna see fast food as long as I live.”

  “So?” Ross leaned back with his cowboy boots on the desk. Bryant stirred, eyes closed, unmoving, raising his hand in a thumbs-up. “All 11 stores, on board.”

  “Well, ain’t that something,” said Ross, laughing softly. “Now there’s nothin’ left to do but the work.”

  Bryant and Bertie knuckled each other, barely opening their eyelids.

  ***

  Bryant breathed in the smell of pine—at once it reminded him of Megan, that quiet morning on the back deck. He wondered for the hundredth time if she had ultimately taken the job, which he was sure she had. And how she felt about it, if she thought of him, of them, and had made any headway with her emotions at all.

>   Bryant shook off the questions—it was over. She wasn’t calling to say differently and he had made it clear where his loyalties were right now. He watched Mitch work over a small fire pit in the clearing, the tall crowded mountain forest surrounding them. Mitch’s wife had sent them up with homemade chicken potpie. That, the pine trees, and a slow fire were just what he needed after being cooped up in a car and hotels.

  Mitch hopped up next to Bryant on the tailgate and offered him a bottled lemonade.

  “Congrats on the sweet job offer,” said Bryant, clanking his bottle with Mitch’s. “Got life by the tail, man.”

  “Give or take,” said Mitch, but his expression held a clear contentment. “I’ll be glad when the move is over. It’s just a few days now.”

  “No sympathy here. Especially when they’re moving you. And paying housing the first year. Not bad at all.”

  “What about you? How’d the road trip go?” said Mitch.

  “Pretty good.”

  “Really?”

  “Ah, the tone of surprise,” said Bryant. “Better than good, to tell the truth, but I can’t take the credit. Bertie is God’s gift to lumber.” He shared some details of the trip and Bertie’s master plan.

  “Who knew.” Mitch looked genuinely impressed then took a swig of his drink. “Good job taking it to the next level, bro.”

  Bryant’s face reddened. “Mitch, you had a family and were running a yard. You were basically hanging off a cliff. Somehow I don’t think innovation was high on the list.”

  “Yeah, it figures you’d find easy street after I leave.”

  “Hey, I’m actually working here.”

  “A first for everything.” He lobbed a large wood chunk from the pile in the truck into the fire. “I’m proud of you, Bry. Stepping up, taking care of everything the way you have. You’re sure making Dad happy, being here full-time, taking the reins.”

  “Well, smile maybe.”

  “How’s he doing, anyway? I haven’t seen him in a few days.”