“Fine,” I finally cave.
I’m not so much giving into his request as going along with the same feeling that I have deep inside of me.
That place has been a dark cloud over me for all of my adult life.
And it’s time that it isn’t anymore.
The road leading to the ranch is desolate.
It’s in a valley, following a small two-lane highway down a snow-covered plain.
The few houses that existed in this area prior to the fire have all been abandoned and now the ranch, or what remains of it, stands alone against the starkness of the elements.
The highway starts to meander a little around the hills and I know that we’re getting close.
I tell the driver to turn at the next left, even though it’s unmarked.
It’s unofficially named Burke Road, which splinters off suddenly and heads straight into the mountains in the distance.
We drive for a few miles, but the mountains seem just as far as they were when we started.
When we get to the end, we pull up to a large wooden gate, which I remember my parents fought over.
It was very important for my mom to have a traditional Western gate.
Two looming poles on either side of the road supporting a large beam laying across them.
I can’t remember exactly how much this gate cost, but it was a significant portion of the budget, enough to make my otherwise nonchalant Dad cringe.
Ironically, this is the only thing that survived the fire.
We park near the gate and go on foot the rest of the way.
The road the rest of the way isn’t plowed.
“So, this is it,” I say when we finally make it up the hill and move toward the place where the house once stood.
All that’s left is the foundation and even that is hidden under feet of snow.
“Where?” he asks, looking around.
“The porch was about here. The garage over there.”
Jackson looks around at the mountains hugging almost every curve for as far as the eye can see.
The sun is starting to set, painting the sky with splashes of pink and reds.
“This is a very beautiful spot,” he says after a moment. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
I shrug and hang my head. I’m not really sure what to say to that.
“Do your parents still own the land?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“That’s something.”
I shrug, not particularly convinced.
They do have to pay taxes on it every year, and it’s not exactly something they can easily afford.
And for what?
Just some land where they were once happy?
I mean, what’s the point of hanging onto it?
“Do you think they will ever try to rebuild it? I mean, now that they’re together?”
“Even if they do, they don’t have the money. But honestly I have no idea what they’re thinking.”
“What about you?” Jackson asks, lifting my chin up to the sky. “Do you miss this place?”
I look around.
It’s weird being here again.
But the truth is that as beautiful as it was, I have very few memories here which are any good.
Some yes, but most of my best memories are from that other house we lived in that they sold to buy this one.
This was their dream, not mine. To me, this place is just too full of ghosts to yearn for it again.
“Where’s Aspen?” Jackson asks and a little piece of my heart splinters off.
Chapter 18 - Harley
When darkness descends…
The main reason why this place gives me dread is that my parents decided to bury Aspen here.
They were overcome with grief and there was no talking them out of it.
This was their home, their life. It was their everything.
And once they got permission from the state to make a cemetery plot here, they did.
They also talked about making arrangements to be buried here with him, something that I thought would happen soon after Aspen’s death.
I never talked about this with anyone, but for awhile there I thought that I was going to be an orphan.
My parents were so buried in their own sadness that I didn’t see a way for them to come out.
It was around that time that they started to plan their own funerals by arranging for adjoining plots next to his.
But time passed and somehow, everyone kept breathing.
That’s the thing about life, though.
If you aren’t careful, you can spend your whole time here on earth just breathing and not doing much living.
I existed that way for a while, too, until I came to New York.
But my parents?
I don’t know.
My dad seems happier than he has been in years, and I hope that isn’t just some act that he’s pulling.
I hope that it’s true. I hope that he actually is happy. I hope they both are.
“His grave is right there near the tree line, overlooking the bluff.”
It takes us a good ten minutes to get there.
Each step has to make it through three feet of virginal snow, untouched by anyone, and extremely difficult to get through.
When we finally get there, my eyes are filled with tears.
He has a large black headstone marking his grave with his name and dates of birth and death.
On the top is a little etching of his face taken from a photograph with his favorite stuffed animal.
I haven’t stood here since the funeral and being here again I suddenly realize how lonesome it is here.
It’s all good and well that my parents arranged for adjoining gravesites, but what does that matter now?
He’s here all alone.
There isn’t another soul for miles and he wasn’t the type of kid who liked solitude.
“They shouldn’t have done this,” I mumble through my tears.
“Done what?”
“They shouldn’t have buried him here. He’s here all alone. It would be one thing if they were rebuilding that house and were still living here, but they’re not. He’s all alone in this…tundra.”
My whole face is wet from my sobs and I lean on Jackson until he’s practically holding me up.
“If they had just…cremated him. Then I could’ve had a part of him with me always. I would’ve taken him to New York with me and anywhere else I went. And now, if I want to be with him, I have to come here…to this God-forsaken place.”
Jackson wraps his arms tightly around me and holds me until I am ready to go.
My tears continue to flow but I can’t be here anymore.
When I finally turn to leave, something within me pushes me back toward the grave.
“I can’t…just leave him here all alone, Jackson.”
“Yes, you can because he’s not here.”
I look up at him, surprised. “His body may be here, but his spirit isn’t. I’m not a very religious person, but I know that to be true.”
I nod.
“I mean, would you hang around here if you could be traveling through multiple dimensions at once?”
“He’s probably on the beach somewhere warm playing in the sand. He always loved the water,” I say, smiling out of the corner of my mouth.
Jackson lifts up my chin and kisses me with his cold lips.
I kiss him back, but only slightly.
“No, that’s not good enough. I’m never going to let you get away with a paltry kiss like that,” he says, pressing his mouth onto mine and showing me how it’s done. I laugh and agree to the challenge.
Chapter 19 - Jackson
When we go back…
While Harley is still asleep, I take my coffee outside.
Standing on the wraparound porch that looks out onto the valley out back, I watch as an eagle flies in circles above my head.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear the yelp of
a coyote followed by the long howl of a lone wolf.
It’s early still, and the sun hasn’t quite risen above the tree line.
There are only inklings of it in the form of mango and blush colors that paint the sky at the edges.
I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly.
A little rabbit with a cottontail sits under the pine next to the porch and holds one of the carrots that I left for him there.
At first, he looks up at me with suspicion, but then relaxes a bit and enjoys his food.
As I watch morning unfold here, what’s different between this place and New York?
Back home, I have to hole myself up in my mansion to block out the outside world.
I was searching for solitude and quietness that I could never really find.
Except when I got here.
Now, all I want to do is stay outside and revel in the beauty that’s all around me.
Harley wants to go back as soon as possible, but I wouldn’t mind staying here for another few days or a month or even a lifetime.
I don’t blame her though.
Her experience of this land is completely different than mine.
There’s too much baggage here and there’s too much hurt.
As much as I tried to help her make peace between her and her father, I know that it will take awhile for them to rebuild their relationship, if that ever happens. It’s up to Harley and she is still full of anger and hate over what her parents did.
My chest tightens at the memory of her seeing her mother again at that hospital.
Within a matter of seconds, she went from being excited and happy that she was alright to being in shock.
And now, all she wants is an answer.
But the answer that Harold is giving her isn’t enough.
I know that he’s not lying.
They made up that story to get her to come and meet them on their terms.
They were afraid of going to New York and being rejected face-to-face.
Yet, they needed to see her.
It’s not a satisfying answer, but it’s the only one she will get.
I’m not sure it’s enough for her.
Time will tell, I guess.
Harley calls her father on the way to the airport to tell him that we are leaving.
Last night, she made the decision that she does not want to see her mother or to even speak to her.
I hear the disappointment in Harold’s voice that she is leaving without even saying goodbye to him in person.
But she promises to see him again and even invites him to New York.
That seems to satisfy him for now.
The flight back is uneventful, and Harley buries her head in her computer, hard at work on her new project.
I’m glad that my encouragement has led her to pursue her writing again.
I know that it’s the one thing that she really wants to do and I know that she can be really good at it.
I’ve read bits of her old blog; she really has a way with words and language. All she needed was a push in the right direction.
The thought that she would give up her passion, just because some literary agent decided that her writing wasn’t good enough for them, makes my blood run hot.
Even now, sitting here on the couch of my private plane and watching her work feverishly at the table next to mine, I can’t help but clench my fists in anger.
Who the hell do they think they are?
They rejected her because they didn’t think that they could sell her books. “She wasn’t a good fit for them at this time,” as they like to say.
Well, she’ll show them.
If only these traditional publishing hacks knew how many successful indie authors there are out there now.
If only other writers knew how much more money they could make publishing their work themselves rather than going through a publisher.
Online retailers like Amazon pay a royalty of 70%, meaning that they only keep thirty for publishing and the writer gets seventy.
In traditional publishing, the writer gets ten percent and that’s after the publisher recoups any money they spent on marketing.
Of course, there are additional responsibilities that come with publishing your own work yourself.
You become the publisher and that means you pay for editing, cover design, and marketing.
You have to build your own brand and it takes time to get readers to find out about you.
But in the end, you have all the freedom.
You are in charge of your career.
You publish a book whenever you think it’s done and ready instead of waiting for approvals.
You publish the book you want and chance that there will be readers who will connect with it.
As a result of eBooks, e-readers, and Amazon, publishing is in its Golden Age right now, and with a lot of hard work and determination, I know that Harley can find herself a place within it.
I finish my cup of coffee and ask the flight attendant to bring me another.
For the first time, in a long time, I’m having a hard time focusing on my own work.
It was always something that was front and center in my life and now, suddenly, it’s not.
It’s not that it’s not important anymore, of course, it is.
It’s just that I now have to split my attention when all I want to do is focus it entirely on her.
My phone buzzes and I look at the screen. It’s a text message from Phillips.
Call me. We have a major problem.
Chapter 20 - Jackson
Something’s wrong…
I call Phillips back immediately.
She answers in a frazzled voice, which I have never heard before.
Nothing phases her.
Whenever we would have a slow quarter, she was always the one who would make plans to make up for it the following quarter.
Whenever any crisis arose, she was always the one to fix it in a calm manner.
“How soon can you get back to New York?”
“I’ll be there by three. What’s wrong?”
“They’ve arrested Swanson.”
It takes me a moment to remember who Swanson is.
“For what?”
“Securities fraud.”
My heart drops and all the blood drains from my face. Harley stops typing and looks up at me.
“What’s wrong?” she whispers. I shake my head, not now.
“Apparently, he has been running a Ponzi scheme.”
I don’t believe it. Phillips goes over more details, and my head starts to spin as I try to remember exactly how much money I have invested with the Swanson Securities Group.
“Okay, call me if you learn anything more.” I hang up the phone and watch as it drops to the floor.
Harley picks it up and comes to sit down next to me.
She wants to know what happened, but my mouth is completely dry.
A desert.
When I open my lips to speak, no words come out. I reach for the bottle of water on the table and she intercepts it and hands it to me. For a moment, I’m satiated but the next it’s not enough.
I finish the bottle and turn toward her. Finally, I am able to speak and tell her the whole story.
As a young man, Richard Swanson worked as a lifeguard, saving every penny so he could invest it all into the stock market.
He built his firm from five thousand dollars to the most elite boutique investment group in New York.
He was known for a very specific investment strategy, which many money managers considered too safe to make any real money.
He was known for purchasing blue-chip stocks and then taking option contracts on them. But the details of the strategy changed, of course.
When I first considered investing my money with him, my research showed that in the 1970s, he placed invested funds into convertible arbitrage positions in large-cap stocks, promising investment returns of eighteen to twenty percent.
Bu
t by the eighties, he began using futures contracts on the stock index, and then placing options on futures during the stock market crash of 1987. So, when everyone else lost money, he actually got rich.
Given how elite his group was, Swanson did not actively recruit new members or promise anyone high returns in return for their investment.
Instead, he kept his clientele exclusive and on a must-know basis, and offered a lot more modest and steady returns than many other firms.
That was one of the reasons I decided to go with him.
Once Minetta made some serious money, I started looking for investment opportunities and Wall Street is, of course, the first thing that came to mind.
“Lots of investment groups were looking to get their hands on my money, and most offered a lot more money than Swanson. I knew a lot of wealthy people who invested a lot of money with him over the years and they saw good, steady returns.”
“Were the returns always good?” Harley asks.
“There was a natural variation to them over the months, but in general they were pretty steady at around twelve percent. It was all…as expected.”
She nods, putting her hand around my shoulder.
I pick up my phone again and search the news.
But I don’t even have to type his name into the search bar, it’s the headline story everywhere.
* * *
Prosecutors estimate the size of the fraud to be $64.8 billion
* * *
Swanson Securities Group has liabilities of approximately $50 billion
* * *
“What does this mean exactly?” Harley asks.
“It means that according to him, he owes people fifty and according to the prosecutors, he owes them close to sixty-five. Billion.”
“Five thousand clients,” Harley reads. “That’s a lot of people.”
“It’s much more than that. I’m one client, but the Maine Teachers’ Pension fund is another.” I scan one article after another. “Apparently, he targeted pension funds a lot since they are institutional investors with a lot of money sitting around.”
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