“It will certainly help, honey. Don’t you worry. I’ll be by your side to lend a hand whenever you need it. Have a good time in New York.”
“Thanks, Uncle Sam. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Maddy.”
I’m sitting at the airport in the pre-boarding area, when I realize I forgot to ask Uncle Sam about the Stansbury hats. I must remember to ask next time. Meanwhile, I set up all my New York appointments via e-mail, and manage to get myself on the invitation list for the event. I send a pop quiz to Eve: “Define the difference between a good business and a good investment. Provide examples for both, due in a week.” I send yet another e-mail to Jonny Bright reminding him that it’s been two months now and to please reply so I can, if necessary, move on to other venture capitalists. An automatic e-mail reply bounces back saying he’s out of the country for two weeks. I sigh, and log on to other Web sites to learn what I can from reading obituaries.
My first appointment in New York is with the head curator at the Museum & Gallery of International Sculptural Design. A slender brunette named Toby Helman sits across from me at the museum-gallery’s café, sipping a latte.
“I still can’t believe your deal here was usurped by that guy Derek Rogers who started Palette Enterprises. You were so ahead of the curve.”
“Thanks. But I’ve moved on.”
“Well, just so you know, we can’t stand that guy. The museum board wants him out.”
“Why? Aren’t the licensing deals bringing in revenue for the museum?”
“We call it sell-out revenue, deals with brands that cheapen the art. Derek Rogers doesn’t care about maintaining the integrity of art with a product, as long as he gets his cut from the advertiser. Pairing up a Giacometti with Pucker Up toothpaste! Please! Believe me—it’s just a matter of time before the rest of the art world catches on.”
She sips her latte and I wonder how Derek’s managed to last this long.
“So what can I do for you now, Maddy? What other great ideas have you got?”
“Well…I’ve got a new enterprise…and I’m going to need sculptors willing to take their talents into a whole new field.”
“What kind of field?”
“Fields…with gravestones on them.”
“Cemeteries?” asks Toby. She seems too shocked for words.
I nod with confidence. “I want high-end sculptors to create customized gravestones. I want to sign your gallery and museum in an exclusive deal with my company. And I’d like you to be on the advisory board. Most importantly, you need to keep this confidential until my product launch.”
Toby studies me. “You’re dead serious.”
“Well…so to speak,” I say.
She pauses, then nods. “I’m intrigued…keep going…”
I take another hour to go over the details, and then head for my next appointment.
I repeat a similar scenario with Adam Berman, president of Ubiquitous Music, the world’s largest production music library in the world, whom I had met at my cousin Laura Taylor’s wedding two years ago. As is my custom, I had hung on to his business card. He remembered me when I called.
I sit across from him now in his Midtown office. “So you see, Adam, I really believe this is one market that you have yet to tap into. Funeral homes, or tribute centers as they’re now being called, need good music and better options to serve their communities. By creating a strategic alliance with Lights Out Enterprises, we can infiltrate that market for you. Our independent pre-need clients can log on to your online music library and select the music they want for the experience we design for them.”
Adam carefully listens. Excitement grows in his eyes. “I’m very interested,” he replies. “And here’s something else. We haven’t yet announced this, but we’re starting a division for original customized music.”
Now my eyes light up. “That’s huge,” I say.
“I know. We just had an order from Worldwide Sports Network for twenty hours of original music. Plus we’re signing young emerging artists all the time.”
“What about older artists? Artists who would connect with the baby boomer demographic? Musicians like…Maurice LeSarde.”
Adam nods. He gets where I’m going. “That’s a very smart idea, Maddy. I’m going to pursue that.” He jots down a note. “And I’ll give you the credit.”
“Thanks.” I smile.
By the time we’re done, we’re shaking hands and Adam Berman’s on board.
Exhausted, I stop at Starbucks. I sit down at a window table to review my action plan and update the status of my advisory board.
ADVISORY BOARD—in progress
Sam Banks, Former President of Banks Baits
Richard Wright, Funeral Home Owner (rec. by Sam; have yet to meet)
Sierra D’Asanti, President of Candelabra (DVD & Web design firm)
Toby Helman, Curator, Museum-Gallery of International Sculptural Design
Adam Berman, President, Ubiquitous Music
To Be Determined—Event Industry
To Be Determined—Catering Industry
To Be Determined—Travel Industry
To Be Determined—Venture Capitalist
I pull out my laptop and check e-mail. A reminder message appears, alerting me of Palette Enterprises’ Investor Relations Webinar. Curious, I log on to www.paletteenterprises.com’s investor relations page to hear what Derek Rogers has to say live from the Waldorf Astoria, less than one mile from where I now sit.
A video window pops up on my screen. The smirking face of Derek Rogers materializes as he addresses investors, stock analysts, financial press and a Web camera.
“As Palette Enterprises enters its second fiscal quarter, I am pleased to announce several strategic partnerships are now in place. They’re signed, sealed and delivered, ladies and gentlemen.”
The audience of investors claps. Derek nods and continues, “Those partnerships include Relate Greeting Cards, Pucker Up toothpaste, and Arrow department stores for the licensing of Palette’s private collections. In addition, fifteen major museums and galleries nationwide have signed on. Furthermore, the convention for the cross-application of art is under way and set for one year from today in New York at the Jacob Javits Center…because art rocks, ladies and gentlemen, art rocks!”
I’ve had enough. Those were my plans verbatim, with the exception of Pucker Up toothpaste. I’m about to hit the delete button when the camera angle on screen cuts away to reveal a glimpse of the audience cheering for Derek. There’s a flash of a guy who looks like Jonny Bright. I do a double take, but the shot returns focus on Derek.
That couldn’t possibly be Jonny, I think. Besides, Shepherd Venture Capital itself had nothing to do with Palette Enterprises and Jonny’s e-mail said he was out of the country. I let the thought go and delete Derek with a click. I sigh and look out the window at the streets of New York. A woman and a man pass by, arms wrapped around each other as they kiss. I wonder when I might experience love again, when I might have time to love again. Compromising now, however, would be something I feared I would later regret.
I glance at my watch. A young man enters the café in a gray flannel beret. Right on time. I wave and he nods and saunters toward me with an easy gait.
“Bonjour, you must be Maddy. I’m Davide,” he says with a French accent. “Pleased to meet you.”
“You, too,” I say, standing up to greet him. “Would you like a café?”
“Yes, of course,” he says. “Please sit. I will get it.”
I sit back down and watch as he casually orders himself a coffee. I can’t believe how handsome he is. He picks up his espresso and sits back down across from me.
“Did Toby tell you what I’m looking for?” I ask.
“She did. And she says it is top secret. I must say I’m rather—how do you say?—fascinated, by this concept.”
“Great, I’ll tell you what I have in mind. And you tell me how much and how long it will take.”
“It’s no problem.” H
e smiles. Then he stares at me, which begins to unnerve me.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, no, forgive me. I did not expect to meet someone so beautiful when Toby tell me the discussion is about gravestones.”
“Oh. Well, thank you. I think.”
“So what makes you come up with this idea?”
“I guess I like finding opportunities in unexpected places.”
“Me, too, with my art.” He smiles again.
And with that, we get down to business.
The Exceptional Event award ceremony takes place at the new Manhattan hot spot Lever House Restaurant. Waiters glide around the perimeter of the reception serving food and wearing T-shirts that describe the hors d’oeuvres on their respective trays. A young woman next to me plucks a skewer of chicken saté off a tray. She smiles.
“The shirts are clever,” I say. “The waiters don’t have to repeat themselves a million times.”
“Thanks,” she says, meticulously pulling a piece of chicken off a stick. “That was my idea—as are the edible place cards on the corner table over there.” She points.
I peer through the crowd to see chocolate-shaped nameinscribed place cards. “That’s impressive. And you are?”
“JoAnna Myman. I own Event Ventures. And you?”
“Madison Banks. Lights Out Enterprises. I’m here looking for innovative people to be on my advisory board.”
“Really. We should talk. Why don’t you join my table for the awards show and we can discuss it afterward?”
“Thanks, I’d love to,” I say, blessing my good fortune.
I sit at the Event Venture table near the dais and watch carefully as the president of Exceptional Events announces the categories and winners of this year’s Best Lighting Design, Best Tabletop Design, Best Nonprofit Event, Best Event Marketing Campaign, Best Theatrical Entertainment, Best Off-premise and On-premise Catered Event, Best Achievement in Logistics, Best Achievement in Technical Support, Best Spectacle, Best Event Planner of the Year, and so forth and so on…
I take copious notes of the winners I’m most impressed with, many of whom belong to JoAnna Myman. She turns to me. “So what do you think?”
“I think it’s great that you guys have an event to recognize each other’s work. And I think your company could be a great strategic partner for what I’m doing.” My cell phone rings. “Excuse me,” I say. I flip the phone on. “Maddy Banks,” I whisper.
“Maddy. It’s Dad. You better…come home now.” His voice is tight. He tries to hide it, but I’m too quick. “Who? What?” I ask, not wanting to know.
“It’s Uncle Sam.”
I hear him cry and I want to stop his pain. I’ve never heard my father cry. It sets off a chain reaction inside me. My mother’s voice comes over the phone. “Maddy. Uncle Sam died.” I can’t contain my own tears now, as the impact of her words wrenches my gut. “No!” I scream.
The roomful of event planners turn to face the emergence of a new event.
“Are you okay?” JoAnna asks. Concerned, she quickly guides me to a private corner in the room.
“I need…to get…to the airport.”
Joanna takes immediate action. “I’ll get you a cab. Give me your coat tag and I’ll get that for you, too.”
Rollout Strategy: Putting Reality to the Test
My father fidgets in a worn and wrinkled brown leather chair, peering through reading glasses and rustling through misshapen papers. My mother leans against the stone fireplace wiping a steady stream of tears with wadded-up tissues. Daniel and Rebecca hold each other’s hands on the couch, having left Andy and Keating at home with a sitter.
“Thanks for all being here,” says Charlie. He turns to me. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in the living room of my parents’ house. My eyes are sore.
“We waited for you to get back from New York,” he continues. “I’m sorry you had to find out that way.”
I’m confused and shaken. “I don’t get it. How long did he know he had cancer?”
“He found out two months ago. But he didn’t want me to tell anyone and neither one of us thought… I mean, the doctors said he had a good chance of beating it, that he had a few more years ahead of him. And he refused to let it bring him down.”
“At least…he didn’t suffer,” sniffles Eleanor. “He got to die peacefully in his own home while sleeping.”
I try to timeline it. He didn’t know at the bris, but he must have known when he offered to help with the prototype.
“The funeral is set for Sunday at one o’clock. That will give out-of-towners time to get here, especially with the weather conditions,” explains Charlie.
“I’ve notified most everyone,” says Eleanor. “But if any of you are aware of people that Uncle Sam was close to that I don’t, let me know.”
“What about the National Fishing Lure Society?” I ask. “I’m sure he’s still got some old ties there. He still subscribes to their annual newsletter.”
“Thank you, Maddy. I’ll look into that.” The doorbell rings.
Eleanor makes the first move. “I’ll get it.” She leaves the room.
Charlie turns to Rebecca and Daniel. “How’s Andy taking it?”
“Not well,” says Daniel.
“He’s afraid to go to the funeral,” says Rebecca.
Charlie continues where he left off. “Uncle Sam made me executor of his will. It’s fairly simple and straightforward.” He leafs through papers on his lap. “He left his house on the lake for all of us to use. And he left Daniel, Maddy and me each fifty thousand dollars. He left Andy and Keating twenty-five thousand each to be placed into a trust until they reach the age of twenty-one. He also set aside twenty-five thousand for you, Maddy, should you have any children.”
I nod, holding back my tears, not over the goodness of Uncle Sam’s soul, but because if I ever have children—which I always planned on doing—it will be too late to share them with him. Suddenly, playing the results seems to be one big horrible mistake.
“The rest of his money goes toward the maintenance and upkeep of the lake house, the boat and his car, which he paid off, all of it, ten years ago,” says Charlie.
“Wow, I don’t know what to say,” says Rebecca. “Except he sure didn’t like debt.”
Everyone smiles tearfully and nods.
“I say thanks,” whispers Daniel.
I’m too numb to think about money. I’m still denying that he’s dead. I want to scream.
Charlie goes on. “Two thousand dollars has been set aside for his funeral at the Wright Funeral Home in Jackson. His wishes are to be cremated and have his remains cast in Clark Lake. He writes that, he, uh, doesn’t believe in taking up space if he isn’t going to be of use to anyone anymore.” Charlie starts to choke up, then regains his composure. “He never wanted anyone to worry about him in life and he wants the same in death, so everything has been prearranged.”
I nervously clear my throat, almost afraid to ask because of the answer I might hear. “Um, Dad. When did Uncle Sam prearrange everything?” If the answer is, after I shared my initial concept with him, or even after he agreed to do the prototype, I think I’ll puke. It would be as if I were responsible for bringing this on through the birth of Lights Out. If the answer is, before all that, then it’s okay, I think. And it would make sense why he understood my idea so well from the start. It would clarify that Uncle Sam was indeed a visionary. I shudder, waiting for the answer.
“Uncle Sam took care of this over five years ago,” says Eleanor. “He asked me to help pick out the urn. I told him it was silly, but he insisted. He wasn’t afraid to prepare for his passing. Maybe that’s why he lived so well.”
I sigh, relieved at least on that account.
“There is one more paragraph that he recently added,” says Charlie. “He specifically bequeaths an additional five thousand dollars to Maddy with regard to their “special project.” He writes, ‘She’ll know what to do to make sure I’m remembe
red in an authentic way for who I am.’ One of his wishes is that a recording of ‘Fishing Free’ by Maurice LeSarde be played at his funeral. He, uh, writes that if anyone can find a recording of it, Maddy can.”
“That’s strange,” says Daniel. “Maddy doesn’t know anything about music.”
“Singing off-key counts for something, doesn’t it?” Rebecca smiles. Everyone chuckles, grateful for a moment of levity.
“Just cuz I can’t keep a tune doesn’t mean I can’t find a recording,” I say, up for the challenge. If nothing else, it will give me something to do, anything to avoid the grief and keep my mind far from the reality before me.
“Who’s leading the service?” asks Daniel.
“Rabbi Levin,” says Eleanor. “He’s very good.”
“Did he know Uncle Sam?” I ask.
“No. But Rabbi Levin will be coming here tomorrow to meet with all of us and talk about him.”
The doorbell rings again.
“I’ll get it this time,” I say. I reach the front door and open it to find Sierra standing there with welled-up tears in her eyes and a large Ziploc bag of something or other.
“Oh, Maddy,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
My composure starts to give way to vulnerability, but then a gush of cold bitter wind hits me in the face. I take a deep breath to contain the grief.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asks.
I think for a minute, trying to sift through the fog in my mind. “Yes, yes. Can you take me to the funeral home? I want to see him.”
“Of course.”
I glance at the Ziploc bag. “What’s that?”
“Homemade chocolate chip cookies for your family. Comfort food.”
“Thanks,” I say, touched by her gesture. “Mind if we bring them with us? I could use the caffeine and endorphin kick.”
Sierra flips the heat on high in her black Jeep Liberty as I shiver in the front seat beside her.
The Funeral Planner Page 10