Victor shakes his head. “I’ve never seen anything like this. He’s bootlegging all your hard work.”
There’s another page offering lowball deals to corporate executives who sign up for pre-need packages through Tribute, plus discount rates tied into their credit card mileage programs, another idea ripped straight from the pages of my business plan.
“But he’s got one huge hole in his plan,” says Victor. “There is no way he can provide quality assurance.”
“Yes, but how long will it take for people to catch on? Or who knows, Victor, maybe consumers will like this.”
“Consumers, not clients. And if they do, my hunch is it will be short-lived.”
I continue through the site. “Let’s check this out.” I mouse down to a list of member funeral homes. As we review it, a new name suddenly pops up, Sullivan Funeral Home in Little Rock, Arkansas.
“Oh, great!” I toss my arms in the air. “I guess we can kiss the governor goodbye now, too.”
And right on cue, my cell phone rings. I grab it.
“I’m looking for Maddy Banks,” says a young female voice.
“This is her,” I answer.
“Oh, wonderful. I’m calling from Green Power. I’m Roger Lincoln’s executive assistant. Per Roger’s request, I’m calling to let you know that he won’t be needing his pre-need package with you anymore and that you shouldn’t worry about flying out here for the life bio video. He’s sorry if this causes you any trouble. But he wanted to do you the courtesy of calling before his local funeral home did. Oh, and he said that he would be sending you a check for a thousand dollars for your time.”
I nod, trying hard to hold back the pain of defeat. “Right. Okay. Thanks, anyway.” I turn to Victor. “Roger Lincoln is history now, too.” I think about the domino effect now taking place. “Victor, at this rate, it’s only a matter of time before the rest of our deals drop out, both the high-net-worth individuals and the funeral homes.”
Victor stands tall staring out the bay window, thinking.
“Is it possible to sue Derek and Jonny for plagiarizing Lights Out?” I ask.
“It will just turn into a three-year legal nightmare. The only winners in cases like these are the lawyers.”
He turns to face me. “We just have to outsmart him.” Victor looks at his watch. “Look, I’ve got an appointment with another client of mine right now. When I get back we’ll brainstorm for a solution.”
“Who’s your client?” I ask. “If it’s okay to ask?”
“Of course. They’re called The Designer Tank. It’s a virtual furniture design firm. We’re launching the first product in two months.”
“Virtual furniture?”
“Furniture designed to shape-shift for the wireless world.” He motions to the furniture in the room. “As an investor, I get the old prototypes.”
While Victor takes off for his meeting, I take off for the beach to think over a new plan of action. I walk along the ocean’s edge, deep in my thoughts. If I want to save my current deals, I’ll have to act fast or else come up with an entirely new business model.
I stop to scoop up a handful of sand. “Oh, Uncle Sam, I wish you were here. Does the battle ever end?” I let the sand sift through my fingers and keep walking.
I reach a little dive and stop for a grilled cheese sandwich and a bottle of water. I sit at an outside table watching an array of vendors share the boardwalk. They have virtual stores, I think, no walls and no leases to separate them. They just share the open space in search of a sale. I stop my thoughts from wandering any further, realizing the key word here is share. They share. That’s it, I think. I’ll offer all the independent funeral-home owners a percentage of Lights Out by presenting them with lucrative co-revenue sharing deals. If I can work out the numbers so I break even the first year in order to build market share, I bet I’ll be able to do it. I pull out my PDA and immediately start working on the numbers, jotting notes on a napkin.
By the time Victor returns to the office, I’ve written up a template for the co-revenue sharing deal and am printing it out.
“Ready to take a meeting?” asks Victor.
“No need to. I figured out an open chute for us and a simultaneous door-stopper for Derek Rogers.” I hand him my paperwork. “With this plan, funeral homes won’t have to sell out to Tribute and they’ll still be able to increase their revenues. If we can delay any new hires and cut my salary in half for six months, I think it’ll work.”
“But if Derek’s buying funeral homes at dollar-cap values what makes you think they wouldn’t take the money and drop the hassle of running a business?”
“First, because most independent funeral homes are handed down from one generation to the next, so for one thing, they want to keep it in the family. Second, the younger generations taking over want to work for themselves. This is a way for them to do it. And third, there’s a lot of pride that comes with owning your own business. Look at you.”
Victor nods, and then takes a seat in the compressed cardboard chair shaped like a Z with removable parts for one’s cell phone, PDA, water bottle and a hook for a purse or backpack. He carefully reads my documents and then goes into that frozen-thinking-stare phase.
I patiently watch him, but then I break his reverie. “Excuse me. Hello. Can you tell me which button do I push to put the lights back on?”
He comes to, looking straight at me. “Sorry. I was thinking.”
“Yes, I see. I’m beginning to recognize what thought in its intangible form looks like. So, what do you…think?”
“This is a great solution,” he says, pacing the room now. “It needs to be implemented immediately. And if it goes according to your projected schedule we can open a Series B round again in three to four months to pump up the cash flow and hire support staff.”
I am relieved. “Thanks. It will be on our Web site and go out to all the national funeral homes by tomorrow… Derek Rogers would sooner do a life bio video with me, than opt for revenue sharing.”
“In the meantime, you really do need to get someone to help you. Is there a college intern you can bring on board part-time?”
“Yes, I believe there is.”
For the next four weeks, I see resurgence in Lights Out Enterprises. The word spreads about the new plan via the Lights Out Web site, phone calls, e-mails and viral marketing. Tons of independent funeral homes across the country contact me to sign up for the co-revenue sharing deal bringing with them a multitude of clients.
Not only does my plan bring in the strategic partners and client base I need to stay afloat, but it hampers Tribute’s expansion plans, which I find out from Toby Helman, who is only too happy to share anything that rocks Derek Rogers’s boat. Apparently, according to Toby who gets it from her boss, Derek Rogers is infuriated to be trumped by Madison Banks.
I move my home-office into the office-office. I place my green bowling pin bank on my desk and proudly pin the Lights Out pajama top on the wall.
I fly in and out of town to meet with clients for pre-need setups and with Victor’s help begin interviewing for fulltime staff.
Victor and I pass by each other in our office. He continues to advise me, as well as to oversee his other ventures in development.
I still wonder about the photo of him and the mysterious woman that sits on his desk, but I’m not sure what answer I would get, so I curb my curiosity. I’ve never seen the woman at the office or heard Victor mention anything at all about a girlfriend, a wife, or a boyfriend for that matter. These thoughts quickly fade away as I deal with more pressing matters. Happily everything seems to be falling into place. I even find myself gently fondling the black ribbon I still wear on my shirt and whistling “Fishing Free” at odd times of the day.
Eve joins Lights Out three mornings a week to help with organization, phones and presentations, including my wardrobe. She’s been there three weeks before meeting Victor, who’s constantly in and out of town.
Eve is making hersel
f a cup of coffee when she turns to me. “I’m beginning to think this VC of yours doesn’t really exist.”
I keep writing at my desk. “Eve, he’s busy. He travels. You see his office, don’t you?”
“Could be a set design. You know, a whole made-up pretense to help you get business. If people think you have a VC they’ll take you more seriously.”
“You watch too many movies. Did you get the preliminary worksheets on Pullman and Brandeiss?”
“On your desk. But don’t you think you should include what it is people want to wear in their life bio videos? After all, it does reflect on who they are…or were. Oh, while you’re at it, why not have them plan what they want to wear when they split from earth? I mean, what if they think they’re going to a party in heaven or if they want something more warrior-like, in case they think they need to battle ghosts or devils…or maybe they want wings. Wow, that’s it, a line of clothing with wings. What do you think?”
I stop writing. “I never thought of that, but you’re right, let’s add that to the worksheets.”
The door opens and Victor enters fresh from London. “Hey, Madison, how are you? I got back a day early.” He sees Eve. “And you must be Eve Gardner. Pleasure to finally meet you.” He extends his hand.
Eve stares up at him, and for the first time, I see she’s speechless. She barely manages to smile back.
“I told you he’s no ghost, Eve, so you can stop acting like you just saw one.”
“Um, hi” is all she can say.
“Well, I’ll let you guys get back to work.” Victor leaves and walks over to his office.
Eve finds her tongue again and bursts out, “He’s so hot! Talk about a poster-MBA dude! Never mind the Abercrombie & Fitch khakis, sage-green cotton T and Kenneth Cole black loafers.”
I am just a little irked by how taken she is with Victor, and wonder, am I missing something here?
“How goes it?” Victor asks, standing in the doorway.
I smile and lift up Live Wire Funeral Director Magazine subtitled “The Funeral Planner” with a photo of me sitting on a casket holding a martini glass and a planner.
“Thanks to this business is good.”
“Does this mean you’re ready to implement phase two? Personal life missions?”
“Yes, I guess I, um, can actually start, uh, looking into that.”
Victor makes himself at home and sits down.
“So tell me, what would your mission statement for meeting the right partner look like? I assume you would have a mission statement, a rollout strategy and a risk and mitigation action plan, no?”
“Yes, of course, I would. I mean, what if he became a drug addict or a hardened criminal?”
“Yes, you wouldn’t want to get off course now would you? What exactly would your strategy be—Will you do Internet dating or leave it to chance encounters?”
“First, I have to identify the critical success factors—what needs to be in place to be successful.”
“What would those be?”
“I haven’t, uh, thought that through yet. I’m still wrapping up this life celebration of—”
“Well, have you considered your exit strategy? Will it be until death do you part? Or will you be going for a divorce settlement?”
“If I’d wanted marriage money I could have had that by now. I’m holding out for true love.”
“I see. Good to know. Have you actually identified what true love looks like?”
“It’s a work in progress. And in any case it’s a feeling, not a visual.”
A car honks outside. Victor looks. A cab is parked curbside.
“That’s my ride. If you need an adviser for phase two, let me know. I’d be glad to be of service.” He adds a wink as he heads out.
As Norm Pearl’s wedding date nears, I realize it’s a perfect trip to New York where I can attend the wedding, meet with clients and generate new business.
I stare at the invitation. It does say I can invite a guest. But I’ve been too busy to even think about it. Yet, in this moment, that feeling of isolation comes over me again. I’m tired of doing everything alone, going everywhere alone. True, I can get a lot more done on my own because I’ve never met anyone who can keep up with me, at least in business, though I have to admit that Victor Winston’s accomplishments compared to his methodical slow pace are quite impressive. I scan the phonebook on my PDA and find the phone number for the sculptor Davide. What the hell, I think, it’s worth a shot.
The wedding takes place at the top of Rockefeller Center and is about as extravagant an affair as his death dress rehearsal. The wedding ceremony is presided over by a female interfaith minister. She eloquently begins, “Welcome to the wedding of Norm Pearl and Elizabeth Thyme. This ceremony represents the power of love for one and for all…”
I sit alone in the pseudo-pews of the banquet hall watching both Norm and Elizabeth beam with pride and joy. I dab my eyes with a tissue as bride and groom place rings upon each other’s fingers and together break the ritual glassware.
It is an elegant reception with tall exotic flowers and colorful bougainvillea decorating the walls. The band breaks out with renditions of old seventies disco and R&B. They start out with an upbeat song by the Spinners.
I stand by the bar where apple martinis are served with straws inside giant golf ball-shape glasses that say “Norm & Elizabeth” on them.
The bartender asks, “Would you like one?”
“Oh, no, thanks. That would put me on the floor.”
“The floor could be a lot of fun,” he teases.
“You look smashing,” says a voice laced with a romantic French accent.
I turn around to see Davide standing next to me. I smile nervously. “Thanks for coming. I’m so glad you could make it. I know it was last minute and all.” I look him over in his debonair black suit. “You look…great.”
“Thank you. How do the sculpture in de cemetery business do?”
“Great,” I say. “It’s finally picking up. And your gravestone sculpture of my uncle had a powerful effect at the funeral trade show.” I realize I’ve forgotten how to date and small talk makes me more nervous. So I do what is naturally most comfortable for me, talk business. “So…I was thinking maybe we could start a whole line of themed gravestone sculptures…and…”
Davide glances at the band, which begins to play a slow song, then at me. “May I have this dance?”
“Okay, um, sure. If I can remember how to,” I mumble.
Out on the dance floor, everything Sierra taught me in Vegas is a distant memory. I repeatedly stumble over Davide’s feet as I try to let him lead.
He stops and offers a shallow grin. “I think I am thirsty. Do you wish a drink from the bar?”
“Sure. Uh, I’ll have one of those apple martinis.” At this point, I’m convinced on the floor would be more fun than trying to dance with a Frenchman.
Davide leaves and I stand there watching the celebrants.
Norm Pearl comes up from behind to give me a big hug. “Hey, you! You look awesome! How’s your golf game?” he chides.
“Neglected.” I smile. “Poorly neglected.”
“We’ll have to change that. Meanwhile, I am so glad you made it! You realize that without you, I wouldn’t be here, either?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily—”
“Come on, I’m taking you out on the dance floor,” says Norm, cutting me off.
I try to resist, but Norm guides me to the floor, where he doesn’t really dance, he just moves around in circles talking. “You’re the one who came up with the Golf Camp Academy idea. Without that I never would have met Elizabeth. Did I tell you we’re adopting a baby from China? I owe you big-time!”
I keep an eye out for Davide. “That’s great, Norm. But um, actually, you owe me the answer to our unanswered question.”
“I didn’t forget. How do you find the balance between the work button that never goes off and the family love button that never seems to t
urn on? I’m going to tell you.” He pauses. “It’s sort of like golf. You get into your groove, then you let go and open up your best shot. You just keep driving and you just keep putting along and…”
“That is hardly an answer, Norm. How do you let go and open up?”
“Aha!” says Norm. “You’re a wise woman, taking me all the way to the eighteenth hole on this one. The secret to that is that…there is no secret.” He pumps his head up and down. “Huh? How’s that?”
“I really hate conundrums,” I say, standing still on the dance floor.
“Okay, okay. Look, here’s the deal. It’s a timing game and it’s completely out of your control. It’s like the buttons have their own internal timer. And there’s nothing, I mean absolutely nothing you can do about it except live your life until they go off—so they can go on in a different kind of way.”
As Norm finishes, I see Victor Winston enter the room with an exquisite woman by his side. I gasp, because for one thing, it’s totally out of context.
“I know, I know,” says Norm, misinterpreting my gasp. “It sounds dramatic, but the point is, it’s really incredibly simple.”
I immediately start moving to keep our circle dance in motion, swiveling behind Norm to get my bearings on Victor. I wonder what he’s doing here and who the striking woman is who’s with him.
The woman sees Norm and approaches with Victor proudly on her arm. Norm stops the circle walk with me and excitedly shouts in my ear, “Alyssa Ryan is here! Come on, Maddy, you have to meet this woman. She’s absolutely remarkable. A lot like you!”
Before I can respond, Norm is pulling me off the dance floor.
As the two groups near, Victor recognizes me and cordially nods, as if this kind of chance meeting were an everyday occurrence. He may not be used to seeing me dressed up, let alone in glamorous attire and makeup, but from his calm, collected response, one would never know.
“Alyssa, you made it!” shouts Norm. He gives her a bear hug.
“Come on, Norm. I wouldn’t miss my favorite client’s wedding for the world,” says the meticulously coiffed Alyssa, careful not to mess up her perfectly applied lipstick by avoiding his cheek altogether.
The Funeral Planner Page 22