by Amanda Wen
“Justice isn’t here yet, either,” put in Bob the Third.
Bob the Second rolled his eyes. “Fashionably late, as always.”
Wait, Justice was a person? Surely he couldn’t have heard that right.
Then Warren Williams’s bulky presence filled the doorway. He’d exchanged the plaid shirt and blue jeans for a polo shirt and khakis. The enormous belt buckle, though, was still the same.
The developer’s car-salesman smile beamed toward Garrett. “There he is. The man of the hour.” His meaty hand encased Garrett’s in a painfully tight handshake. Not physically painful, Williams’s handshake was carefully calibrated to ideal professional firmness.
But emotionally it felt like handcuffs.
“Did you get coffee? A doughnut?” Williams gestured toward the spread. “Today’s a celebration a long time in the making.”
A celebration? Ugh.
“No, thank you.” Garrett waved a hand. “I’m good.”
Williams leaned in with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “I had Kinzie pick up some gluten-free ones if that’s what you’re worryin’ about. You kids today are always avoidin’ this and that. Good thing we’re too old to worry about all that nonsense, right, Bob?” Patting his ample stomach, he elbowed the nearest Bob, who responded with a burst of workplace-appropriate laughter.
“It’s … not the gluten,” Garrett said quietly.
“Suit yourself.” Williams shrugged and reached for a doughnut so covered in pink frosting and sprinkles that Garrett’s teeth hurt just looking at it. “Mavis’ll have a conniption, but I figure if ever there’s a day to hop off the health food wagon, it’s the day when somethin’ you’ve been dreamin’ about for over two decades comes to fruition, am I right?”
The Bobs all nodded and murmured their agreement.
Williams fixed his gaze on Garrett, dollar signs dancing in his eyes. “Good things come to those who wait, though. And this is definitely a good thing.”
Garrett forced a smile and fought off a wave of nausea.
A tall, hipster-looking guy in all black entered, and Williams beamed. “But if I’d had that land when I first went after it, this genius would’ve still been in grade school. And I wouldn’t have dreamed up half of what he does. This here’s my son, Justice.” Cupping his mouth with his hand, Williams lowered his voice to an exaggerated stage whisper. “His mama picked his name.”
At six one, Garrett wasn’t used to people towering over him, but Justice Williams did. What he had in height, though, he lacked in width. Unlike his rotund father, Justice was reed thin. All arms and legs and loping gait, he resembled a giraffe with black plastic glasses and a soul patch.
“Justice, this is Garrett Anderson,” Williams said. “The man who’s about to make our dreams come true.”
Justice sized up Garrett in a way that made him uncomfortable. Or maybe it was just today’s general discomfort, and the sharp-eyed appraisal did nothing to alleviate it.
Focus. Get it over with. A few more minutes, and you’ll be free.
Justice stuck out a pale hand, which Garrett shook. “Mmm,” was all the taller man said.
“Have a seat, son.” Williams rolled out the leather chair next to him. “Kinzie brought doughnuts.”
Settling into the seat, Justice held up a hand. “I’m carb cycling.”
Garrett sat across from them, between two of the Bobs. He wouldn’t mind cycling right now. Pedaling mile after mile until he collapsed from exhaustion somewhere far, far away from here.
“Whatever keeps those creative juices flowing.” Williams elbowed his son, then turned to Garrett. “Justice is the brains behind my best work. Meadowlark Mountain, Honeycomb Terrace …”
“Can’t say I’m familiar.”
The Bob to Garrett’s left looked aghast. “Those are some of the most innovative residential developments in the whole Midwest.” He seemed to take Garrett’s lack of knowledge about the ins and outs of suburbia as a personal affront.
“I’m sure they are.” His cheeks hurt from all the fake smiling.
“What else has he done?” Williams tented his fingers. “Let’s see. Pineridge, of course. Conch Shell Cove—”
“Conch Shell Cove.” Justice shuddered. “It’s so pedestrian.”
“Conch Shell Cove is a vision,” the Bob on the right protested.
Justice shook his head. “It was my first attempt. I can scarcely bear to look at it now.”
“C’mon, now, we’re all our own worst critics.” Williams reached for another frosting-drenched doughnut. “Conch Shell Cove is great. Half-million-dollar homes, three playgrounds, two swimming pools, a golf course. But that’s nothin’ compared to what we’re gonna do for Beachy Meadows.”
Beachy Meadows? Even the name made Garrett nauseous.
Williams nudged Justice’s shoulder, sending a shower of sprinkles over his son’s dark clothing. “Tell ’im what you’ve got cooked up.” While Justice brushed off his shirt with a look of disdain, Williams smirked at Garrett. “You’re gonna love this, I just know it. You’ll tell your grandkids about it one day.”
Garrett choked back bitter laughter. Yeah, right. C’mon, kids, gather round and hear the tale of how Grandpa Garrett sold the family land to a sleazy developer. Right over there by the fifth hole? That’s where the barn stood. And there by the swimming pool? A house used to be there. One Jack Brennan built with his bare hands.
Nope. Not happening.
He’d take this day to his grave.
The lights dimmed, and a presentation appeared on the screen before him. “Beachy Meadows,” the logo proclaimed, complete with the incongruous image of a field of sunflowers along an oceanic shoreline. Justice launched into a low monotone riddled with unfamiliar words like gestalt and liminal.
“Start with the creek lots, son,” Williams instructed. “And you don’t mind if I do the talkin’, do ya?”
Perfect. Now Garrett would have some clue what was going on.
Although maybe he didn’t really want to know.
Justice clicked a slide to reveal a simulated drone flyover of a suburban street. Garrett recognized the twists and turns of Blackledge Creek at once, though now it was lined with piles of brick and stone instead of stately cottonwoods. The simulation showed artfully placed, fully leafed trees in every front and back yard, of course. But those would take decades to reach the level of cool, soothing shade pictured there.
“And now, the pièce de résistance.” Williams’s butchered French made Garrett cringe. “What’ll set Beachy Meadows apart.”
The next slide presented a serene lake view, ringed with private docks.
“This isn’t your standard, run-of-the-mill neighborhood retention pond. No sirree. This is a state-of-the-art ski lake. Jet Skis, canoeing, fishing, any kind of water activity people want right outside their back door, off their own private beach.”
A map of Beachy Meadows came next, and Williams looked ready to pop with glee. Large home lots fringed the edges, but the center of the land, the heart and soul of it, was the ski lake.
“There she is. Fifty-five sweet acres of lake, and thirty-plus lots of beachfront property. And the ones that aren’t on the beach will have in their back yard a beautiful meadow leading right down to the creek.”
Garrett’s stomach turned. Beachy Meadows wasn’t just a smarmy name. It actually meant something.
Williams kept prattling, but the words seemed a million miles away as Garrett stared at the map, all the air whooshing from his lungs at the spider-shaped ski lake that comprised the majority of his grandparents’ land.
They weren’t simply going to plow the house under and build bigger, newer ones in its place. No, they planned to obliterate it. Dig up that beautiful land and drown it beneath a lake.
The tomato patch.
The puddle where Sloane got stuck.
The graves beneath the old cottonwood.
All so yuppies with seven-figure houses could ride Jet Skis in their ow
n back yard.
“Would ya look at that?” Williams elbowed his son. “The boy’s gone speechless!”
Garrett blinked. Williams, Justice, and the Bobs all studied him. Was he supposed to say something? React somehow?
“What about the graves?” he blurted.
Right Hand Bob straightened in his chair and eyed Williams over the rims of his glasses. “Human graves? You never said anything about that.”
Williams pasted on that salesman smile. “Justice has a plan for that too. Show ’em.”
Justice clicked to another slide featuring a fenced-off area with a granite stone in its center, the names represented by a scribble. To its left was a shaded picnic spot, to the right a playground, all against a beachfront backdrop.
People picnicking by the Brennans’ stone. Kids running around shrieking and tackling each other next to a memorial to three people who gave their lives on this very soil. Two of whom never lived long enough to run or play.
All while their actual resting place lay at the bottom of a man-made lake.
This was supposed to honor them?
“This was not our agreement.” The words burst from Garrett, clipped and short.
Williams glanced up. “What are you talking about? You told me about the graves, and I said I’d put up a stone. Fence it off.”
“But you never said where, did you?” And I never asked.
The realization was a punch to the gut.
“What about putting the lake somewhere else?” The mere idea of the lake galled him, regardless of location. But at least maybe then he could live with himself.
Both Williamses shook their heads, and the elder pointed at the map. “The most important part of a ski lake is its shape.”
“But I specifically asked for the graves not to be disturbed.”
Williams stifled a sigh. “I’m prepared to exhume the remains at my own cost. Rebury them at a cemetery of your choice. Just tell me where.”
“Where I want them buried is at the base of that old cottonwood. Not under a ski lake.”
Williams’s eyes narrowed, and he leveled a meaty finger at Garrett. “Think carefully about what you’re sayin’, son. You need me far more than I need you.”
Garrett gulped. He did need the money. His grandmother’s future hung in the balance.
But … beachfront property? A ski lake?
The land Jack Brennan had slaved and sweated over, the land that had been in Garrett’s family for over a century, buried beneath thirty feet of water?
The very thought gutted him.
And Sloane. She’d know exactly what lay beneath that lake. What had been sacrificed at the altar of urban progress. And it would destroy her.
All too clearly, he could picture her heartbreak—heartbreak he’d cause at the stroke of a pen—and his eyes stung. He bit his lips lest he break down all over again.
Dear God. What have I done?
He’d followed his own plans. Leaned on his own understanding. In his obsession with trying to do the right thing, he hadn’t consulted God at all. Not the God of the Bible anyway. Just the god of logic. His own financial expertise. His own intellect. He’d left the only one who truly knew the right plan completely out of the equation, and now he was moments from doing something that would utterly devastate his grandmother. His sister.
And the woman he loved.
His heart filled to groaning with a wordless cry for forgiveness. For guidance. Right there, in front of the Bobs and the Williamses, he silently begged God to intervene. To fix this somehow. Forgive me, Lord. It’s yours now. Your plans are higher. Your ways are greater.
Please. Show me what to do.
Something shifted and gave way within him. The fist clenched around his heart loosened and blissful release flooded into its place.
He didn’t know what he was going to do. Not yet.
But he couldn’t do this.
He wouldn’t do this.
Not to his family.
And not to the woman he loved.
Garrett cleared his throat and met Warren Williams’s eyes across the table. “I’m not certain I’m comfortable with these plans.”
“I’m not certain that matters.”
“I am. Because this land belongs to some of the first settlers in the county. Without them, we wouldn’t be here. Wichita wouldn’t be here. And I think they deserve better than to have their land turned into a ski lake.”
“Now just you wait a minute.” Williams’s voice took on a menacing tone. “We had a deal.”
“We had a verbal agreement. That’s not a deal.”
“Where I come from, a man’s word is a deal.”
“Then why are all these Bobs here?” Garrett gestured around the table. “I’ve signed nothing. Legally, I’m under no obligation to sell the land to you.”
“But I wrote you a check.”
“Which I never cashed.” Garrett fished the check from his wallet. “Never even endorsed it.” Holding the check by its edges, he turned it around. “Would you like it back? Or should I tear it up?”
No response.
“I’ll just leave it here then.” He set it in the center of the table, next to the doughnuts, and a three-ton weight lifted from his shoulders. He gripped the side of the chair so he wouldn’t float away.
Williams turned to the Bobs, red-faced. “Can’t you do something?”
“He’s right, Warren,” one of them said. “A verbal agreement means nothing until it’s signed.”
“Which it won’t be. Not now. Not ever.” With his first genuine smile of the morning, Garrett rose and snagged a doughnut from the box. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Sinking his teeth into the sweet, pillowy pastry, he strode to the exit on legs rubbery with relief. With freedom. The full-bodied release he thought he’d feel when he signed on the dotted line. Here it was, at last, and it tasted far sweeter than he could’ve ever imagined.
He wasn’t trying to convince himself he’d done the right thing. Not anymore.
He knew.
He still wasn’t sure where the money would come from. Not at all certain how to secure his grandmother’s care. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have a plan. He sat poised atop the trail’s tallest hill, helmet strapped, bike in gear, ready to fly down and let gravity take him where it would.
Maybe he’d soar. Maybe he’d crash.
But he was in for the ride of his life. And ultimately, regardless of what bumps and bruises he incurred along the trail, he’d come to a safe stop. What that looked like or where it would be, he had no idea, but he was riding behind Someone who knew the trail intimately. Who had a map of the best possible route. He didn’t have to plan or fret or obsess anymore.
All he had to do was follow.
It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.
At long last, it was right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
GARRETT COULDN’T ASK for a better Saturday morning on his favorite trail. Sunny and humid, but with enough predawn crispness lingering in the air to make it tolerable. Quiet, with only the rustling of leaves, the whiz of tires on pavement, his own breathing, and the twittering of birds.
Not too busy either. Just a few other cyclists, to whom he tossed a friendly wave, and a group of dedicated-looking runners clad in T-shirts emblazoned with the logo of a local shoe store. Was it his imagination or did a couple of them look slightly envious when he glided past?
He didn’t blame them. Four years of high school cross-country and he’d never once experienced the famed “runner’s high.” But a few miles on the bike always left him awash in endorphins and ready to take on the world.
He was counting on that today. Because two dilemmas loomed, each as puzzling and pressing as the other. The first was Grandma. She loved it at Plaza de Paz, but her stay there would be short unless he could summon some serious cash.
And his heart—Sloane’s too, probably—still lay in shards from their breakup. Plan B? Ha. Couldn’t be fur
ther from the truth. But could he convince her? Could anything he said or did penetrate the fortress she’d doubtless built around her shattered soul?
On his own, he would make thousands of plans. But now, rather than tumbling his problems over and over in his head, depending on his own ability to solve them, he’d brought God into the mix. Asked him, time and again, to provide his solutions in his way. Though not having a plan felt strange, that strangeness was underpinned with a peace Garrett hadn’t known in months. Emboldened, he increased the intensity of both his pedaling and his prayers and started up the final series of hills leading back to the trailhead.
Halfway up the second hill, amid the rapid, rhythmic thudding of his heartbeat, came a name, more strong impression than actual sound.
Kimberly.
The trail grew steeper, and he shifted gears and stood up on the pedals.
Kimberly.
His legs burned with effort. Was this the guidance he’d prayed for? Or was it just coincidence, grasping at straws, trying to assemble something—anything—resembling a plan?
Kimberly.
So … you want me to list the house? He’d need to talk to Lauren, of course. She’d jump at the chance to sell it to hipster homesteaders if it meant the house would be spared. But then he was back to the work it needed and the time it would take to sell. Grandma’s savings might run out before then, and then what?
Kimberly.
All right. He’d prayed for guidance, and maybe this was the answer. It would’ve been nice to have additional instructions. A detailed, multistep plan.
But God didn’t provide those. Just a name.
So Garrett would go with it.
Besides, in this section of the trail? He couldn’t spare the energy to argue.
A few minutes later, he arrived back at the parking lot, shaky and sore, but satisfied. After loading his bike onto the back of his car, he pulled off his helmet and enjoyed the cool breeze through sweat-soaked hair as he guzzled some Gatorade.
Hydrated enough to know he hadn’t been hallucinating on the trail, he fetched his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he reached the name that had bounced around his head for the last four miles and umpteen hills.