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Caleb
As I sit in the plush, conference-room chairs, surrounded by my team of executives, the atmosphere is tense and focused. Lauren, my VP of Development, is presenting the next steps of our clinical trial. Suddenly, the heavy, mahogany doors burst open with a loud thud, causing everyone at the table to jump in surprise.
“I need to go to Rustic Ridge today,” my grandfather exclaims, slightly out of breath.
“Grandad?” I respond, taken aback.
Panic floods me instantly. It’s rare for him to visit my downtown Chicago office. I search his face for clues as to why he’s here. He glances around, and his cheeks flush bright red.
“Sorry for the interruption,” I turn to my right. “Lauren, please continue.”
“Of course.” She nods in understanding as I stand and make my way towards my grandfather.
“Come on, let’s walk,” I murmur as I usher him into the hallway, closing the doors behind us.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he mumbles.
“No worries.” I reassure him, placing my hand on his back to direct him to my office. “Did you drive here today?” I question, attempting to mask my concern with a neutral expression.
My sweet Grandad, Gene Mercer, is eighty-five and lives in the suburbs of Chicago. I’m fairly certain he doesn’t drive anymore—at least that’s the verbal agreement we have. He does have a housekeeper and a chef but, as far as I know, he doesn’t have a driver. He’s fiercely independent—at least he wants to be as much as he can. So, I’m concerned he may have decided to take matters into his own hands today.
“I’m old, not senile,” he says with an eye roll in my direction. “I have that ride-share service on my phone, just like you told me last time you were at the house.”
I nod knowing how stubborn and independent he can be.
He continues, “This is urgent, and I need your help. You know I rarely ask for anything, especially considering you’re tirelessly working to save lives with your pharmaceutical company.”
“Yes, but you are always my priority. So, what’s this about Rustic Ridge?” I ask, curious why this has him so worked up.
“You remember the small town in southern Indiana where I own many buildings from years gone by. You know I have Dominic Blackwell managing my portfolio there since his father passed two years ago,” he explains.
“Yes, I remember. Did something happen?” I question.
He frowns, the lines on his weathered face deepening. “This is from one of the biggest tenants I have in Rustic Ridge,” he says as he hands me a slightly-crumpled envelope.
I slide the letter out and unfold it. The handwriting is bubbly yet neat, looping across the page enthusiastically. I, for some reason, find myself grinning as I imagine the woman on the other end of this message—at least I think it’s a woman—standing her ground with a mix of defiance and desperation. There’s an endearing scatterbrain charm to the way her thoughts spill out across the page. I can’t help but chuckle as I finish the letter and see confirmation with the name “Piper” at the bottom.
According to the lengthy letter, Dominic has done many ill things to this particular tenant. My jaw tightens as I take it all in. If what she says is true, Blackwell is in clear violation of the ethics and policies my grandfather has always upheld. No wonder he’s concerned.
“So will you take me to meet Piper and see if what she is spouting is true?” he asks, not breaking eye contact.
My mind sifts through the endless tasks I have on my plate running this company. My schedule is packed, but fortunately, I’ve assembled an amazing management team. Grandad has given me so much, and he asks so little in return. Guilt washes over me as I think of my absence from him these last few years while I was consumed with building this company. I don’t know how many more opportunities I have left with him. There’s only one response I can give.
“How about we leave in the morning?” I propose, watching his face light up like a Christmas tree.
“Road trip?” he asks eagerly. I nod. “Do you remember the times we would just hop in a car without a plan and head out?”
“Yeah. And I remember the many conversations with strangers when we had to admit we had zero idea where we were.” I laugh as memories of my childhood flood my mind. “My friends always thought it was odd that we had the means to travel anywhere in the world, yet we’d willingly get lost on the road for fun.”
“We met some of the kindest people that way. Remember Joe Monroe, the little shopkeeper in the Ozarks?”
“Yeah, the one that thought roadkill was fit for guests as long as it was properly smoked?” I recall the taste of my first (and last) smoked possum.
“Sure is. I still exchange Christmas gifts with him every year,” Grandad says with a distant look in his eyes. “Money can’t buy connections, Caleb. In fact, it often does more harm than good in relationships.”
I give that a moment to sink in, and he’s probably right. Sometimes I wonder if my financial status is the main reason why people are interested in me. I haven’t dated in a long time because many of the women I’ve encountered seem more interested in the stability and lifestyle my wealth provides, rather than me as a person. That could also be because of she who shall not be named. And my circle of friends is small, mainly because I’ve been focused on my company. So focused that I’ve missed out on more time with my only guardian, confidant, and longest friend—my grandfather—in favor of advancing my entrepreneurial endeavors.
