Spencer
Two Months Later
Every Sunday, my mother used to drag us to church. It wasn’t one of those huge mega churches, either. It was a small, white church surrounded by an open field. Almost picturesque except it was surrounded by one of the worst hoods in the city. Crime was rampant, cars were stolen out of the parking lot across the street, unkempt addicts sometimes barged in the sanctuary during service, but inside was like a bubble of congregational songs and long prayers.
Most of the members were women. Older women with peppermints in their purses, doilies on their laps, and tambourines in their palms. We’d would sit there for hours, first through Sunday school, then praise and worship, followed by testimony service, and finally the sermon. Communion Sundays made the days even longer, but at least we had fellowshipdinner afterward. To this day, there was nothing like Pastor Minor’s fried chicken or Mother Pearl’s salty green beans with ham hocks. Generally, I remembered that time fondly, especially the lessons learned like Father Abraham having many sons, God specializing in things that seem impossible, and most importantly, God is the Solid Rock on which to stand.
The bubble of acceptance within the congregation busted sometime around eleventh grade. That’s when I discovered sex and bud. At that point, I was labeled a bad influence. Whenever I walked into the temple, the same women who’d hugged me every Sunday glared at me. The pastor called me up to the altar to pray the rebellion away. And Mama … well, she told every last one of them people off.
I still remembered the conversation she had with me on the way home, the look she had in her eyes, the love in her voice.
Son, I know you’ll do the right thing. Just remember God sees everything and He loves you.
While Mama continued to put God first, I never returned to that church. My mother never brought it up again, but she supported me when I purchased my first home, when I started Cross Investments, and even when I told her I wanted to dip my feet into the cannabis industry. A couple of years ago, she died after a long, drawn-out battle with cancer. Because of her Christian belief, she’d suffered excruciating pain, sometimes crying herself to sleep. Until I convinced her to try a cannabis smoothie.
When Michigan legalized weed, I incorporated it into my business. Opening The Leaf Lodge allowed me the opportunity to help people like her. Of course, we rented to travelers looking for different types of experiences. But we also hosted several retreats for women and men who struggled with debilitating physical or mental illnesses, people who just needed space to convalesce. I wanted to take the stigma out ofusing the substance for medicinal purposes while celebrating the strides we’d made in the industry. And days like today strengthened my resolve to expand.
“So,” Des nibbled on her thumb, “what do you think?”
I finished off the acai bowl. “Mmm hmm.” I nodded, popping the last blueberry in my mouth. “It’s good.”
She rested her elbows on the table, a tentative grin on her face. “Can you taste it?”
“Not at all,” I confirmed.
“Figured it would be a refreshing treat at the retreat next weekend,” she explained. “It’s easy to make, and we can keep several in the fridge in case guests want a snack.”
I gave her a fist bump. “Great idea.”
“I used sativa, but an indica strain would work as well. In case they want to eat at night.”
When I started Cross Investments, I entered the business world with my head in the clouds. I dreamed of the portfolio, the money, the connections. I believed my own hype, so I started too many projects, made some promises I couldn’t keep, bruised relationships with contractors, and missed important deadlines. The work that had once excited me ended up suffocating me. And I failed spectacularly.
To survive after the first year, I had to shift my priorities, manage my own expectations. I wrote down three goals for my second year—continuing education, dream team, growth. In that order. I already had a degree in finance, so I understood cash flow, but I lacked fundamental knowledge in every other area that mattered. Instead of moving forward, I paused all acquisitions and started at one. I enrolled in several classes from property management to construction basics, earned a real estate appraisal license. I also took the Michigan Real Estate agent prelicensure course and worked as a Realtor for a year. Then, I poured my resources into one area—single-family rental housing. It wasn’t until I’d been in business formyself for years that I expanded to short-term rentals and vacation homes.
My team—Des included—was on their shit.
“You might even try a hybrid,” I suggested, tossing the empty bowl into the trashcan next to the sliding glass door.
Des scribbled a note. Advances in technology made keeping notes easier, but she was like me in that she always carried a physical planner with her. “I’ll try it tomorrow.” She slid a piece of paper over to me. “I’ve also finalized the itinerary. Bianca confirmed this morning.”
I scanned the document. “Did she send an invoice?”
Bianca Warren was a registered nurse, with a specialty in the therapeutic use of cannabis for symptom management. She’d been an invaluable consultant for my business and always made herself available to our guests before, during, and after our wellness retreats.
“In your inbox. I copied you on my request to accounts payable.”
“Perfect.”
Des opened her tablet.
“Anything else I should know?” I asked.
Des blew out a slow breath. “Yeah.” She bit down on her stylus. “Some of my friends from college are coming to town for March Madness. I was wondering if we could use the Triple B.” She smiled. “Of course, they’d pay. Or I would.”
Frowning, I asked, “What is a Triple B?”
She shrugged. “Oh, it’s what I’ve been calling The Leaf Lodge. Bud, Bed, and Breakfast.”
