“How do you know I need $300,000?”
Not the response I was hoping for.
“Because I know what’s needed for the down payment on The Rose Hotel.”
“Damn you, Ryker. Stay out of my business,” she says, all smiles gone, and she storms off.
A half hour goes by, and she’s still avoiding me. I spend part of the time reading email, and then I get out my journal and start sketching.
If at first, or second—or is it third now?—you don’t succeed, try, try again. I grab my phone and dial the number of the bistro. Her mom answers the call from the kitchen, and I ask to speak to Aspen.
I hear her mom call out, “Hey, Aspen, pick up line one.”
Aspen walks to the cash register and picks up the phone with a chipper, “Hello? Aspen here.”
“Hi, it’s Ryker.”
Her mouth drops open, and she glares at me from across the restaurant. Her voice is no longer chipper. “Oh my god, you’re fucking incredible, you know that?”
I smile back at her, and I say into my phone, “I’d prefer hearing you tell me that in bed.”
I watch her face as her eyes grow wide, and she sucks her lips between her teeth, trying not to smile.
I continue before she hangs up on me. “How much are your pies?”
“Ten bucks,” she answers, unamused.
“I’d like to order 30,000 cherry pies, please.”
This time, I don’t even get a response. She shakes her head and hangs up the phone.
I put my phone down on the table and resume sketching, trying not to smile.
“Looks like you keep striking out, son,” says a voice from behind me, with a little chuckle.
I turn around and see the back of an old man’s head filled with white hair. “Excuse me?”
“I said, you keep striking out. With Aspen.”
“Who are you?” I ask and twist around more in my booth, but I’m cut off… “Turn around, dummy, or she’ll know we’re talking.”
I do what he says, and he adds, “Now pick up your phone and pretend you’re talking to someone on it.”
“What?”
“Just do it, boy.”
“Okaaay,” I say.
“I have an idea for you,” the old man says. “It seems like our Aspen has a need, and there’s something you want to give her, but she doesn’t want it from you.”
“And who are you?” I say, pretending to talk into my phone.
“I’m Popster, Aspen’s grandpa. Gabby’s my daughter.”
Ah. Aspen mentioned him yesterday. This ought to be interesting. I play ball. “OK, what’s your idea?”
“I have a house I need to sell. It was worth about $320,000 when I had it appraised two years ago. It sounds to me like you need places to park your cash, things to buy. Well, I’m interested in selling my house. And if you buy it, I’ll loan Aspen the money she needs. She’ll accept it from me.”
I sit up straighter in the booth and drape one of my arms on the back of it. It’s not a bad idea. Aspen gets her hotel. Aspen will be happy. Then I’ll make my move for Aspen, and we’ll both be happy.
“You have a deal,” I say, our backs still to each other.
He lowers his voice even more, and I have to strain to hear him. “In case it isn’t obvious, let’s keep this between the two of us. Otherwise, she’ll never go for it.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The old man slides out of the booth, and as he walks by, he slips me a napkin and winks, then walks away. I look down and see his phone number and email address written on the napkin.
I text a brief message to Patrick, to begin the process.
Later that day, I’m at home, sitting on the deck with my laptop. As a high-net-worth individual, I have access to what’s known as private banking. It means that my assistant can call “my” VP at the bank and get anything done, immediately, 24/7. No waiting on hold, no waiting three days for things to clear. Emerson Kingsley, AKA Popster, will have his money in his bank account in an hour. I’ll never see a single document or need to sign anything. I have lawyers and accountants on retainer to handle such things. In a few days, the title will clear, and I’ll own another house. Well, technically, one of my corporations will own it. It’s all just a bunch of details I don’t worry about. At some point, a FedEx driver will pull up and hand me an envelope with the keys in it. All from a single text message to Patrick.
Aspen is within reach.
11
Aspen
“Aspen!” Popster calls to me from the bistro’s kitchen. He’s tinkering.
I walk into the kitchen and find him with his head under the sink and his body sprawled on the floor, belly side up. I think he’s trying to fix the sink.
“Yeah, Popster?”
“Turn on the cold water, please.” I step over him and turn the faucet. Water pours out and runs down the drain.
“Dammit. OK, one second. OK. Turn it off.” I do as instructed. Then, I lean my back against the sink and pull out my phone to play Candy Crush. There’s no telling how long I might have to stand here.
Err. Err. Clank! Clank! I don’t want to know what he’s doing under there, but it doesn’t sound good. “OK, try now!”
I follow my orders. Water flows from the faucet once again. “Done,” I say.
“Yes! Great!” He pushes himself out from under the sink and his hands are black and dirty. He stands and turns off the faucet. I hand him a towel, and he wipes his hands.
“Is that all you needed?” I ask him.
“No, there’s more, but we can talk in the dining room. Have a seat in my booth, and I’ll be there in a minute. Oh, and get your mother.”
“What are we talking about?”
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out. Very soon. Now
