Chapter 5
N ick took an Uber back to his house. There, he showered, changed clothes, and drove to visit his mother in Roswell.
He had already talked to his mom on the phone, but after Shango had mentioned his mother by name, with specific descriptions of her usual daytime activities, Nick felt a compulsive urge to see her in the flesh to ensure she was okay and hadn’t been touched by the nightmare that had invaded his life.
He had checked on Amiya, too, and confirmed via text that she was fine, busy at work, and would be coming over that evening.
Nick didn’t plan on telling either his mom or Amiya, the two most important people in his life, what was going on in his business dealings with Shango.
He had never disclosed his ties to the crime lord to anyone.
The less anyone knew, the better; if any of these misdeeds ever wound up in a criminal court, the women he loved would be indisputably innocent.
His mom was a retired accountant and lived in a cozy, three-bedroom townhome in Roswell. She had moved into the house four years ago, after his dad had died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-five.
At eleven o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday, Nick found her sitting in a padded chair on the wooden deck at the back of the house. Flowers in early spring bloom surrounded her. She was drinking iced herbal tea and reading a paperback mystery novel.
“Oh, to enjoy the lazy life of a retiree.” Nick leaned down to give her a hug.
“Lazy life, my butt.” She removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. “Tax season just ended. I’m taking a well-deserved break.”
“You’re supposed to be retired, Mom. Why are you still doing taxes for people?”
“Some folks at the church needed guidance.” She gave him a level look. “I do it because I can.”
It was a familiar answer from her, one of those mottos that she and his dad had preached to him for his entire life. Get good grades because you can. Do the right thing because you can.
Research cures for diseases because you can, Nicholas.
Nick’s original calling to medicine had been a mission to find a cure for sickle-cell anemia.
The disease had claimed the life of his mother’s eldest sister, his beloved Aunt Doris.
Although he had been only a teenager at the time of his aunt’s passing, the pain that his family had experienced as she wasted away had made an indelible impression on him.
He’d always had a knack for science and math, and the pursuit of a degree in the sciences had seemed like a way to make a difference, to perhaps spare someone else’s family the pain that his own had endured.
The cause was just, but the money, to him, was never good enough.
He’d gotten a doctorate, worked as a pharmaceutical scientist for one of the world’s top drug companies, and though he’d done important work, it seemed that the bulk of the financial rewards always went to the company’s top executives.
It had forced him to face an unpleasant truth about himself: he’d yearned to make a difference with his knowledge, but more than that, he wanted to be rich.
It seemed almost sinful to admit it, given his church upbringing, but the pull of materialism was too strong for him to resist. He wanted to spin around town in expensive cars.
He wanted a big house in a tony neighborhood.
He wanted a Rolex on his wrist, fine wines in his cellar, and the latest fashionable clothes and shoes waiting in his closet.
His respectable but modestly paying corporate gig would never have brought the financial rewards that he craved.
When Omar, his frat brother from Morehouse, had called with a business proposition to launch their own nutritional supplements company, the timing couldn’t have been better. Nick had been ready to stake his claim on his own fortune.
“Is everything doing okay, Mom?” Nick settled on a chair next to her.
“I’m doing fine, Nicholas. I’m a little surprised that you’re visiting me on a Tuesday morning instead of working. Is everything okay with you ?” Her gaze probed him.
“I’m all right.” He couldn’t bear to meet his mother’s copper-brown eyes, and looked instead at the menagerie of potted plants assembled on the deck. “Everything is everything.”
“All right, then.” She pursed her lips, clearly displeased but not willing to push it. “How’s Amiya?”
“She’s fine. Any day now, I’ll pop the question.”
Nick hadn’t told his mother that he had already asked Amiya to marry him and had gotten a noncommittal response.
No good would come of sharing such information with his mother.
His mom was crazy about Amiya, but she would side with him and wonder what was wrong with his girlfriend, and he didn’t want to give his mother any reason to harbor a negative opinion of her. Amiya would come around, in time.
Yeah, she’ll really want to marry you if she finds out a crime boss has you on a string.
“You got any more of that tea?” Nick asked.
“I brewed a whole pitcher. It’s in the refrigerator. Help yourself.”
In the kitchen, Nick took the glass pitcher of iced tea out of the refrigerator and placed it on the granite-topped island. He wasn’t one to snoop around his mother’s house, but he couldn’t help but notice a FedEx letter-size envelope from a sender whose name he recognized: Falcon Properties.
Falcon Properties was one of the largest developers of live-work-play communities in the country, and they had several developments throughout metro Atlanta. Nick’s old condo, a unit in Decatur, had been part of their portfolio.
The FedEx package had been opened. He poured himself a serving of tea in a highball glass, and slipped the letter out of the envelope.
It was printed on heavy, expensive paper. It had a watermark, too.
As he read the correspondence, his heart began to boom.
This, he thought, could be the answer to my problems.
His mother entered the kitchen via the French doors. He looked up at her, waved the sheet of paper.
“Mom?” he asked. “Is this legit?”
“That? I was going to tell you about it today, actually. Yes, I think it’s legitimate.”
Nick licked his suddenly dry lips. He looked back at the page, but his gaze picked out only the key phrases.
Seeking to develop an upscale mixed-use community in the Macon, Georgia, area .
. . your family’s undeveloped woodlands property is a significant asset .
. . we are prepared to tender a generous offer of approximately $5,000 per acre .
. . could not reach your father so we are desiring to discuss with you . . .
“Did you talk to Grandpa Lee about this?” Nick asked.
“Come on, baby.” Mom came to the counter, shook her head. “You know your granddaddy still doesn’t have a telephone.”
Nick wasn’t surprised by that news. His Grandpa Lee was what the old heads in his family called “special.”
Nick hadn’t seen his maternal grandfather in over a decade.
Grandpa Lee lived alone on that vast plot of undeveloped land outside of Macon, in a well-kept but modest residence.
He had no phone; Nick believed he didn’t have electricity, either, or plumbing.
He had a vehicle, Nick remembered, a Ford pickup truck, which at the time Nick had seen it was probably twenty-five years old.
Grandpa Lee was most likely still driving it.
Occasionally, Grandpa Lee sent letters to Nick’s mother, his only surviving child. His mother shared them with Nick. They were rambling missives in barely readable handwriting.
Despite his granddad’s oddities, Nick had fond memories of spending time with him.
Grandpa Lee had a sharp mind and a wicked sense of humor.
There was no dispute that he was deeply attached to that property, too.
On Nick’s last visit, he had taken him on a tour of those woods—during daylight hours, as his granddad claimed, bizarrely, that it wasn’t safe out there after dark—and Grandpa Lee had known the forest as well as a man knew his own den.
“But this, Mom, this is important,” Nick said. He put the letter on the counter and placed his finger on it. “How many acres does Grandpa Lee have? I know it’s a significant amount of land.”
“It’s about nine hundred acres.” She watched him carefully.
Dizziness spun through Nick as he quickly did the math. “Mom, nine hundred acres, at five grand per acre, is four point five million dollars .”
“I can do mathematics, Nicholas.” Arms crossed over her bosom, his mother stared at him as if he had sprouted a third eye in the center of his forehead.
“That property has been in our family for generations, Nicholas. Do you think this is the first time we’ve had offers to sell it?
” She uttered a harsh laugh. “Hell, we should count ourselves lucky that this time they offered payment for it instead of threatening to take it by force like they used to back in the day.”
“I get it,” Nick said. “Black folks never got the forty acres and a mule that was promised to us. We need to be property owners and pass down generational wealth, yada yada yada. But this is like a winning lottery ticket.”
“You get it, huh?” Mom asked. “Are you sure about that?”
“The land is literally sitting there, vacant. Grandpa Lee’s living in a tiny house—it’s not as though he’s got a commercial farm. Why not sell it? We could do so much with that money.”
Mom had started to sip her tea, but instead put the glass on the counter and turned a penetrating stare on him.
“What’s truly going on with you?” She gestured toward the letter.
“I admit it’s a fortune, but I’m quite comfortable in my retirement, and so is my dad, as odd as that may seem considering his living situation.
I thought things were going well financially with you, too—heck, you’ve been living a life right out of that old TV show, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous .
What would they say—‘champagne wishes and caviar dreams.’ Or am I missing something? ”
“How often will an opportunity like this come along?” Nick asked, ignoring her question. “It’s like selling a stock at the peak of a bull market. Six months from now, the real estate market could turn, and the land wouldn’t be worth half as much.”
“It wouldn’t matter to your granddad if they offered him a hundred million dollars,” Mom said.
“And it wouldn’t matter to him if they offered him a penny.
It’s not a financial decision. The property belongs to our family and must be passed down the line, no matter what.
That’s why he wouldn’t talk to these people and they got in touch with me. ”
“You could make a deal with them?” Nick asked.
“Grandpa Lee holds the deed and he’s presently of sound mind. No, I can’t sign the deal, and I wouldn’t if I could anyway. If any deal is to be made, your Grandpa Lee has to make it—and that’s about as likely as a pig jumping over the moon.”
“What if I go see him and talk to him about it?” Nick asked. “He might listen to me. This is ultimately my inheritance, too.”
Mom laughed. “Child, you have no idea. But you know what—go ahead! Go see your grandpa and see how willing he is to listen to you about selling family property. You’re long overdue to go see him anyway—heck, take Amiya, too. I think he’d like to meet her.”
Still chuckling, Mom refreshed her iced tea and went back outside to the deck.
Nick lowered his head, drummed his fingertips on the countertop.
He wasn’t prepared to let this go. He couldn’t. It was his property, too—or would be, someday. Why didn’t he have a vote in this situation?
His cell phone vibrated. It was a text message from Omar.
No payment plan . . . Shango says we got thirty days 2 pay in full . . . what we goin 2 do?
Nick used his iPhone to snap a photo of the letter. Fingers trembling, he sent a reply to Omar.
No worries . . . I have a plan.