Chapter 40
A week later, Gemma arrives. This time, she is accompanied by Anthony Gill, the founder of a venture capital firm called Animus Investment.
I meet them in the driveway as they climb out of their luxury sedan.
This car wouldn’t stand a chance during mud season, I think, as I am rushed by Gemma, whose sandalwood scent envelops me as she pulls me into a hug.
This embrace doesn’t follow the usual rules of hugging—loose and brief.
It’s a tight hold that persists for a few seconds too long as she rocks from side to side.
Then she looks into my eyes as if she has deeply missed me.
“Cricket. I’m so excited to co-create with you again. ”
She says this as if I had never been her underling, as if we’re already in business together, as if this project—whatever it is—is a foregone conclusion. But last time I checked, Gemma and I have never actually co-created. She used to tell me what to do, and I used to do it.
Still, I try to stay even-keeled and open-minded, so I say, “Me too, Gemma. Me too.”
Anthony hits a button and his car chirps obediently.
“You might be the first person who has ever locked their car here,” I say.
“Well, it helps to have a car worth locking.” He holds out his hand. “Anthony Gill.”
“Cricket.” We shake and I try my hardest not to despise him. At least, not yet. His hair is slick with some kind of product, and he wears a watch that looks expensive and heavy—the kind that could injure you if you brushed against it wrong.
I lead them through the house.
“So cute, right?” Gemma says to Anthony as he looks around the great room.
“Hm,” he responds. It’s neither a confirmation nor an objection.
We reach the porch, and I motion for them to take a seat.
Anthony smashes a spider and then flicks it off his chair before he sits.
It’s a brilliant day, the kind I often dreamed about in the depths of winter, and the pond sparkles at a distance.
For a moment, I want to get up, run down the hill, and throw myself into the water.
But instead, I say, “So, Gemma, what brings you to Locust again?”
She’s ready. “It began as a vision. Now it feels like a calling.”
Anthony is immersed in his phone, both of his thumbs flying up and down as he types. Gemma pauses, and after a moment, he turns his attention to her, though it’s clear he has heard this spiel before.
“I kept asking myself, ‘What is the evolution of Actualize?’ Once our customer has all the serums, the oils, the pollens, the dews, the supplements … what comes next for her? It’s something I was turning over and over—for at least a year. And do you know what changed everything?”
“What?” I ask.
“My meeting with the oracle. It wasn’t so much what he said; it was the experience. It was the journey. And that’s when I knew—our next product wouldn’t be a product. It would be a place.”
“Like Le Refuge?”
“Along those lines, but more heart-centered. This would be a haven where our customer can heal and replenish herself. It’s more than a retreat center—it’s a space for transformation, transcendence. You check in feeling like yourself, but you come out changed. You come out feeling … actualized.”
“Wow,” I say. “Sounds expensive.”
Gemma laughs. “Yes. But that’s beside the point. This place is going to be a destination; it’s going to change the face of Locust. And we’re well on our way—we’ve got the location, the programming. We’re just missing one key ingredient.”
“What’s that?”
Gemma leans in. “The oracle.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You and your father have already laid the groundwork. You have a brand, a following, an aura. We just want to take it to the next level.”
“You mean … you would charge people to meet with my dad?”
“In a sense,” says Gemma. “We’d create an authentic—and scalable—experience that draws on your father’s rare gift and his deep Adirondack heritage.”
I still don’t know what she’s getting at, but I already object. “Charging people money isn’t really in the spirit of our work.”
“But it could be,” says Gemma, her energy rising as she begins her hustle. “And look, we understand your father’s limitations, so we wouldn’t expect him to be available to us more than is reasonable. We see him as more of a … figurehead.”
She locks eyes with Anthony, and he takes the lead: “We’ll get right down to it, Cricket. You’ve built something really special with your dad. We’re prepared to offer you $100,000 for the IP, clean and simple. And we’ll take it from here.”
For a moment, I am blinded by the amount.
It’s more money than I had hoped to make anytime soon, and I have to work to contain my astonishment.
It would certainly relieve my financial strain and give me more time to find a job.
It could even fund my return to school. But beneath my excitement is a muddier feeling of deep unease.
“The IP?” I know what the term means: intellectual property. Ironically, it’s exactly what my father once sold in the form of his patents. But I don’t see what kind of IP they’re looking to extract from a man with advanced dementia.
“Yes,” says Gemma. “We want the IP, the access. We want to be able to launch with the oracle as our main offering. And then we would scale from there.”
“Scale … how?”
“We’d leverage our proprietary AI,” says Anthony.
My jaw must drop, because Gemma says, “I know, I know. AI.” She rolls her eyes as if she and I are equally offended by the idea. “But Anthony’s product is so sophisticated, and when in conversation with your father’s genius, we could carry on his work long after…” She stops herself.
“Am I understanding this correctly…” I say. “You want to create some kind of digital dupe of my father, and then charge people to talk to it?”
“Something like that,” says Gemma, looking relieved that I am the one to articulate it. “And there would be other offerings, too. We would bring in all kinds of mediums, seers, other oracles. Eventually, we would offer a variety of formats: in-person, virtual, text.”
“But there aren’t other oracles,” I say.
“Not yet,” says Gemma. “But there could be. That’s the beauty of AI…”
I’m dumbstruck, and she changes her tack: “I mean, we’re just spitballing at this point. But listen, there’s no need to make any kind of decision yet. What I would really like to do is show you around the location we’re thinking of.”
Gemma seems to be waiting for something.
“Oh, you mean right now?” I ask.
She nods. “It’s not far from here. That’s why I’m in Locust—to check out the site. And to get your thoughts, of course. You know how much I value your opinion.”
Before I have a chance to respond, I notice my father peering through the screen door with a question on his face.
“Here comes the oracle himself,” I say, getting up to help my dad out onto the porch. I’m glad to see that he is fully dressed.
“Quite a crowd!” says my father. Gemma and Anthony stand to greet him.
I make the introductions as my mind bounces between the absurdity of their vision and the enormity of their offer. After a moment, my curiosity mounts.
“Okay,” I say to Gemma. “Let’s do it. Let’s go see your site.”
Gemma grins. “Great. Shall we drive you? Or you can follow us? It’s kind of hard to find, but it’s just a few miles from here.”
“We’ll follow you,” I say.
It takes me a few minutes to get organized and get my father in the car, but before long, we are caravanning behind Anthony and Gemma. Anthony drives fast, and we bump along after him in our station wagon, swerving around potholes that he blasts right through.
When we hit the main road, I expect them to turn right toward town, so I am surprised when they veer left and continue on the road that encircles Catwood Pond.
Up ahead, there is a turn that would take us up to Baneberry Hill, a well-known lookout in the area, and I wonder if they will head that way. But again, they drive right past it.
As the road veers back into the woods, I am even more confused. But a moment later, they slow and turn onto a familiar dirt road, and it finally dawns on me: they are leading us to the Seavey camp.