Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Vaughn
Sunlight glints off the crystal-blue waters as the last of the novice surfers paddle in from the morning session with Carlos, my business partner leading the charge.
Uluwatu, Bali, in spring is hit or miss for surfing, but on good days, we get out and beat the heat early.
Then at midday, we take the session to the classroom and gym, where we host everything from regular workouts to yoga classes.
Despite it being on the outside cusp of the rainy season, we’ve had a good crowd this week. With any luck, we’ve made some repeat customers with the group Carlos is teaching this morning.
A glance at my watch shows that we have just enough time to get this class organized and on its way before the investors arrive.
Our training facility, Rip Curl, is ready to expand. But we compete with the posh hotels and their bankrolled facilities nearby unless we bring in more capital. And the perfect investor’s son happens to be in the class Carlos just finished schooling.
I pull up my phone and check surfer boy’s social media to find that he did indeed tag us in his latest post. I bite back a grin.
That must be the reason for the influx in messages this morning.
If putting up with that little shit means more money coming in, I’ll suffer his stupid jokes all day long.
Even as I check, my notifications ping with more incoming messages.
I’ve barely learned that I need to be checking the spam folder, and although ninety percent of them truly are spam, every once in a while, we get a legit inquiry.
I switch from social media to email and notice the number of inquiries. This feels pretty damn good.
“Did you see that last run?” social media boy calls as he hits the sand. He’s a pretty boy with more invested in how he looks on-screen than in accomplishing something real, but I play his game and dote accolades on him.
“Yeah, man. You guys did great.”
My phone chirps with another notification, but pretty boy interrupts me to take his picture with his board. I strategically place him in front of our banner and snap the requested pic, plus about twenty more, before sending him on his way.
“That guy…” Carlos says with a shake of his head.
“I know, man, but we need his daddy’s money. And the way to Daddy is through the son.”
“Well, it’s a damn good thing you do the talking, because I’d have said something to piss him off. I had to channel my inner Vaughn, all stoic and quiet, out there this morning.”
I chuckle as the last student leaves and we load up the training boards.
“I thought this gig was supposed to be a fun retirement job for us. Instead, we’re out here pandering to trust fund babies,” Carlos says as he takes the driver’s seat.
“It is a fun retirement job. And those trust fund babies keep the lights on,” I confirm as he heads in the direction of the gym.
For what feels like the hundredth time, I open my phone to confirm the details of our meeting with the potential investor, because this guy is the real deal with big money, and I don’t want to mess it up, when an email catches my eye.
The name is familiar, but it’s the preview that makes nausea swirl in my gut.
Mr. Adams, my name is Marcus Smith, and I’m representing the estate of Mrs. Genevieve Adams.
There’s a whole bunch of legal mumbo jumbo about probating my gran’s will, all of it making that hole in my chest ache.
It’s standard language, but that doesn’t make it sting any less.
Doesn’t diminish the loss. It’s been over a year since I lost Gran, so at least the asshole is finally probating the will. I skim further…
And on a personal note… If you could call at your earliest convenience, I have some concerns regarding your grandfather’s health.
Time stands still, even as it falls back to twenty years ago and the last time I saw my grandfather. Yelling at me to get off his damn land and not come back.
I close the message and barely resist tossing the phone.
“Crusty bastard,” I mutter.
“Hey, whoa. What’d I do to you?” Carlos teases.
He doesn’t know my past. We were stationed together before retiring, but I’ve always kept my history separate from my Navy life.
“Nothing, man. It’s not about you. Just messages from home.”
The streets are beginning to fill even as the heat sets in, but my mind is trapped in a different time and place.
A time when the summer days were long and carefree.
A place where, though I’d visit to see my gran, I swore I’d never return to for good.
Even still, it remains home. The place that raised me and also broke me.
And Gus is the last living relative I have.
It’s not until I get home and get into the whiskey that I reread the email from the attorney. It’s on the second read-through that it sinks in that the attorney mentions selling the farm.
That’s my place.
For twenty years, I’ve known it and avoided it. But the reality of losing it is like a punch to the gut.
There’s not a chance in hell that old bastard is going to sell it out from under me.
One phone call to Carlos explaining the situation and one very expensive hit to my credit card later, I’m headed back to confront the man who banished me.