The Five Times I Met Myself (35 page)
“Do you follow Jesus?”
“What?”
“Are you a Christian?”
“Hello, McFly. You were there, Brock-O.”
Relief filled Brock.
“Did you give me a book on lucid dreaming?”
“There’s a point to this, right?”
“Did you?”
“No, but I have one I can let you borrow.”
“We have a lot to talk about.” Brock pulled off 405 on his way to Black Fedora. “And I’ll tell you all about it in the days to come.”
Seven minutes later Brock arrived at the office and rushed into the elevator in the parking garage. He reached the seventh floor
three minutes after that and strode toward the conference room. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes till nine. No time to jet into his office and see if he could pick up any clues on the state of the company. No time to put his head together with Ron. And Brock definitely needed the meeting more than Ron did.
Yes, from what Ron said, the buyout was still happening, but he would still be flying utterly blind on all the details. No chance to save the company when he had no clue where all the players were positioned on the chess board. And there was no way he could stall signing at this point.
“Thanks for getting here early.” Ron strode down the hall and clapped Brock on the shoulder. “But no worries, we’ll figure it out. Just tell me if you’re leaning yes or no.”
“Your hand.” Brock pointed at Ron’s right hand as heat rushed through him.
“Yeah, I have one on the left as well.” Ron gave a questioning grin.
“You’re still golfing.”
“And you’re not getting out of playing with me in the scramble tournament next week, so don’t try.”
“I won’t.”
“So yes or no on the buyout?”
“What do you mean yes or no? We don’t have a choice.”
Ron gave him another puzzled look and pushed open the conference room door. “They’re all in the lobby, but I told Michelle not to send them up till I give her the word. So talk to me, yes or no? And from what you’ve been saying this past week, no is not an option for you, right?”
They stepped into the conference room as Brock tried to formulate an answer that would draw out a hint of what Ron was
really asking. But any thought of responding vanished the moment Brock spotted the posters on the walls. Every few feet was a six-by-four poster, eight posters in all. Four of them featured Ron. Four of them featured himself. At the top of the first poster in huge letters was the line, Cuisine to Live For. At the bottom in a smaller font was Brock L. Matthews Opens His Newest Restaurant April 23.
The poster next to his was one of Ron. At the top was the Black Fedora logo. Ron sat surrounded by fourteen flavors of Black Fedora coffee. His arms were spread, a huge grin across his face. An easel in the corner of the room held a smaller poster of Brock standing over a lavish island stove with a ladle in hand. Spread out on the counter next to the stove were three labeled dishes: Tuna Scallopine with Parsley and Pomegranate Seeds, Lobster Bisque Soup, and Eggs Benedict. The top of the poster said, The Latest from the Fertile Mind of Master Chef Brock L. Matthews.
“You look like a zombie. What are you staring at?”
Before Brock had a chance to respond, Ron shook his head. “I get it. I agree. I asked Carla not to put the posters up—I know you don’t like being the star—but she said it would make a good impression on the folks coming in. And since she’s the VP of Marketing, I respect her opinion, and you have to admit, she’s much wiser than me and maybe even you in that area.”
Brock turned to Ron and tried to say something remotely intelligent, but what came out was, “I don’t own Black Fedora.”
“What?”
Brock said it again, this time a whisper. “Black Fedora isn’t my company.”
“Technically, no. But you own the company that owns Black
Fedora, so technically yes. I’m assuming there’s a point to this feigned ignorance?”
Brock’s mind spun like a gyroscope. He hadn’t gone to business school. He took another path. One his dad saw for him, the gift he couldn’t remember receiving. Brock stared at Ron and couldn’t stop shaking his head.
“That was dad’s gift to me. It had to be.”
“What gift? What are you talking about?” Ron turned his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “You realize you’re not making any sense, right?”
“I went to culinary school. That was dad’s gift to me that day at the game, right? He paid for culinary school, didn’t he?”
“Brocklee, we don’t really have time for a history lesson. We need to let—”
“What’d you call me?”
“What?” Ron laughed.
“Don’t call me that.”
“You’re definitely not doing well.” Ron took Brock by both shoulders and shook him playfully. “I’ve been calling you that for twenty-seven years. Now all of a sudden you don’t like it?”
“I like it when you call me that?”
“Ever since I graduated from college.”
“We’re friends. We have a good relationship.”
“Yeah, I sure think so.”
“And we’re solvent.” Brock glanced around the room. “More than solvent, aren’t we? And we’re not meeting with these people because we’re on the verge of bankruptcy . . .”
“What did you eat this morning?”
Brock stumbled across the room till he reached a poster of
himself kneeling beside fourteen or so children in what looked like Costa Rica. “We do relief work?”
Ron gave a nervous laugh. “Seriously, Brock, you need to stop screwing around and get ready for this meeting.”
As if on cue, there was a rap on the door. It swung open and Michelle stood in the frame.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, your guests are here.”
Behind Michelle stood three men and two women. But Brock could focus only on the man on the far right. Mitchell. And based on what Brock had learned about himself, his cozy relationship with Ron was about to be extremely short-lived.
Mitchell glanced at Brock, but there was no acknowledgement in his eyes of what they’d done. That’s when the realization struck Brock. He’d planned the takeover with Mitchell in a different time line, not this one. Relief filled him and he strolled with Ron toward the group just inside the doors of the conference room.
“Welcome.” Ron said and opened his palms as they reached their guests. “Good to see you all.”
Ron proceeded to greet each of the party while Brock stared at Mitchell, trying to catch his eye. Brock was still flying blind, but at least he knew he’d fight signing the company over to Mitchell and crew, no matter how late the hour. But first, he’d listen, try to learn anything that might tell him where the negotiations stood. And he’d have to trust that this moment was not random, that it was orchestrated by Someone far greater than himself.
Brock moved slowly around the table. Mitchell was on the far side of the group, engaged in an animated discussion with Ron, so Brock greeted the other members of Mitchell’s consortium. Brock produced the required smiles and pleasantries, and one by
one they moved to grab a cup of coffee from the serving table at the back of the room before settling into the chairs around the conference table.
“Brock Matthews. Wow.” Mitchell’s voice snapped Brock out of his contemplation. “It’s been a long time since high school, hasn’t it, Brock?”
“It has been a while.”
He studied his old rival’s eyes—a mixture of defiance and arrogance—and the slight upturn of his mouth, and heat rose inside Brock. There was no question. He instantly realized that they were still coconspirators in this reality. Why? It made no sense. Hadn’t he changed everything?
Mitchell turned slightly so his back was to Ron and the rest of the group and whispered under his breath. “Nicely played, amigo. We are about to score major Saint-Tropez for the celebration, huh?” He stuck out his hand. Brock took it and squeezed hard.
“Good to see you again after all these years.” Brock gave a grim smile.
“Wow, you been working out.” Mitchell pulled his hand out of Brock’s. “That actually hurt.”
“Good.” Brock winked at him and relished the peeved look on Mitchell’s face.
Then, inexplicably, Brock felt a sliver of peace. He didn’t know the details, but the overall scheme was as clear as an alpine lake, and he could see straight to the bottom where a layer of silt covered the truth. A layer Mitchell created, and Brock was just as culpable. But it didn’t matter who was to blame. All he cared about was the truth.
During the next twenty-five minutes, Mitchell and his team laid out their plan for buying out both Cuisine to Live For and
Black Fedora. There were no holes. The money, the trajectory going forward, all the elements were perfect. The plan was diamond solid. The shares they were offering were of far more value than the two companies were worth. No wonder Ron was pushing them to say yes.
Once Mitchell and company made their final statements on why the buyout made sense, they began discussing the details. Questions and clarifications went back and forth for ten minutes before Mitchell waved his pen at Ron.
“So, do we have a deal?” Mitchell glanced around the room. “I know we’d need to work out the rest of the details, but in principle? Is this going to happen?”
Ron glanced at Brock before giving Mitchell a slight nod. “You need three yeses. You have mine. You have our CFO’s. Brock?”
“I need more time.”
“No input? No comments? Anything to add? What are we missing that would allow you to give an answer?”
An idea shot through Brock’s mind. Was it possible? Would he find the files in this time line? Maybe.
“On second thought, yes, I do have something to add. But before I’m sure, I need to check a file in my office.”
“What?” Ron grimaced. “Let’s get this done. You’ve had weeks to analyze this deal from every angle. This meeting was supposed to be more of a formality than a negotiation. What do you need to check in your office?”
Brock stood and glanced at his watch. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
He strode from the room, slightly surprised he was about to lay his own head on the chopping block, knowing the ax would fall hard.
B
rock burst into his office, woke his computer, and did a search for Project Gilgamesh. Half of him wanted it to be there, half didn’t. More than half didn’t. Because if he found it, there was no going back. He would have to confess, and he would destroy his relationship with Ron.
He thought it would take ten minutes to find the recordings. It took three. Another thirty seconds to find the one that would make the biggest explosion when he detonated it in the conference room. He transferred the file to a flash drive and shoved it into his pocket.
Brock strode down the hall back toward the conference room intent on pulling open the door, striding inside, and lighting the fuse that would blow up, but when he reached the door he stopped, his hand clutched too tightly around the knob. Was this the right move? If it wasn’t, too late now.
He pushed the door open and marched into the room. The buzz of small talk died and all eyes in the room focused on Brock.
Ron gave him a look that said,
This better be good.
Brock gave a look back that he hoped said it would be.
He pulled the flash drive from his pocket and wiggled it, then slipped it into his laptop. “This recording would never hold up in a court of law. I doubt the other party knew I was recording it. So this is merely a personal confession.”
Ron stood and put his hand on Brock’s arm to stop him from hitting play. “What are you doing, bro?”
“Setting myself free. I meant to have this conversation with you later, but now will work.” Brock gently lifted his brother’s hand off his arm. “All growing up, the only thing I wanted to do was beat you. I thought you and Dad were against me. Thought Dad didn’t love me. And those things fueled my obsession to win at all costs. But it isn’t true. You’ve been a good brother. And I don’t have to win any longer. I’ve thrown that idol into the fire.”
The auburn-headed woman named Teresa spread her hands on the table. “I think we’re all really liking this family-reunion hour, but what is going on?”
“Blind eyes now finally see.” Brock turned to face Ron full-on. “I betrayed you. It doesn’t matter if I knew it or didn’t know about it in this time line. It’s inside me. There are dark places in my soul, and the only hope for those shadows is God’s grace, God’s mercy. I can’t do any of it on my own. I’ve finally figured that out after fifty-three years of trying. So I’m throwing myself on his unquenchable mercy, that unquenchable grace. It’s all I have, and for the first time in my life, it’s all I want.”
Brock hit play on his laptop, turned, and ambled toward the poster of himself holding up his eggs Benedict. Humpy Dumpty and his pals were about to take a fall.
“You say you’ve figured out how to do this.” On the recording, Brock’s voice sounded tinny and far away.
“It’ll be simple,” another voice said. Mitchell’s. “The timing is perfect for us to make an offer. Black Fedora and Cuisine to Live For are exploding, but that means limited cash flow, right? So over the coming months, we form a dummy corporation. Buy up dummy shares and when the buyout happens . . .”
