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SC-Epilogue, Part 2c
🕑 Added 2020-07-13 12:01:00 +0000 UTCIn the summer of 1992, Trip began looking for a development partner for our tract of land on Lake Lanier. He found him in September. His name was Douglas J. Trimble, and he was a big-time property developer in the area. He wanted to build a golf course, condos, a country club, and a gated luxury community on the lake itself.
“I’d love to start right away,” he told us, “but I have this other development I need to finish first. It’s behind schedule, and the architect just quit.”
Trip had a solution for that, of course. Our company could do the work while we negotiated contracts and drew up plans for the new development.
“I don’t know if it’s the kind of work you normally do,” Trimble said. “It’s a mixed-use development, condos and retail.”
“No, I can totally do that,” I said.
Trip nodded enthusiastically.
“All right. If you think you can handle it. Besides, we’ll get to know each other while we put together the big deal, the one that’s going to make us all rich. Well, richer. Am I right, boys?”
“Right!”
So I started designing boutique shopping centers, restaurant spaces, and several different condo layouts. Trip tried to get the schedule back on track from where the previous architect had left it.
We had so much work that we stopped accepting new clients for our homebuilding company. Even better, Trimble planned a multi-year development schedule for the Lake Lanier project, so we’d have plenty of work for the foreseeable future. In fact, we’d have to hire more people once we started.
Trip was excited to be working with a more experienced developer, the mentor he’d never had. Then he saw the sales projections from Trimble’s marketing people.
“Dude,” he said to me over drinks in his office one evening, “we’re going to be rich. I’m talking millions of dollars. Each. As a matter of fact, we may be talking tens of millions. And that’s just for starters. The golf club and all the associated revenue will be a goldmine!”
“What about Brett?”
“Him too. I figure he’ll invest right along with us. C’mon, let’s give him a call.”
“Sorry, guys,” he said. “My business manager wants me to diversify. He says computers’re big right now. He wants me to invest in some robot company. They talk to each other over the phone or something.”
We tried to talk him out of it, but probably not as hard as we should’ve. It meant a larger share of the profits for us, after all. So we called Trimble and told him it was just the two of us in the form of our company. His people drew up reams of contracts.
“They’re pretty standard boys. You know that. I don’t know why we even use ’em. A handshake’s good enough for me. I trust you. But the lawyers insist, so…”
Trip spent days poring over them. Then we sent them to our own attorney for review. He warned us that he didn’t specialize in real estate law, which should have been our first red flag. Trip said it was okay, since he just wanted a legal opinion and to double-check his own reading. The attorney repeated his caveats and approved the contracts.
We had a big signing ceremony that looked like a scene out of a movie, with a long boardroom table and a bunch of men in suits. It was exciting and intimidating at the same time, especially when we realized that Trimble had nearly a dozen people on his side. We had two, Trip and me. We hadn’t even thought to bring our attorney.
“Aw, hell,” Trimble said, “we only need one of these guys. What’m I paying the rest of you for? Go on back to your offices. Send in the Notary and let’s start making some money. Am I right, boys?”
“Right!”
Once we signed the contracts, we started investing real money in the new project. Trip and I scraped together everything we could, effectively our life savings. It was an impressive amount. Some came right back to us in the form of deposits for work we planned to do, but most of it went into the general project fund to pay for surveys, impact studies, and preliminary site work.
Trimble knew exactly what we needed, and he had the connections to make everything happen. Trip and I were so eager that our first setback barely even registered.
“Boys, I have a problem,” Trimble said. “And I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but I feel I should tell you up front before you find out on your own. I don’t want you to think I’m hiding anything. It’s about the money.”
Trip and I looked at each other in concern. It should’ve been our second red flag, but we didn’t see any need to panic just yet.
“My little project is finally on schedule, thanks to your hard work.” Trimble smiled at Trip before he continued, “But the damn bank won’t release any of the funds from escrow. Don’t worry,” he assured us, “the current investments from you boys are enough to keep things moving until I shake loose my own capital.”
We breathed a sigh of relief. But then Trip saw an opportunity.
“Well, since we’re having to wait on you” he said, “we’re exposed to more risk up front. More risk, more reward. Shouldn’t we have a larger share of the final development?”
Trimble winced. “I was afraid you’d ask for that, but it’s what I’d’ve done in your position. I’ll be honest, I was hoping you’d stick to the original agreement, but you’re a sharp one. And you have me over a barrel, so…”
They started negotiating. Trip wanted sixty percent of the country club partnership. Trimble countered with fifty-two percent, and they eventually agreed to fifty-five.
Trip was proud of himself, of course, but we should’ve realized it had been too easy. Still, we didn’t have a clue, so we went back to work on the condo and retail project.
By the time Christmas arrived, we’d done months of work for Trimble but still hadn’t been paid for it. He apologized and promised to call his project manager first thing in the new year. And, he reminded us, we’d have plenty of money coming in once we started getting paid for the work we planned to do for our own project. That should’ve been another red flag, our third or fourth, but we ignored it too. Our eyes were full of dollar signs.
We started having problems we couldn’t ignore in early 1993. We received payment for some of the work we’d done, but the checks didn’t clear.
“Dammit,” Trimble swore, “I told them to use the new account. Those checks’re from a project two years ago. Boys, where are you? Right now, I mean. I’m going to have one of my people bring you a personal check. Thirty minutes and you’ll have your money.”
Sure enough, an assistant arrived with a check. It was for half of the amount of the original checks, and they’d only been a fraction of what he owed us, but the new check cleared the bank. Trip and I relaxed yet again.
Then we learned that the environmental impact study had found a problem with our land.
“It’s two problems, actually,” Trip said. “Some damn woodpecker on the Endangered Species list. The other is almost as bad. Seems someone’s been dumping oil and used tires on parts of the land. Cleanup and remediation will cost a fortune.”
All of a sudden, the color drained from his face.
“What?”
“The land. Its value. We’re contractually obligated to sell it to Trimble for the market price. With these environmental problems, the value just went down.”
“How much?” I asked.
“A lot. Fifty percent. Um… maybe more.”
“How much more?” A pit had opened in my stomach.
“Maybe… I don’t know, but it could be bad.” He thought of something. “Hold on… Trimble doesn’t have to buy the property. We’re only obligated to sell it if the project moves forward.”
Things started to fall apart pretty quickly at that point. Trimble called in a fury over the environmental report. He’d trusted us. He’d been counting on us. But now he’d have to take a loss on his investment.
“He never invested a dime!” I raged after we hung up. “What about us? We sank our life savings into this project!”
“I know,” Trip said, but he was worried. “I’ll… figure it out.”
He didn’t figure it out. Trimble never paid us for the work we’d done on his previous project. The company we’d been dealing with declared bankruptcy. It was only a holding company, we learned. We might recover some of what they owed us, Trip said, but it would take years in court and require money we didn’t have.
The development company for our new project declared bankruptcy too. It turned out that we didn’t control it. Trimble did as the initial investor, through Series A stock. We looked back at our investment paperwork and discovered that we’d purchased non-voting Series A-1 stock, a subtle but important difference.
Worse, the money from our investment had all been spent, paid out to companies controlled by Trimble. He and his cronies had effectively stolen every dime, and it had all been legal.
The cherry on our swindle-sundae arrived in the form of a purchase demand for the tract of land. We were obligated to sell it at market price. It was effectively worthless because of the environmental problems. We were staring down the barrel of a total loss, all because we’d trusted Trimble.
Nana Choate saved us. Not with any money, but with her gift in trust. We’d formed a partnership when we’d bought the land, and the partnership was the legal owner. Trip and I had signed the contracts with Trimble on behalf of our homebuilding company, but it didn’t own the land. They were the same in our mind, but not legally, and that was the important point.
So Trimble—excuse me, the scumbag con artist—had slipped up. He couldn’t force Trip and me to sell what our company didn’t own. Still, he tried.
“I’m sorry, boys,” he said, “I’m gonna need that land.”
“Good luck getting it,” Trip said.
“You signed a contract.”
“I must’ve missed that one. Paul, do you remember signing a contract with the rest of the partners? No? Neither do I.”
“Boys, I’m sorry it ended like this,” the scumbag said. “I really thought we had a bright future together.”
“Fuck you, asshole.” Trip stabbed the button and hung up.
So we kept the land but lost everything else. Even Pyrrhus wouldn’t have called it a victory.
✧ ✧ ✧
“So… what’re we gonna do?” Christy asked.
We were sitting in Wren’s steakhouse, and Trip had just finished recounting the whole sordid tale. The details had been excruciating to relive, especially since we’d missed every single red flag. Worse, they were so obvious in hindsight. Trip blamed himself for most of it, but I knew better—I’d agreed with every decision we’d made.
He repeated Christy’s question, “What are we gonna do? I don’t know. As far as the company goes, we’re almost broke, we don’t have any new work, and we still have to make payroll.”
“But you and Paul are most of that, right?”
“Most, but not all. Still, that’s only half the expenses. We have rent, taxes, insurance, and everything else that keeps us afloat.”
“Oh.” She sighed but then had a thought. “You said taxes. Property taxes too?”
He nodded.
“So we’re going to keep the land?”
“That’s the one bright spot in this whole miserable adventure,” I said.
Trip nodded and picked up the story. “Seems that Trimble’s people—”
I cleared my throat. “I want to punch someone when I hear his name. Can we just call him Scumbag from now on?”
“Fine by me,” Trip said. “Anyway, Scumbag’s guys did the environmental impact study. I talked to a couple of people, and he’s pulled this con before.”
“What con?” Christy asked.
“He signs a contract to purchase land for the market price. Then they discover some kind of environmental problem.” He made air quotes. “Sorry, they ‘discover’ a problem, and Scumbag buys the land at a fraction of its previous value. A couple of months later, they ‘discover’ that the problem isn’t a problem after all. It’s basically fraud, but it’s almost impossible to prove.”
“That fucking asshole,” Wren said in a tone of wonder and outrage.
“Yep,” I agreed. “He’s also notorious around town for not paying his contractors and subs. We’d never worked with him, so we didn’t know.”
“Why isn’t he in prison?”
Trip shrugged. “Money and connections. Part of the good ol’ boy network. He plays it straight with them. He has to. They know his tricks. He only fleeces outsiders and minor-league players like us. And we were lambs to the slaughter.”
I chuckled to myself at how my mind worked—Trip mixed his metaphors, and that was just wrong. I shook it off and focused on important things instead.
“We only kept the land because we were lucky,” I said.
“Very,” Trip agreed.
“And it might be worth something after all?” Christy said.
“Yeah,” Trip said. “We don’t have our own report yet, but I suspect they won’t find any woodpeckers or anything else. The money problems are real enough, though. I mean, we’re still broke.”
“Can’t we just find more money?”
Trip laughed ruefully. “I wish it was that easy.”
“Then… how’re we going to live?”
“We have enough to live,” I told her. “And we have money in the bank. Not much, but enough. I mean, we didn’t put all our eggs in the same basket.”
“And we have some money coming in to the company,” Trip agreed. “We haven’t wrapped up some projects we started before Trim— Scumbag. They aren’t enough, though.”
“We could try to find more,” I said, but he shook his head.
“I think we burned a few bridges when we started turning away clients. And… to be honest, I don’t know if I want to keep doing what we’re doing.”
Wren touched his hand in support.
“I mean, I’m not a businessman. Yeah, I took some Business classes, but that’s it. I don’t have a degree or anything. And I think Scumbag showed that I don’t have what it takes to succeed in business.”
“You were doing fine,” I told him, and Wren silently agreed. Even Christy gave an enthusiastic nod. She was a little more chipper than I thought the situation deserved, but I wasn’t going to object.
“I guess,” Trip said gloomily, “but we were easy pickings for the first crook who came along. We could’ve just written a check for our life savings instead of going through… all that!”
“Why don’t you just learn more about business?” Christy said.
It was such a naïve question that I thought Trip would laugh. I certainly wanted to, but I didn’t know if I’d be able to stop.
“I know you think I’m crazy,” she continued, “but God has a plan for us.”
Trip laughed derisively. “God wanted us to get fleeced?”
“God wants us to grow and prosper.”
“Out of the mouths of babes.”
“I’m telling you, He has a plan,” she insisted. Then she quoted, “I know that Thou canst do all things, and that no purpose of Thine can be thwarted.” She let the words hang in the air. “That’s Job speaking, by the way, and he had a pretty rough time before he saw the truth. So I’m telling you, God wants us to move forward.”
“She’s right.” Wren and Christy shared a sideways look.
The attitude at the table had begun to change. We’d been gloomy before, but Christy lightened the mood for everyone.
“Okay, what is it?” I said. “The plan, I mean.”
She pursed her lips with a smile. “You know us so well.”
“I musta missed something,” Trip said. “What’s going on?”
“Our lovely wives have been conspiring behind our backs,” I said.
“‘Conspiring’ is such a harsh word,” Wren said.
“Semantics.”
She grinned, unrepentant. “Let’s say we’ve been… planning.”
“Then tell us.”
“Let’s order some after-dinner drinks,” she said. “And Christy needs some dessert. You’re still too thin, my love.”
“Can I have two?” she asked hopefully.
“It’s a restaurant!” Wren laughed. “They’ll keep bringing you food until we ask them to stop!”
“Oh. In that case, may I have some more mushrooms? They were yummy. And a side of haricots verts. Oh, and a piece of peanut butter pie!”
Wren couldn’t help but chuckle. “Anything else, my love?”
“Hold on,” I said in alarm. “You aren’t pregnant, are you?”
Christy’s brow knitted. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“Mushrooms, green beans, and peanut butter?” I said.
“Oh, that! No, I’m not pregnant. I’m just hungry. Starving, actually. That was a long story. And… um…” She glanced meaningfully at her empty wineglass.
“What would we do without you?” Wren chuckled.
“Have more food for ourselves,” Trip joked.
“You aren’t hurting,” she said with a pointed glance at his middle. He had the beginning of a paunch. “You could stand to spend some time with Paul at the gym.”
“Yes, dear.”
“I mean it,” she said. “You don’t think I’m doing Cindy Crawford just for me, do you?”
“When did you start doing Cindy Crawford?” he laughed. “And why haven’t you shared?”
She rolled her eyes. “I mean the workout tape.”
“Oh, right. I knew that.”
“Uh-huh,” she said dubiously. “Back to the gym? Or you can start doing Cindy Crawford?”
“There’s only one way I wanna do Cindy Crawford,” he said, “and it doesn’t involve a videotape.” He thought about it. “Then again, maybe we could make one of those movies. Ow! Ow! I take it back. Stop!”
Wren glared playfully and made another pinching motion.
“I’ll go back to the gym,” he promised.
“Good. Now, let’s order. Then we’ll tell you what we’re thinking.” She raised her eyes. Everyone who worked at the restaurant knew who she was, and she’d barely begun to scan the room before the waiter appeared.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Will you please bring us a bottle of Rémy XO? Four glasses, and coffee for my husband. He still has to drive.”
“Of course.”
She nodded toward Christy, who beamed in anticipation. My little Sunshine could light up a room when she was in a good mood. And she was always in a good mood when food was involved.
“…sautéed mushrooms,” Wren was saying, “the haricots verts, and a piece of peanut butter pie. The rest of us will share a molten chocolate lava cake.”
“Right away, ma’am. Anything else?”
Christy cleared her throat softly.
“Yes?” Wren chuckled.
“Um… you said I could have two. Desserts, I mean.”
“Of course!” She gestured for Christy to order.
“May I have a chocolate lava cake too?”
The waiter didn’t even bat an eye, although he clearly wondered where Christy planned to put it all.
“Oh, my love…,” Wren sighed in amusement.
“What?” Christy complained. “You said it’s a restaurant. You said they’ll keep—”
“I know, I know! And they will. I just wish I had your metabolism.” She nodded to the waiter, who turned and headed toward the bar.
“Okay,” I said into the vacuum left by his departure, “tell us about these plans of yours.”
Wren took a moment to compose her thoughts, and Christy couldn’t hide her excitement.
“Well, I’ve been talking to a headhunter,” Wren said. She added quickly, “I didn’t call him. He called me.”
“Go on,” Trip said.
“Well, it seems that a certain sporting goods company is looking for someone to handle PR and athlete endorsements. My name came up, and they…”
✧ ✧ ✧
I celebrated my thirtieth birthday in a mild funk. I felt middle-aged, even though I wasn’t. Still, I wasn’t in the same physical condition as the twenty-year-olds at the gym, and I didn’t recover as quickly after a hard workout.
In the career department, I’d been forced to close a successful business and had lost a lot of money because of poor decisions. Granted, we’d been scammed by a con man, but that didn’t make it any easier to stomach. Also, I wasn’t entirely sure what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. We had a plan, but it wasn’t what I thought I’d be doing at thirty.
On the plus side, my sex life was better than ever. Christy and I had more distractions in our lives, but we hadn’t lost the spark in the bedroom. Our little swinging group was fun too, especially when Brooke, Erin, or Renée came to visit. Christy herself was more beautiful than the day we’d met, and a couple of children had filled out her slender curves. She was still petite, but no one would ever mistake her for a teenage boy.
And finally, I had two beautiful daughters. Laurie was an absolute joy. She was bright and cheerful, and she had Christy’s physical grace. Emily was a joy in a different way. She was more like me, in that she analyzed the world around her. She was far more stubborn, but I loved her determination as much as Laurie’s easygoing nature.
All in all, I couldn’t have asked for better children or a lovelier wife. I even decided that our business troubles and career setbacks were temporary. We would learn from our mistakes and come back better than ever.
So, maybe thirty wasn’t so bad after all.
✧ ✧ ✧
To be continued…
✧ ✧ ✧
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Big Ed Magusson.
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Comments
Nick Scipio
Ditto. And thank <em>you</em> for reading. Glad you enjoyed it.
Nick Scipio
You're very welcome. Thanks for reading.
Eric
Yes, thank you!
Thank you.
