Chapter 1: Home Again
The flight from San Francisco to Winston-Salem seemed to stall over the Midwest. Flights are never longer than the ones home. He reached for his laptop, still in its case by his feet, out of habit, but there was no need for it. There were no emails to answer, no important questions to field from investors or board members, and no crises to avert with bankers or customers. His responsibilities for such things evaporated when the check cleared the bank. He was, absurdly, unemployed.
The laptop called to him like pain from a phantom limb. For nearly ten years, he had lived through that device, connected to people through it, taken commands from it, and issued commands to others with it. It had been his compass, directing him, leading him, and helping him lead others.
The vast flatness radiated out below him as he sipped his water. His seat in first class, purchased at the last minute for an obscene amount of money, provided him with a full view of the journey, boring as it was. Or maybe the scenery was beautiful, even spectacular, but he was bored--a man without a purpose.
That wasn't exactly true, as his mother gave him a new task not long after the company had sold: prepare his childhood home for sale. Sheila Mitchell, Mark's mother, had moved to Florida to be closer to her daughter and grandchildren, abandoning the home in Greensboro. As Mark was now available to help, she reasoned, he should clean out the old place and get it sold. She had all she needed in her new retirement community home.
Mark Mitchell was less enthusiastic than his mother regarding the idea, but given he had little else going and believed that saying "I don't want to" was not an option, he reluctantly found himself on an eastbound flight to Greensboro with a single suitcase. A quick check out the window confirmed that the airplane had not moved in the last thirty minutes, or at least the scenery hadn't changed, so he reclined his seat, closed his eyes, and waited.
Most people rent a car when they arrive in a new city. Mark was not like most people. He asked the cab driver to drop him at the nearest Toyota dealership and he wheeled his bag into their showroom.
"Good afternoon," a salesman said. "Can I help you?"
Mark paused, the handle to his bag still in hand, and smiled. "I'd like to buy a car," he said.
"I can help you with that," the salesman said with a practiced smile. "What are you interested in?"
Glancing through the showroom, Mark's eyes settled on a Toyota Highlander SUV. "This one," said Mark, tapping it lovingly on the door. Then he glanced at the sticker in the window and shrugged.
The salesman smiled broadly. "That is a great choice. It's a high-end model and has all the extras. Would you like to go over the features?"
Mark shook his head. "No, I just want to buy it."
"Excuse me?" The salesman said.
"Credit card alright for this?" Mark said.
The salesman scowled. "Sir, this is a vehicle with a sticker price of over fifty-thousand dollars. You can't just buy it with a credit card."
"Sure I can," said Mark, pulling a card from his wallet. "Figure out the full price, see if you can get some plates on it, and run the card for the whole amount. It'll be fine. Here's my driver's license, too. Do a credit check."
Dumbfounded, the salesman said, "I'll need to speak with my manager."
"OK," said Mark. "I'm going to sit over here for a bit. I just got off a long flight. But don't make me wait too long. I hate waiting."
"Yes, sir," the salesman said, and he walked to the office area, card in hand. He returned in two minutes with his manager.
The dealer's sales manager, an older gentleman, said, "We ran a credit check, and you can purchase the car with this card. Is that your intention?"
"Yup," said Mark. "Let's get it done."
In ninety minutes, Mark was driving a new Toyota Highlander, his suitcase in the back, and the greatest hits from the 1960s blaring on the satellite radio. Like his plane ticket to get here, he was sure he paid too much and couldn't care less. The sale of his company had netted him nine figures, meaning the plane ticket and the new SVU's expenses amounted to a rounding error on his net worth. Perhaps after ten years of pinching pennies, he felt the urge to let go for a bit.
Greensboro was just as he had remembered it, green, lush, and spacious. He had grown up here, gone to school here, and played little league and soccer long before college, graduate school, and San Francisco. Childhood memories of being that skinny, dorky kid, underdeveloped, awkward, and a little too cerebral for his own good flooded back to him as he drove through old neighborhoods.
When he pulled into his mother's driveway, he turned off the engine and muttered to himself, "Now what?"
Chapter 2: Familiar Faces
The house was mostly as he remembered it. There were gaps where furniture once stood, but now it lived in Florida in Mrs. Mitchell's new home. The remainder, Mark was informed, should be thrown into a dumpster without delay. As evening approached, Mark walked through the house, climbed the stairs, and stood in the door jam of his childhood bedroom. His twin bed, still nicely made, filled one wall. Posters of Mars rovers and fighter jets hung dusty on the walls, illuminated by the late afternoon sun.
Mark sat on his old bed and reminisced. There were video games and computer projects, all-night board game marathons with his fellow nerds, bowls of junk food, buckets of caffeinated drinks to fuel the young boys through the weekend, and many hours of quiet time reading, studying, and writing software for the next big thing. Alas, everything in this room seemed three sizes too small.
Though uncomfortable, Mark decamped into his parent's bedroom and king-size bed. He would be the house's last occupant, and there was no reason to squeeze into a twin bed when he had this alternative. Thankfully, this bed was also fitted with sheets and blankets.
The sun flooded the room and painted the walls with a yellowish hue. He walked to the window to see the backyard, overgrown and with a couple of breaks in the fence. He sighed, pulled his laptop from the bag, and began making lists of things to do and buy. His time in this house would not be over until it had sold.
The deck in the rear of the house had a handful of chairs and tables. Mark's parents entertained friends on this deck throughout his childhood, and the pieces had withstood the heat of summers and the dampness of winters with aplomb. Though he knew there was no food in the house, his father's well-stocked bar was likely still intact, and he made a beeline to it. With a drink in hand, he walked onto the deck and settled himself.
"Mark? Is that you?"
Mark turned in his seat to see a familiar face, though one he had no right to expect.
"Elizabeth?" Asked Mark as he stood. "I thought you had moved to Chicago. What a surprise!"
She walked from the neighboring house to his deck and met him with an embrace.
"My," she said, "aren't you all grown up!"
"Look who's talking," he said with a chuckle. "You look great. How have you been?"
"Can I sit?" She said, motioning to a chair.
"Of course," said Mark. "Wait. Let me get you a glass. Scotch OK with you?"
"Absolutely," she replied.
Mark retrieved a second glass from the kitchen, poured Elizabeth a drink, and refreshed his own.
"Now, how is it I find you here in Greensboro?" He asked.
Elizabeth Larsen scowled. "My marriage fell apart, then my mom's health began to fail. I needed a place to go, so I came home. I've been taking care of her for the last year or so."
Mark leaned in. "I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"
She held the glass a little higher. "This helps," she said with a smile. "So that's why I'm here. What are you doing here? I thought you were in California?"
He shrugged. "I was this morning. Now I'm here. And, I guess I'm here for a while. Mom moved to Florida and assigned me to clean and sell the house. Lucky me," he said, taking a sip.
