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  But house and finances are just two pieces of a marriage. We had plenty of everything except each other.

  Before my promotion I was on the road for two weeks, home for one. Now I was gone for stretches as long as a month. It took a toll on our marriage. The longer I was gone, the more moody and irritable Monica was. Some days she wouldn’t even answer the phone when I called.

  Even coming home became difficult, requiring a reentry period, as if we needed time to remember why we loved each other. Sometimes it would take several hours after I returned for her to even talk to me.

  Such was a Friday night that I arrived home from Fort Wayne, Indiana. It was late, past ten, when Monica picked me up at the airport. I put my bag in the BMW’s trunk, then climbed in. I leaned over to kiss her but she only looked forward, pulling out into traffic. She didn’t speak to me. After about ten minutes I asked, “Did I do something wrong?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “If I did something, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  She turned to me. “Maybe you should mean not to hurt me.”

  My defenses rose. “What does that mean?”

  “I hate this. I hate our life. I hate you being gone all the time. I didn’t marry you to be alone.”

  I didn’t answer her for several minutes, and we drove along in silence. Finally I said, “I’m sorry. It’s not always going to be like this.”

  “How is it not always going to be like this? It’s like you work for the circus.”

  I laughed. “It feels like I work for the circus.”

  She didn’t smile.

  “Look, I’m sorry it’s this way, but that’s just life. I’m paying my dues. If I were in medical school, you’d never see me, right? If I was in the military, I’d be away for months at a time. And I make a lot more than if I were in the military. Hell, I make more than if I were a doctor.”

  She didn’t speak the rest of the way back. When we got home she stormed out of the car and into the apartment. I walked in after her. “Please don’t do this. We have so little time together.”

  “That’s the point,” she said.

  I groaned. “Okay. Whatever.”

  She went directly to our bedroom, undressed, turned out the light, and got in bed. I took off my clothes and got in bed next to her. “Good night,” I said. She didn’t respond.

  Even though we were inches apart, I might as well still have been in Fort Wayne. About half an hour later I could hear her crying.

  “Monica, I love you.”

  “I know,” she said softly. She rolled over. “I’m sorry. I just miss you, okay?”

  “I miss you too. More than I can say.”

  “When are we going to start our family?”

  “Soon,” I said. “Real soon.”

  For a few minutes we just held each other. Then she said, “I was thinking, maybe I would quit my job.”

  “Really? I thought you loved it.”

  “I do. I was just thinking that, since we have the money, and before we start having babies, maybe I could go back to school to become a nurse.” She looked at me with soft eyes. “Or I could travel with you . . .”

  “That would be awesome,” I said.

  A broad smile crossed her face. “You really think so?”

  “Absolutely. You would make the best nurse. My mother was a nurse.”

  Her smile fell. She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Okay. I’ll look into some programs.” She rolled back over. I couldn’t figure out what I had said wrong.

  Looking back, I can’t believe how clueless I really was.

  As lonely as we were, our life continued on that way for the next several years. My income continued to grow. When our apartment lease came up we moved from Arcadia, paying cash for a home in Santa Monica—one with lemon, avocado, and orange trees in the backyard.

  Monica signed up for a nursing program—one of those affiliated with a college but not at one. School kept her busy. Now her work schedule kept us even further apart. As time passed, I frequently reflected on Monica’s analogy about the hot coal. It was obvious that our coal wasn’t as bright as it had been. It wasn’t cold, but it was definitely cooling. I just couldn’t figure out how to get it back into the fire.

  I considered that maybe having a baby would be the answer, but now Monica was against it. “I don’t want to be a single mother,” she said. “It’s too hard. For all of us.”

  I knew things couldn’t go on this way forever. Finally, I began to consider quitting my job. Our home was paid off, and we’d saved more than half a million dollars.

  I guess the thing was, I really didn’t want to quit. I didn’t know it at the time but I’d become addicted to the applause of the crowd. What I wrestled with at night was whether I loved it more than my wife’s love. Or my wife. I knew that was the real question.

  The other thing I wrestled with was the fact that with all my success, I wasn’t happier. If I was honest with myself, which I wasn’t, I would’ve admitted that I was driven but lonely and unsatisfied. I’d never been happier than during that simple time when Monica and I had been one. And there was only one way that could happen again. I feared, if I waited much longer, it might be too late.

  Without telling Monica or McKay, I began to plan my exit. Then something happened that changed everything.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Just as I was about to change my seat on the train, the train changed tracks.

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  I was in Montgomery, Alabama, when my life hit a major junction. Maybe it was appropriate that it happened there, as Montgomery is the kind of place where worlds change. During the Civil War it was the first capital of the Confederacy, and later it became the center of the civil rights movement as the home of Martin Luther King Jr.’s Baptist church and the Rosa Parks bus strike.

  I like Montgomery. There’s still an antiquity to the city, a southern formality and properness that, outside of Savannah, you don’t find anyplace else. (Especially not 150 miles south in Mobile, where people still believe in leprechauns and throw MoonPies on the stage when they get excited. Prime territory for the McKay wealth machine.)

  I had just finished a strong presentation to about six hundred attendees and was surrounded by a crowd of potential buyers near the sales tables, when I noticed a couple looking at me from a dozen yards off.

  They weren’t hard to notice. In fact, they looked out of place, as if someone was doing a fashion shoot in the middle of a crowded auditorium. They were beautiful people. The man was handsome and well-dressed in a trim, ash-gray suit that shimmered as if it were wet. His hair was perfectly coiffed and he wore pointed Italian shoes and a white silk shirt with black buttons and no tie. He looked more than fashionable, he looked rich.

  Even more noticeable was the woman standing next to him. She was gorgeous—magazine Photoshopped gorgeous. It was evident that I wasn’t the only one who thought so, as pretty much everyone who walked by her took a glance or two. She was younger than the man, probably close to my age, mid to late twenties, and only an inch shorter than him, though her height was aided by stiletto heels. She had a stunning figure—a narrow waist, perfectly accented by a low-cut, body-hugging dress. Her brunette hair was tightly pulled back from her forehead, and she had high cheekbones and exotic, almond-shaped eyes. She should be a model, I thought, if she isn’t one already.

  I made brief eye contact with the man, and he smiled at me confidently. There was an obvious air of authority about him.

  As the crowd around me began to dwindle, the man, with the woman at his side, walked up to me. They stood a couple of yards off waiting patiently as a young college student rambled on about his financial ambitions. Finally I connected the student with one of the contract runners and turned to the couple. “What can I do for you?”

  “You did a good job up there,” the man said. “You owned the audience.”

  “Thank you. Do you have any questions about my real estate pac
kage?”

  He smiled. “I don’t need your product. I’m interested in you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My name is Chris Folger. This is my assistant, Mila.”

  She was already smiling but slightly cocked her head. “Hello.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  Chris handed me a business card.

  FOLGER MANAGEMENT GROUP

  Chris Folger

  CEO

  Birmingham, Alabama · London, England

  I looked up at him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Folger?”

  “Not as much as I can do for you. This is the second time I’ve seen your performance. I was in Birmingham last night. You just keep getting better.”

  I looked at him curiously. I couldn’t imagine why he would be following me.

  “I think your greatest asset, besides your obvious charisma, is your ability to create an image in your listeners’ minds. You’re a master at telling a story. Ancestor of Jesse James is brilliant and the Dumpster story, I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it’s genius. Truthfully, I’d be more impressed if neither story were true.”

  “They’re both true,” I said.

  “Platinum,” he said. “Do you mind me asking how old you are?”

  “I’m twenty-five.”

  “You’re young,” the woman said.

  “Twenty-five,” he repeated. “And you’re already better at this than your boss. If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your take? Seventeen, twenty percent? Or is it a graduated scale?”

  “It’s a flat fifteen,” I said. I don’t know what it was about him that made me willing to share such private information.

  He nodded. “Not as high as it should be, but you’re good at what you do, so I’m sure you’re not hurting.”

  His comment bothered me. “What can I do for you, Mr. Folger?”

  “Call me Chris,” he said. “I’ll be crassly direct. I like money, Mr. James. And judging from your presentation, I’m pretty sure you do too. I want to make even more money by helping you make more money than you ever believed possible. I’m talking real money. Miami beach house, private jet money, if you know what I mean.” His voice lowered as if he were telling me a secret. I suppose he was. “How would you like to have your own branded seminars and not only make half on your sales but twenty-five percent of the show’s take?”

  I just looked at him. “Selling’s the easy part. It’s filling the seats that’s the challenge.”

  “That’s the easy part for me. That’s what I do. Or my firm does. Among our holdings we have convention and presentation companies. We own two network marketing companies and two of the largest Comic Cons in the U.S. What we don’t have is someone doing what you do. My partners and I want to change that and we think you’re the man to do it. We’re willing to invest serious money in you, Mr. James. In fact, I’m prepared to sign a million-dollar one-year guarantee to retain your services.”

  The offer stunned me.

  “What do you think?”

  I looked down. “I’m not sure.”

  He laughed incredulously. “Really? I just offered you a million dollars, and you’re not sure?”

  I looked at him, then over at Mila. She bit down on her lower lip.

  “What would possibly keep you from working with me?” he asked.

  “It’s just . . . sudden. I work for McKay. He’s my mentor.”

  Chris said to Mila, “Very nice. Loyalty. I like loyalty.” He turned back to me. “As long as it’s well placed. The student doesn’t stay in college because he likes the professor. He moves on to do what he was meant to do. In this case, the student has surpassed the teacher.”

  Mila said, “You were the star up there today.”

  “Look at it this way,” Chris said. “McKay Benson preaches the virtue of unlimited acquisition of wealth. Self-interest aside, he should be proud of you wanting more.”

  It was hard to argue with his logic.

  “What you do is like being a sports star. Sometimes athletes get traded to a different team. It’s nothing personal, it’s just how the game works. We’re starting a new team. You’re a franchise player. Does that make sense?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good,” he said. “Where do you go next?”

  “Des Moines.”

  “Des Moines,” he echoed. “Rivière des Moines—River of the Monks. The only place in the world where they eat fried peanut butter and jelly on a stick.”

  Mila grimaced. “What was that other thing they were eating? Chocolate-covered bacon on a stick?”

  “If they can put it on a stick, safe bet they’ll eat it,” Chris said.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” I said.

  “Trust me, it’s not,” he replied. “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning. But I’m not in a hurry. We have a three-day break between shows.”

  “Perfect. If you’re interested in hearing my offer, I can drive you up to Birmingham and show you around our offices and let you meet my partners.”

  Mila leaned forward. “The Folger Group only does big deals, Mr. James. We think you’re a big deal.”

  “Yes, we do,” Chris said. “The question is, do you?”

  I hesitated with my reply. “I should hope so.”

  Mila smiled. “I should hope so too.”

  “So, are you interested?”

  I looked down at his card, around at the people I worked with, and back at him. “I’ll have to change my flight.”

  He smiled. “Good. I’m glad to see you follow your own advice. I’ll pick you up in the morning. Say nine?”

  I shook my head. “That won’t work. I’m having breakfast with McKay at eight thirty.”

  “What time is good for you, Mr. James?” Mila asked.

  “McKay is leaving for the airport at around ten.”

  “How about I pick you up at ten forty-five?” Chris said.

  “That would work. And when would I be back?”

  “Birmingham is about ninety minutes from here.”

  “Sixty, the way you drive,” Mila said lightly.

  Chris smiled as he turned back to me. “When do you need to be back?”

  “I need to see when I can rebook my flight out of here.”

  “There’s no need to come back to Montgomery,” Mila said. “It would be more convenient for you to fly out of Birmingham. It has more flights. Let me take care of you. I’ll check on flights this afternoon. What time would you like to leave—tomorrow evening or Saturday morning?”

  “Either works,” I said. “When I get to Des Moines, I’m just going to be sitting in a hotel room.”

  Chris nodded. “That being the case, let’s book your flight for Saturday, so if things go well, we can have dinner with some of my associates and start making plans. Mila, book Mr. James a suite at the Westin.”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling at me. “Have you stayed there before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’ll be very well taken care of. I guarantee it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you for talking with us,” Chris said. “There are exciting things ahead. For all of us.”

  “Bye-bye,” Mila said.

  The two of them walked off. A line from an Eagles song crossed my mind. This could be heaven or this could be hell.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Lures must be shiny and desirable to hook their prey.

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  The next morning McKay missed his wake-up call and probably would have missed his flight as well had his assistant, Amanda, not called to check on him. Out of necessity he canceled our breakfast, though he stopped by my room on his way out of the hotel.

  “I just wanted to share some good news,” he said. “You were the number one haul yesterday.”

  “That’s great,” I said. It was the first time I’d achieved that.

  “Great? It’s fantastic. You actually beat me.
No one beats me.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “I’m glad I decided to give that poor little Dumpster boy a chance. I’ll see you in Des Moines.”

  “Travel safe,” I said.

  As I shut the door I was flooded by guilt. Either he knew something was up or the universe was tormenting me.

  At ten forty I carried my bag down to the lobby and checked out of my hotel. Five minutes later Chris Folger arrived to pick me up. He was alone in a charcoal-gray Bentley—a half-million-dollar car. I only knew this because the tech guys backstage spent a good deal of downtime talking about their dream cars and dream women.

  The drive from Montgomery to Birmingham was only about ninety miles, which we covered in less than seventy minutes. Mila hadn’t exaggerated about Chris liking speed. Just outside Montgomery he accelerated to show me what the Bentley could do. It actually threw me back in my seat. I could feel the g-forces in my head.

  “How do you like that?” he said, coasting back to an almost legal speed. “That’s what six hundred and forty horsepower feels like.”

  “It feels like a jet fighter,” I replied.

  “Exactly.”

  As we drove, Chris asked me questions about my childhood. He wondered how I could have come from such a background and done so well.

  “Hard things don’t always make life harder,” I said. “It takes something hard to sharpen steel.”

  He glanced over at me. “Well said. You might want to use that onstage.” He looked back ahead. “So about today. We’re going to be meeting with my two partners and Mila. You remember Mila.”

  “She’s kind of hard to forget,” I said.

  “Yes, she is.”

  We drove directly to Chris’s private residence, a sixty-five-hundred-square-foot southern-architectural-style home built on three acres of property in the Abingdon section of Mountain Brook, one of Birmingham’s most affluent suburbs. The yard was expertly manicured, something I was still in the habit of noticing and, with my OCD, listing in my mind what it would take to maintain.