Chapter eleven
Ben
As usual, my inbox is bursting with unanswered emails from the night before. It’s Friday. I try to finish each week as up to date with all the correspondence as I can be. But it’s only nine in the morning, and that’s already looking unlikely.
I scan the bold blue senders, looking for the easiest win. My old friend and mentor, Eamon Riley’s name, flashes on screen. Perfect. This email is one I will enjoy replying to. His message is simple and personal. How are you? How are the kids? Any updates on the retreat?
I reply with a general overview of my wandering children's lives. I ignore his question about me. It’s safer not to give anything away that may lead to awkward inquiries. Then I mention the potential retreat funding from Opengate.
Eamon would tell me I’m not aiming high enough. That the six family suites I plan to have should be ten—minimum. But I know what my limits are, and if I do this, I need to do it well.
For Bex. And for myself.
The next name freezes me.
Pinnacle Research. Antonia did say to expect a decision within forty-eight hours, but it’s barely thirty-six. It opens on my screen. And I exhale. Relief immediate.
Dear Dr. Jones,
After further analysis of your patient Anna Collins’ blood markers, it has been identified that the initial rejection to the Lunavax trial was in error. Mrs. Collins meets the necessary criteria. The drug has been released and will be delivered within twenty-four hours.
Please read all documentation carefully and ensure results are submitted as requested.
We can only apologize for the error.
Kind Regards
Dr. M. Gordon
I blink. Then reread the email. Antonia is a miracle worker. I have a thread of emails between myself and Pinnacle Research to prove it. Every request for reevaluation fell on deaf ears. Antonia Cole makes one contact, and she succeeds where I failed. That’s influence.
As pleased as I am that I’ve found a way in, it grates that it was necessary. It shouldn’t take a CEO to correct a dying woman’s file.
I’m the doctor after all. I know criteria when I see them, and I knew Anna met all their demands, but it wasn’t enough.
Now, seeing Antonia’s power for myself, I know she will be an exceptional partner in the retreat. She could open doors that are welded closed. From what I’ve read, she built Opengate without legacy, without family backing, and without a safety net.
She built it by refusing to accept no.
I lift my phone to call her, then set it back down. I’ll be seeing her in a matter of hours on the ground that I hope will become the retreat. I’ll tell her then. Some conversations deserve eye contact.
And I hope my news may gift her a small smile. I’d love to see that.
***
My tire crashes into yet another pothole as the underside of my car scrapes through the mud, causing a low protest from metal not designed to be here. I can picture the flood of muck between my alloys now, oozing disgustingly.
I was never made to be a country boy. And nearing fifty, that hasn’t changed.
The dilapidated farm looks no better than it did when I placed a deposit on it a month ago. The sale is due to be completed in August. I need the land grant secured before then.
Amy said she admired my newfound enthusiasm, but maybe I should slow things down. I disagree. If I’m going to do this, it needs to be now. Setting myself a deadline felt like discipline.
Perhaps twelve weeks was ambitious.
Antonia is already here when I arrive. Of course she is. And of course, she’s complete with a jeep to suit the terrain. As I pull to a stop next to her car, her professional mask slips for a second. I swear she laughs at my sports car struggling in the mud. I stop on the driest patch possible, hoping to evade the disaster on the ground for a few minutes at least.
She steps out as I do, wearing bright pink Wellington boots, and a knee-length tweed coat thrown over a tailored suit. July has gifted us nothing but rain this year. She came prepared.