The Term Sheet | Wattys 2016 Winner

Chapter 20

Doug Kensington's farmhouse was tucked away on Helvetia Road in Hillsboro, a farming suburb of Portland. Surrounded by wide swaths of land used to grow everything from corn to pumpkins and feed cattle and llamas, it felt like driving into a different universe. As David stared out the window, looking for a number to indicate which driveway was Doug's, the road twisted and turned and went up and down on small hills like a roller coaster. He had not seen another car in miles and started to wonder if he was lost.

The road became a single lane gravel path and kicked up dust that wafted into his open windows. Now he was certain he was lost. But it was too tight to turn around, so he would have to wait until the next driveway. The heat was smoldering even though the sun was low on the horizon. The evening breeze had not yet had a chance to cool things down.

Finally the gravel road turned back into pavement and a large black gate emerged around a bend. David pulled up to the call box and rolled down his window, but before he said anything, the gate started to open. As he drove on, he saw a small black and white video screen with a man in a tuxedo waving him through. David felt self-conscious.

When Khelli had told him it was going to be an executive dinner, he should have realized that meant he should wear a suit. But he didn't own a suit. He was wearing a light cotton lumberjack shirt and an old pair of Levi's jeans with a hole in the knee. He'd thought it would be fitting at a farm, but now he realized how stupid that idea was.

"Farmhouse" was far from an apt description for the place. It was a mansion. Not a luxe mega-mansion like you might find in the Florida Keys, but a warm Southern-style plantation mansion. He saw a line of fancy cars parked in the semi-circular entrance: a black BMW, a silver Mercedes-Benz G-Class, a white Bentley and a red Tesla. He parked his beat-up old Camry as far to the side as he could and walked up to the main entrance where the tuxedo man, whom he assumed was the butler, was waiting for him.

"David Alexander, I presume?" he said.

"Yes."

"They're in the library." The butler pulled a black sports jacket from the side closet and lifted it expectantly. David slid the jacket on with relief. "There, a perfect fit. Thirty-eight-R. Just like Mr. Kensington."

The butler walked David up the right side of a dual marble staircase. The floor was also marble, various shades arranged in geometric patterns. The stone gave off a radiant coolness that instantly felt refreshing compared to the heat outside. They walked through a pair of tall oak doors into a room with a cathedral ceiling and books filling every inch of its twenty-foot-high walls.

The butler disappeared as David tried to get his bearings. The air smelled like old paper, leather, and cigar smoke. There were five pods of old leather chairs with thick heavy wood armrests, and near the far corner stood a group of a four gentlemen and two ladies, all of them much older and distinguished looking than David. David stood at the entrance motionless, not knowing exactly what to do. The men on the other side of the library hadn't noticed him yet, or at least hadn't acknowledged his entrance. They were deeply engaged in a debate, but David couldn't quite make out the topic. After a few more moments of standing like a deer in the headlights, someone came up behind him to grab his arm and began walking him across the room.

"David, I am so happy you could join us," said the man. "Did you find the place all right?"

"Yes," David said. "I thought I got lost at one point, but then the gate just appeared out of nowhere."

David looked at the man with his arm around him. He assumed this must be Doug. He also looked distinguished, but a lot younger than the other men in the room. He had a sharp angular jawline and dark, piercing eyes. There was something electric in his movements—self-assured, confident and wise.