Trent could still see the lush carpet of red, yellow, pink flowers, running for what seemed like miles along the rich earth of the river’s delta. “It was stunning. I’d never seen anything like it.”
“It’s the first climb I ever took with my dad. Did I ever tell you that? Anyway, I climbed up there and found you, shivering and starving.”
When his father had crested the little ridge Trent had been sitting on, the relief had been almost overpowering. Trent had run to his father, hugged his legs, and tried not to cry. “And then I wouldn’t leave.”
“You said you wanted to watch the sunset fall over the valley. Stubborn.” But this time when his father said the word, it was edged with love and admiration.
Trent sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. These were the parts he’d forgotten, the memories he’d pushed to the side with all those excuses that had kept him away from home. His throat got thick and his eyes stung as the vivid memory played in his mind. “Instead of yelling at me, you took off your jacket, and you put it over my shoulders. Then you sat down beside me. We sat there for so long, watching the sunset.”
“It was all kinds of purples and oranges. Amazing.”
The weather that day hadn’t been much different from the weather right now, and up on the mountain, the temperature would be even lower. Yet Trent couldn’t remember his father ever complaining, not once, while they’d sat on the hard, chilly stones and waited for the sun to descend. “Weren’t you cold, Dad?”
“How could I be cold, Trent? I was with my son watching one of the most spectacular sunsets in the world. It could have been ten degrees below zero and I wouldn’t have cared. I knew right then that this was a moment I would maybe never have again, and I was going to hold on to it with all my strength.” Emotion pitched the syllables in his father’s words a note or two higher. “In the years you’ve been gone, Trent, that’s been the moment in my mind. It is the truest, sweetest memory I have. There was nothing but the sun and the tulips, and you and I.”
Trent paused a long time, because if he said anything, he would start to cry. It had to be the tumult of these last few weeks, or maybe just the simple words, I’m proud of you.
“I wish we could go back there, Dad.” Trent sighed. He traced over the statement on his desk, the words he was going to have to say very soon. “I’ve got some hard decisions to make, and I’m not sure which way to go.”
“Then take a breath, Trent. Pull it into your chest and hold it there, and think about the things that matter most. The moments you want to hold on to with everything you have. When you have to make a choice to go right or left, always go in the direction of the things that matter most.”
Trent considered those words for a moment. The manuscript sat on his desk, waiting for him to approve it for the publisher so they could print it and launch his life story. An incomplete story. He couldn’t change that, but he could change the next moment and maybe give his dad more than a sunset to hold on to. “Say Dad, do you think it would be okay if I came home for dinner on Sunday?”
There was a long silence, so long that Trent worried his father would tell him no. Then he heard Dad take a breath and a sob catch in his throat. “That would be more than okay, Trent. And maybe after we eat, we could go watch the sunset over the valley?”
“I’d love that, Dad.” He cleared his throat and swiped away the emotion in his eyes. “I’d love that a lot.”
An hour later, Trent sat in his conference room with Sarah on one side and the reporter from Outdoor Fun on the other. Trent was sure the reporter, a thin guy in his twenties with dark-rimmed glasses, had no idea what kind of turmoil he’d gone through in the last couple of weeks. He set a tape recorder between them, preparing to do the interview that meant the future for his company, and all Trent could think about was Kate.
“So, Mr. MacMillan, I would like to start with talking about the book.” On the table beside the recorder, the reporter had a printed copy of the tabloid story about the ghostwriting. “This article says Ms. Winslow was your ghostwriter. That you, in fact, didn’t write any of the words in that book.”
The statement Sarah had prepared, polished and memorized in his head was ready to go. Ms. Winslow served as an editorial consultant only. I wrote every word in Be True to Your Nature. I’m a hundred percent the author of my memoir, and Ms. Winslow was merely a go-to for advice on structure and grammar.
Sarah gave Trent a questioning look. She nodded toward the statement, printed and sitting by Trent’s elbow. A couple of sentences, that would be all it took to set the company to rights again and get things moving in a positive direction. A couple of sentences, and the book would launch without a hitch and the IPO would go smoothly. A couple of sentences, and he could erase the publicity road bump caused by the tabloid article.
Even though the printout with the reporter was facing away from him, Trent could see Kate’s face in the picture the fan had taken on the mountain. She was standing to the side, watching Trent pose with the couple they’d met on Mt. Cascade. Her gaze was intent, and a half smile played on her lips. She looked like…
Well, like she was proud of him. And like she loved him.
The book was heading to the publisher later today. The complete story of Trent MacMillan’s rise to fame and fortune, the back cover copy said. The truth about how a small-town kid took a hike up Machu Picchu and before he knew it, became the owner of a multi-million-dollar company.
“Mr. MacMillan? About the book? I just want to verify that you wrote Be True to Your Nature.”
“No, I didn’t.” The words slipped out, almost under his breath. Sarah gasped. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her pointing toward the statement, her face full of panic. His main focus, though, lingered on Kate’s face, on the honest emotion in her eyes. “Kate Winslow wrote every last word.”
“Wait…you’re saying that tabloid story is true?” The reporter leaned closer, his eyes wide behind the owlish glasses.
“More or less, yes.” Trent flipped the prepared statement over. He wasn’t going to need that. “I have known Kate Winslow since college. We dated for about a year and broke up shortly after graduation.”
“So that rumor is true? You two did date?” The reporter scribbled notes, as if he couldn’t wait to get this exclusive down fast enough.
“We did. And because of that, there was some understandable history between us. In fact, when I found out she was the ghostwriter for my book, I initially said no,” Trent said. “But then I realized no one will know me like Kate knows me. Plus, she’s a phenomenal writer, and I knew she would do a great job.”
“So you hired her even though you two had a past history?”