“I like the idea, Desmond. I just think if you buy options, you should do it in other companies. You already own plenty of xTV options. I’ve got a bunch of friends who work at other startups. I can ask around, see if anyone is interested.”
The more he thought about it, the more he thought she was right. And he liked that she hadn’t given up on her point. He needed someone like that in his life.
In the following weeks, Desmond met with dozens of startup employees in coffee shops and at their homes. His lawyer read their employment contracts to ensure that they were free to sell their options, and drew up a purchase contract that Desmond used to buy stakes in a few companies within a month. Those companies were happy to cooperate; they wanted to keep their employees happy, and the cash from Desmond allowed those employees to maintain their lifestyle while staying at the company.
A few months later, all of his money was invested. He owned stock options in fourteen companies. He was more selective after that. He used every penny left over from his salary to buy options in the most attractive companies. And he insisted Wallace send him a bill for the legal work, which he paid promptly.
Every morning, Desmond checked the website for the Norman Transcript, the local paper for Norman, Oklahoma, and the closest thing to a local paper for the Slaughterville area. He skipped the news, focused on the classifieds. As promised, the local lawyer ran a notification opening the estate of Orville Thompson Hughes. A few months later, a story ran under the local news section entitled Library System Receives Surprise Donation.
Yesterday, the Pioneer Library System was pleasantly surprised to receive a donation for $32,000 in the name of Agnes Andrews, a long-time librarian who passed away ten years ago. Even more unexpected was the source of the donation: Orville T. Hughes, a recently deceased oil rig worker. Upon receiving the sum, the library found that Mr. Hughes had no library card, and as best anyone could remember, had never even visited one of the libraries in the system. Even more confounding, relatives of the deceased Ms. Andrews weren’t aware that the woman had ever known Mr. Hughes.
“It’s a mystery,” Edward Yancey, the Library System administrator said. “But we sure aren’t trying to solve it. Lord knows we could use the money, and we’re just thankful to have it.”
Desmond smiled. He had expected the small farm to bring more, but it was done, and the money had made its way to the right place. Agnes and the library system had been there for him during one of the darkest chapters of his life. He hoped the money would help ensure that it was there for the next person who needed it.
One Wednesday morning, Desmond arrived at work to find a group of xTV employees crowded around the front door. Nearly everyone was either on their cell phones or whispering to each other.
Desmond assumed there had been a fire. Or an accident. Or a gas leak.
It was none of those things.
The company had run out of money. The landlord had finally locked them out of their headquarters. The venture capitalists who had funded the venture were in control, and they were selling everything that wasn’t nailed down: the servers, desks, routers. Even the xTV sweatshirts were donated to a local homeless shelter for a tax write-off.
Desmond’s options were worthless. He couldn’t even get inside to his desk to get his personal effects.
Things changed after that. Without a job—a purpose—Desmond felt lost. He watched three more of the companies he held options for fold. Each one was like a punch in the gut.
“It’s not over yet, Des,” Peyton told him.
He and Peyton began spending more time together. He helped her cram for her exams, and she helped him sort through a few job opportunities.
In May, when the school year was over, he helped her move from her dorm room into a one-bedroom apartment in Menlo Park. Most undergrads at Stanford lived on campus and moved back home for the summer or got a short-term rental. Peyton signed a one-year lease.
She got a summer internship at SRI doing genetics research, and she seemed to really enjoy it. That made him happy.
By July, he was sleeping at her place most of the time. It was comfortable. He liked being around her. But he felt a deep guilt about it. There was something wrong with him, and he couldn’t figure out how to tell her.
Peyton had never asked him about the scars—or his past, for that matter. And she rarely asked him for anything. That changed one Saturday night.
“Will you do something for me?”
“Anything,” he answered.
“My mom and sister and my sister’s husband are coming for lunch tomorrow. Join us.”
He said nothing.
“They won’t bite, Des.”
Her mother’s name was Lin. She had an MD and a PhD and was the daughter of a German father and Chinese mother. He could see a strong resemblance between the two women. Peyton was Lin Shaw’s younger daughter, Madison the older.
Lin was a researcher at Stanford and an adjunct professor. Madison worked for a nonprofit concerned with the preservation of wildlife. Desmond made a mental note not to mention how many deer, wild hogs, turkeys, and elk he had killed.
Madison’s husband, Derrick, was an investment banker in San Francisco. He had an MBA from Wharton, a place Desmond had never heard of, and seemed to take himself rather seriously. He was also the principal interrogator at lunch. Desmond figured he was just being protective, trying to play the role of father figure since Peyton’s own father had passed away.
“What’s your alma mater, Desmond?” Derrick asked.
“Noble High School.”
“You didn’t go to college?”
“Didn’t need to.”
Derrick didn’t like that answer, though Peyton smiled.
The man pressed on.
“What do your parents do?”
“They owned a ranch in Australia.”
His eyes lit up.
“Before they died.”
“You don’t sound Australian, dear,” Lin said.
“I moved here when I was young.”
“To the Bay Area?”
“Oklahoma.”
“Oklahoma…” Derrick turned the word over in his mouth like a bone he’d unexpectedly found in his soup.