CHAPTER SEVEN
ELIZABETH
“WHY DOES IT HAVE TO be on a goddamn mountain?” Michael asks. “If you’re serious about building a think tank, can’t it be somewhere less stupid?”
I look at Michael. He has long brown hair and a salt-and-pepper beard, messy but kept short. It’s nothing compared to Tom’s epic bristles. Michael has hard eyes but a surprisingly cuddly core. Most people never see it, because he’s such an abrasive asshole.
“Because she already owns a mountain,” says Rueben. His shoes are untied. The guy is beyond brilliant, but totally A.D.D. Almost like an entrepreneur savant, lacking a lot of basic personal skills. It’s entirely possible he doesn’t even know how to tie his laces.
They both look at me, waiting. So do Blake, Michelle, and the others. There are fourteen of us here this weekend, bunkered cozily into the main lodge at my father’s resort. It’s warm at the lower altitudes, but cold up here. We’ve got a fire burning in the massive central fireplace. The thing takes half a tree’s worth of wood to get going.
“It’s more than that,” I say. “There’s a reason I wanted to have this specific session of our mastermind up here, on the same mountain where I want to build The Pike. I wanted you to feel what it’s like.”
“It feels like a mountain,” says Michael.
“I meant the sense of freedom. The sense of leaving everything behind.” I look at Tom for support, and he dutifully nods. I knew I could count on Tom. His beard is a mountain man’s beard. He works with three other men with beards as big as his, plus one woman, building software that keeps most of the big carriers’ cellular networks online..
“But it’s a pain in the ass getting up here,” Michael says.
“It's necessary to leave it all behind. And it works. Think about it. We’re on our last day here. I haven’t taken a Hot Seat until now so that we could think through ways to 10x all of your businesses first. I wanted you to see what a difference it makes to have one of these sessions off the grid. Do you think you’d have come close to the ideas we brainstormed for you Friday and yesterday if we’d gotten together in a Holiday Inn conference room?”
Michael grunts.
“We’ve always held our sessions in hotels,” I continue. “And so far, we’ve had hotel results: good, but hardly groundbreaking. I’ve been in a few masterminds like this. Rooms full of ridiculously smart people, all getting better together. I spent a fortune to be in those groups. The environment always mattered. We usually met in hotels, and that was fine. But one group met in the Appalachian foothills, in a converted lumberjack camp. Everyone had their own little cabins. We met, ate together, even toasted marshmallows over a campfire. That was the session where I came up with Big Blue. The dynamic funnel was also conceived at that event. And Georgia Macy’s idea about partnering with Navril — we all know what happened with that. Three of the attendees published bestsellers the next year and launched their speaking careers. It had everything to do with the environment.”
“Maybe they got lucky,” Michelle says.
Michelle’s never been lucky in her life. She was twenty when she landed her first national copywriting contract despite never having written professionally. Then she parlayed that gig into a partnership with the printer who pushed it out into brochures and somehow negotiated a per-mailing commission for herself. When she made her first million from that, she bought a web hosting company, split it into two functionally different companies, and quadrupled the markets of each.
“No, man,” Tom says, stroking that big mountain beard. “Environment matters. I can’t get phone service or email up here. All I can do is fucking think and work.”
“It has to be here,” I say. “That’s the premise of this Hot Seat. I don’t want to hear how I can fund and build The Pike; I want to know how I can do it here, on the top of this mountain. I’ve ballparked some figures — what it’ll take to haul the supplies and construct the main hall and a dormitory. I think I can convert much of what’s already here. Use the existing homes for faculty, guests, and VIPs. But it has to be the best. It’s not just a think tank; it’ll be the best think tank in the world. I want the smartest people on the planet dying to come up here.”
“How will you make money?”
“Admission, mostly. Maybe hall rental for members. Remember how rich these people are going to be, Tom. We’re not looking for eight-figure entrepreneurs; we want nine-figure plus. They’ll have access to the world’s very best minds so we can charge premium prices.”
I hand around papers — my initial business plan and back-of-the-napkin budget. Blake is the first to start shaking her head.
“This is what you showed me before, honey. And it won’t work. You’ll need a lot of money up front to build something that nine-figure entrepreneurs are going to want to spend a fortune to attend.”
“And that’s what this Hot Seat is for,” I say.
Rueben is scratching his head. “And you want part of it to be a school, right?”
“Maybe. If it fits.”
“And you’d charge tuition? High tuition?”
“Of course.”
Michael shakes his head, then puts the paperwork down. “It’s an interesting idea, Elizabeth. And I know you’re smart enough to pull it off. But Blake is right. You need a hell of a lot more money than you have to build something worth attending without needing years to earn a reputation.”
“Maybe you’d like to invest.”
Rueben laughs. “We have our hands full enough as it is.”
“And your whole model is flawed. Flip this budget around so that you have a chance at making money and maybe I’d consider backing you. Maybe. But not as it stands.” Michelle shrugs. “Ballpark, I’d say you either need to project five times as much income in year one, or build the resort for a lot less.”
“How much less?”
Michelle considers the numbers. “Free.”
Rueben barks laughter, smiling like a kid.
I don’t like what I’m hearing. I know this will work, and The Pike could be the best private learning institution of its kind in the world. The problem is getting it up and running. I know that, but it's disheartening to see my successful, outside-the-box friends telling me I can’t make it happen.
Isn’t this mastermind supposed to be about finding creative ways around obstacles? Rueben’s software company originally built a killer module for another company’s product, but when the other company didn’t want to do business, Rueben started a new division of his own company to build a competing product. Then he drove the other out of business and dominated the market. That’s how this group is supposed to get things done. And now they’re telling me I can’t do this? It feels like they’re stepping on my chest.
“I know how to make it work,” Michael says.
I look up with hope. He raises his eyes from my paper, looking over the top of his glasses, and fixes me with a stare.
“How?”
“Build it somewhere else. Somewhere you won’t have to ship all the building materials or pay to have them lugged up the mountain. Somewhere with much lower maintenance costs.”
“That just lowers her overhead,” Michelle says. “It doesn’t solve the problem.”
“I’m not finished.” Michael looks at me. “And you should sell the mountain.”
I feel like I’ve been punched.
“She doesn’t want to sell the mountain,” Blake says.
“Then she’s not building her academy.” Michael shakes the paper. “I believe in miracles, but they need to be smaller. Blake told me that your father already has an interested buyer. Sell the mountain, and you’ll have what you need to build the dream.”
I glare. “Blake!”
“Was that a secret?”
“Let your dad sell it. He doesn’t need the money; I’m sure he’d loan it to you. Or, hell, give it to you.”
I turn. Not this again. They don’t see the vision. These are my smartest friends — people I’ve collected because of their brilliant minds — and they just don’t get it this time.
“It has to be here,” I say. “Right here, on this mountain.”
“Why?” Michelle sounds exasperated.
I don’t feel like giving all the details. I just know it’s right. I’ve mapped it all out, the entire academy’s master floor plan. If I’m going to build the world’s best think tank, alongside an academy for the development of brilliant minds, I can’t do the Holiday Inn version. This needs to be elite. A destination in and of itself. I want an estate, accessible by limo, helicopter, private jet. The best of the best, in a one-of-a-kind location. My return-on-investment wouldn’t even need to come in cash. I’d be here to learn from geniuses. Payment by knowledge infusion. Here, in the most scenic spot I know.
Besides, the “most scenic spot” version offers another huge benefit: It keeps the mountain in my family. It makes my father proud while getting him out of his day to day. And it lets my mother, still new to her grave, stay home where she belongs.
The thought that I might not do it here is heartbreaking. I meant what I said to Daddy, a hundred times over. If he sells this place, it will break me. I have a plan that will work if time will just stand still long enough to let me get it rolling. I need someone big enough to see the light. A powerful advocate. One true believer.
With my back turned to the room, I feel my eyes water. I shouldn’t let this affect me. It’s just business. I won’t show weakness.
There’s a way to do it, whether they believe me or not.
I sniff. I blink. Then I turn to face them.
“What if I—?”
But then a phone rings. Tom, who just told us that his unit couldn't even get service, looks almost offended. But it’s not my cell phone, which in these hills is only a brick. It’s the cordless landline hanging on the wall.
Nobody should be calling that number. Who would be calling the lodge, if not my father?
“Fifteen-minute break?” I say.
The room murmurs agreement as I reach for the phone.
“I’ve decided to sell the mountain to Mateo Saint,” my father says when I answer. “But before you start yelling, I’d like to make a proposal.”