Chapter 29: Discovery on the Farm.
In the United States, counties ranked higher than cities, and there were more than a dozen Montgomery Counties across the country.
The one Ryan was visiting lay in southeastern Pennsylvania. Its name had nothing to do with the famous general from the Battle of El Alamein; it honored Charles Montgomery, who died during the Revolutionary War.
Scott's farm wasn't large—only about eleven acres. Perhaps because of the new baby, he had given it a delightfully whimsical name: Christmas Tree Farm.
"Hello, Mr. Scott. And this must be Mrs. Andrea?"
The moment Ryan stepped out of the car, he saw his investment manager waiting in front of a pretty white wooden house. A blonde woman stood beside him.
"Ryan, welcome to the farm. Come on in and enjoy yourself."
After introducing Pat Kingsley, Scott gave the boy a gentle hug. He couldn't help feeling a little awed—the little boy who had been almost unknown last year was now a full-fledged movie star.
The all-wood house had a special charm in Ryan's eyes, especially its strong country style. It felt like a warm folk song that made you want to relax and stay forever.
"Wow, how cute!" Inside the living room, Ryan's eyes went straight to the baby in the stroller, blowing bubbles. "Can I take a closer look?"
"Of course."
Ryan walked over and blinked. The little one blinked right back at him.
"Hi, sweetie. What's your name?" Ryan waved. The baby had eyes like sapphires.
"Ah… ya~" Unfortunately, the tiny girl clearly couldn't talk yet.
Ryan scratched his head and turned to the woman. "Mrs. Andrea, is this a little gentleman or a little lady? Does she have a name yet?"
"It's a girl."
"Oh." Ryan nodded. He took out the gift he had prepared earlier—a little red agate bracelet he had bought in Canada—and gently placed it in the baby's hand. "There you go, little one. This is from Uncle Ryan."
The gift wasn't expensive, so Scott didn't object. Everyone smiled when they heard him.
The baby, however, wasn't impressed. The moment the bracelet touched her palm, her tiny hand flicked and sent it flying to the floor.
"Hey, Taylor, that's not very ladylike," Mrs. Andrea laughed as she picked it up and tucked it into the corner of the stroller.
"Taylor? So our little lady is named Taylor." A second earlier Ryan had been wondering about the middle name. Now he blinked and looked at the manager who was chatting with Pat. "Mr. Scott, your last name is Swift, right?"
"Ryan, that hurts my feelings." Scott pretended to be wounded. "You're not telling me you forgot your investment manager's name, are you, my big-star little friend?"
"Of course not." Ryan laughed it off, thinking, No way… is this really happening? But after a quick mental check, he was almost certain.
No wonder the name had always sounded familiar.
"What's her full name?" Ryan asked, pretending to be curious.
"Taylor Alison Swift," Mrs. Andrea answered.
That settled it. Ryan let out a quiet sigh. He felt as if the hand of fate had been hovering over him all along. Born in 1989 in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, father a stockbroker, sapphire-blue eyes—he was 99.9 percent sure the baby girl in front of him was the future country superstar from his previous life as Alex.
Well, it wasn't that surprising. Just like Nicole and Natalie, the stars he had loved in his past life kept getting gently dropped into his present one by fate.
Little one, when you grow up, try not to date quite so many people, okay? Otherwise the whole world will laugh again. Ryan reached out and gently shook her tiny hand.
That move apparently annoyed her. Taylor's mouth twisted, two fat tears rolled down her cheeks, and then an ear-splitting wail erupted. Ryan froze, completely lost.
"She's probably hungry," Mrs. Andrea said with a smile, lifting the baby and carrying her into another room.
Next came the actual business talk. Ryan barely spent any of his money these days. With the Soviet Union on the verge of collapse, the dollar would soon lose value again, so investing made sense. He only remembered a few stock names, but under Scott's management they had quietly bought into several. His capital was still limited, so everything had to move slowly.
Besides, his real focus wasn't on investing. It was mainly for preserving value. Of course, if he could earn a little extra along the way, who would complain?
He had once dreamed of flipping companies like the legends did—snatching future giants from big conglomerates—but he now understood the Western world well enough to know he would be eaten alive if he tried that.
In the end, any big moves would have to come from the industry he was already in.
That way he wouldn't be rootless.
"Scott, have you ever thought about moving to Los Angeles?" After business was finished, they relaxed into casual conversation. Ryan offered the suggestion.
"Not yet. Maybe once Taylor is a little older." Scott glanced at his wife and daughter with a happy smile.
"Well, if you ever decide to move, put Los Angeles at the top of the list. I think we could work together even more."
The beautiful countryside was incredibly relaxing. Christmas Tree Farm felt more like a country playground than a working farm. The Swift family didn't rely on it for income; they had moved here mostly so their daughter could have a happy childhood surrounded by nature.
Away from the city noise, Ryan loosened up.
He occasionally stole a carrot from the garden or "damaged" a few vegetables, and it was surprisingly fun. The peaceful rural atmosphere even sparked new ideas. Once, in just half an hour, he wrote a complete song that left the Swift family staring in amazement and understanding the boy a little better.
"Hey, Taylor, look—this is the prettiest hydrangea. Call me Uncle and I'll give it to you." Ryan waved the purple flower in front of the baby's cradle. But the little girl, who could already say "Dada" and "Mama," wasn't interested. She stared at him with her big blue eyes and refused to open her mouth no matter what he said.
"Alright, sweetheart. You win again." Ryan fixed the flower to the side of the cradle, picked up his guitar, and asked, "Want to hear a song?"
"Ya… ya…"
The baby waved her little hand. Ryan had no idea what she meant.
He strummed a few gentle chords. The melody was soft and soothing. After a short intro, his voice—growing more mature every month—began to sing a simple English lullaby he had written on the spot:
"Hush now, little star so bright,
Close your eyes and hold me tight.
Dream of fields and skies so blue,
I'll be watching over you…"
The warm notes filled the air. As Ryan sang, the corners of the baby's mouth curved upward and her sapphire eyes crinkled in delight.
"Waaaah!"
A thunderous cry suddenly erupted—louder than anything they had heard before. Mr. and Mrs. Swift rushed out from the house and found Ryan standing there with his guitar, looking completely helpless. They exchanged amused glances.
It had been two days now, and they had figured it out: their daughter seemed to have a natural rivalry with Ryan. Spend too much time with him and she would wail. Pick her up and carry her away, and she would instantly smile again.
"Is it really that bad? Do I sound terrible?" Ryan muttered when the baby calmed down the moment she was taken away.
"No, no—your singing is lovely," Scott said, giving him a thumbs-up. Then he asked curiously, "What song was that? I've never heard it before. It doesn't sound like anything from around here."
"It's just something I made up," Ryan said, leaning the guitar against the wall. "I think I'll go riding with Pat instead. See you later, little Taylor."
After three relaxing days at Christmas Tree Farm, Ryan returned to Los Angeles. Home Alone was in its final stages; the few remaining shots would be done on a soundstage. In his free time he started studying the Terminator 2 script, thinking about his role.
Even though he remembered the movie clearly from his previous life, the script hadn't come from his own pen, so Ryan took it seriously. This was Hollywood. One bad performance could make it twice as hard to recover. Besides, he would be facing a true on-set tyrant. James Cameron wouldn't have the patience of David Fincher or Chris Columbus, and he definitely wouldn't go easy just because Ryan was a child.
"Is that the new project you signed? The Terminator sequel?" During a break, Chris Columbus noticed the script Ryan was reading.
"Yeah." The news that the film was about to start shooting had already spread everywhere, so Ryan didn't hide it. "We'll probably begin next month."
"I honestly don't know what to say."
Director Columbus sighed. Over the past month of filming, Ryan's performance had far exceeded his expectations. The fast pace was largely thanks to the boy staying in top form the entire time.
Ryan just smiled and said nothing. Honestly, a comedy made purely for laughs didn't give him much room to show off, but it had still been a fun experience. Shooting felt more like one big party than the heavy atmosphere of The Sixth Sense.
And even though Chris Columbus was no longer young, he had kept a childlike heart—which explained why, in Ryan's previous life, he had always been one of Hollywood's best directors of all-ages films.