Prodigal Son (11 page)

“Things don’t always work out the way we want. I lost my wife, and we had a great marriage. She was thirty-nine when she died. Only a year older than Alana is now. That isn’t fair either.” There was nothing Peter could say to that. Peter realized he had been crazy to think that he could ever interfere with the sacred pair. They were a team, and he and Alana no longer were. He had lost his membership to their secret club, or maybe he had never had it after all. But he was an outsider for sure now. He left the gym a few minutes later and
went back to their room. Alana had already left, and the boys had just gone to school. He had nothing to do that day until he picked the boys up at school.

It was a painful week, and they finally told the boys two days before he left. All four of them cried and Alana made it sound like it was a joint decision, which it wasn’t, but he didn’t want to make her look bad to their kids. He said he had to be in New York to find a job, and they could come to visit him anytime they wanted, and he promised to come out and see them once a month if he could, or every six weeks at most. It was the best he could do. Ryan just clung to him and cried.

It was wrenching leaving them this time. Ryan took it harder than his younger brother, and Peter felt as though his heart had been torn out of his chest when they left, and he gulped down sobs. His plane was leaving two hours after the boys left for Aspen with Alana and her father, and Peter had tears streaming down his face in a cab on the way to the airport. And on the flight back to New York, he felt as though someone had died. He checked into the residential hotel again and tried to figure out what he was going to do. There were no jobs to be had at the moment, and there was no point being in New York, but he had nowhere else to go.

He was sitting in his hotel room the next morning, when the realtor from West Brookfield called him about the house on the lake. He wanted to discuss the price with Peter, and come up with something realistic since the house had been uninhabited for years, needed work, and hadn’t been remodeled in fifty years. And as Peter listened to him, he realized what he was going to do. It was the only piece of property he owned right now that was available, since the house in the Hamptons was rented, which meant that living there would be
free. It was about the only thing it had going for it. He could do some of the work on it himself, he had nothing else to do. And he could put it on the market when he was ready to move back to New York.

“Never mind,” Peter said curtly, and the man on the other end was confused.

“Does that sound too low to you?” Peter hadn’t even heard what he’d said.

“I’m not ready to sell it yet. I think I’m going to stay there for a while.” The idea suddenly made perfect sense to him.

“Now? It’s colder than hell out there this time of year. There’s a bad wind that always comes off the lake. It’s freezing cold.”

“It’s almost spring,” Peter said calmly. March was just around the corner, and he and his brother had been out there with their father plenty of times in the spring. It might even be good for Ben and Ryan to come and see him there. They could have as much fun as he and Michael had had, fishing and sailing in summer, and water-skiing on the lake. It would be something different and new for them, and a simple, wholesome country life they’d never had. He liked the idea. “Maybe I’ll put it on the market in the fall,” Peter said to placate the realtor. “I can start cleaning the place up.”

“Well, let me know when you’re ready,” the realtor said, sounding disappointed. It was rare for him to get a lakefront property to sell, even if the house was old-fashioned and needed work.

“I will,” Peter promised, and hung up. He called a few contacts that morning, and came up dry again. And by that afternoon, he was driving north toward Ware. It was a far cry from the life he had considered living with Alana in L.A., or the one they had until recently in New York. It had been almost five months since their life had fallen apart, and now everything had changed again. He missed his boys as
he drove to Massachusetts, but he felt better than he had in a while. And he wondered if by going back there he would find a piece of himself that had been missing for a long time, and make peace with his past finally. It was worth a shot, and the only one he had right now.

Peter spent the first week at the lake house throwing things away—old pillows, stained bedding, tattered towels, pots with broken handles, ancient utensils that could no longer be repaired. He had a small mountain in the backyard of objects that needed to be hauled away, and realized that he needed a truck to do it. And after that, he spent another week scrubbing everything down, until the windows and woodwork gleamed. The kitchen looked ancient, but it was sparkling clean. He bought cleaning supplies at the local market, and he had a long list of items he wanted to replace, most of what he’d thrown away. And doing the work felt good. He ate easy dinners he cooked on his mother’s old stove. He built a fire in the fireplace every night, which kept him warm. The wind off the lake was as icy as the realtor had said. But he slept well under some old blankets, and he called the boys in Aspen every night. He told them what he was doing and that he wanted them to come and stay with him.

The boys were shocked that he wasn’t in New York, but they could hear that he was excited about being at the lake, and they were
slowly adjusting to the idea that their parents were getting a divorce, although it still felt unreal to Peter too, and his heart ached when he thought of no longer living with his boys. Strangely, losing Alana wasn’t as hard. Maybe she was right, and they had grown apart. He was feeling bitter that she wasn’t willing to stick by him, and now that the golden days were over, she had bailed. It told him who she really was. And made it less agonizing to lose her.

For the moment, his life consisted of simple pleasures, and he was beginning to enjoy them. By mid-March, he realized that he needed to start stocking the house, from the long list he had made. There were tools he wanted to buy to make some repairs, a few pieces of furniture he could use, and he was going to buy a decent bed. The narrow beds he and his brother had slept on were wreaking havoc with his back, and his parents’ bed was even older and in worse shape. He needed to get a line put in for his computer. He was getting all his e-mails on his BlackBerry, which wasn’t enough. And he couldn’t get everything on his list in West Brookfield, so he decided to drive the seven miles to Ware, where he’d grown up. It was going to be the first time he had seen it in fifteen years. He had been hesitant about going there, because he didn’t want to run into his brother, and with any luck he wouldn’t. His first stop was the hardware store, and he had decided to go to the used-car lot and buy a truck afterward. He still had a mountain of things he needed to haul away. The realtor had come out to check on him, and he was impressed by all that Peter had accomplished. The place was already looking better, and Peter was getting it in great shape. He was doing it now not so much to sell it as to show his boys. He wanted them to love it when they saw it, and enjoy it as much as he had when he was
young. It was a piece of his history he wanted to share with them and never had before, because he hadn’t come back here himself.

Peter felt strange when he drove into Ware. He went to the hardware store and went down his list with a young boy working there. They had everything he needed, and the boy helped Peter carry it to the car. There were tools, and several pieces of lumber, hardware for the kitchen cabinets, and utensils he needed for the kitchen. He was just coming back in for the last load, when an old man walked toward him from the back of the store. He looked ancient to Peter, but Peter recognized him immediately. It was old Mr. Peterson, the owner, who had already looked ancient fifteen years before, and he was still sharp as a tack. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at Peter, and he saw a flicker of recognition there. But Peter had changed a lot more than he had in the past fifteen years. Walter Peterson had to be close to ninety years old.

“I know you, don’t I, son?” There was something totally familiar to him about Peter’s face.

“I haven’t seen you in a long time, Mr. Peterson,” Peter said politely, as he extended a hand. It was too late to avoid the meeting now. “Peter McDowell.” The old man broke into a smile.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He didn’t tell him how much he still looked like Michael. He knew there had been bad blood over their parents’ will. “What brings you to town? Do you live in Boston or New York?”

“I’m doing some work on the house at the lake,” Peter said, avoiding his second question. He wasn’t sure where he lived right now. Lake Wickaboag was the only address he had.

“It’ll need a lot of work,” the old man ventured.

“Yes, it does,” Peter concurred. “How’ve you been?”

“I’m holding up. I’m turning ninety in June. I still manage to run this place.”

“You’re looking great,” Peter said with a smile, scooping the rest of his purchases into his arms. “See you again sometime,” he called out as he left, and Walt Peterson stared after him, thinking it was too bad that he hadn’t come back to town in all these years, and even more so that the two brothers were estranged. Peter looked like he had calmed down a lot with age. He’d been a wild one in his youth, rowdy a lot of the time, not like his brother Mike, who’d been easygoing all his life. It was funny how different they were, Walt Peterson mused, since they were twins.

After the hardware store, Peter went to the used-car lot, and checked out the trucks. There was an old blue one with a big bed in the back that was just what he needed. He paid for it, and the dealer offered to drive it out to the lake for him when his son came in that night to do deliveries for him. He offered Peter a very good deal, and he didn’t recognize Peter since he’d only owned the dealership for three years. The previous owner had died. It was rare for businesses in Ware to change hands, in the old days anyway.

By twelve-thirty, Peter was back at the lake, and he spent an hour putting his tools and supplies in the garage, and then he went inside and made lunch. He heard his cell phone ring and was startled when it was Alana. She wanted to know if he’d called a lawyer yet. It was a wake-up call back to real life. He’d had a nice day until then.

“I haven’t had time. I’ve been busy here,” he lied. He had been busy, but not too busy to make a call. He hadn’t felt ready to face calling a divorce lawyer yet. As far as he was concerned, there was no rush. This was her idea, not his. And he still hoped she might change
her mind, although he was angry at her for what she’d done and deeply hurt by it. But he would have preferred to stay married to her, if she was willing. It was obvious from what she said that she wasn’t.

“What are you doing at some lake?”

“It’s where I grew up. I used to spend the summers here. I’m living at the house for now. It’s free. And the boys will have fun here this summer. I’m cleaning the place up so I can sell it in the fall.” Alana remembered hearing about it—he had just inherited the house from his parents when they got married—but he had never gone there during all the years they were together, and never wanted to, from what she could tell.

“Where is it?”

“About two hours out of Boston. It’s a nice place.” He wouldn’t have said that six months before. “There’s nothing happening in New York, so I figured I might as well be here.”

“Well, call a lawyer,” she said, sounding impatient.

“I’ll do it next week,” he said, and she was annoyed when they hung up. He was dragging his feet, and she was ready to move on. She wanted to file. Once she made up her mind, it was done.

He called his tax lawyer the next day, and got the name of a divorce lawyer from him. He told Peter he was sorry to hear he needed one.

“So am I,” Peter said with a sigh. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“I think a lot of marriages bit the dust with the crash,” his attorney said philosophically.

“It kind of lets you know what those marriages were based on,” Peter said, sounding bitter for an instant. “Alana went back to L.A. as soon as she could.”

He left a message for the divorce lawyer that afternoon, and he called Peter back the next day. He took down Alana’s name, and Peter’s information, and said he’d let him know if he heard anything from her lawyer. Peter didn’t know her lawyer’s name, and he texted her with the name of his. And then he went back to work on the house.

While Peter was working hard at the lake, Walt Peterson sprained his ankle at the store. He missed a step when he came down from his apartment upstairs, and the boy he had working for him thought it might be broken and talked him into going to the doctor. He drove him to Michael’s office to get it looked at. But when Michael examined him, he said it was just a sprain.

“You were lucky with that,” Michael said, smiling at him. He hadn’t seen Walt Peterson in a while. He was in good health. “How did it happen?” he asked as he bandaged it for him. He told him he’d have to stay off it for a while, although he knew he wouldn’t. He’d be back at the store that afternoon. And at the local bar that night, where he hung out since his wife died.

“Progress is a dangerous thing. I’ve been wearing two pairs of spectacles for fifty years. One for distance, and one to read. I wear both of them around my neck. My eye doctor talked me into a pair of those bifocal progressives, and I can’t see a damn thing with them. They make me dizzy, and the ground goes all fuzzy under my feet. I missed the step when I was wearing them. I’m going to throw them away.” He looked outraged as he said it, and Michael grinned.

“They take a while to get used to,” he confirmed. And then he saw that Walt was staring at him, measuring his next words, and he had no idea what he was going to say. “Something else?” Sometimes his patients were shy about their problems, even at Walt’s age.

“Someone came into my store the other day whom you used to know,” Walt said cautiously. He hadn’t heard Michael mention his brother in years. It was as though his twin had died.

“And who was that?” Michael asked pleasantly, as he finished wrapping Walt’s ankle, and set his leg gently down.