The waitress put the check on the table. “Sorry, you two. We’re closing. We should have closed ten minutes ago, but the owner thought you were enjoying yourselves and gave you a little extra time.” She put her pencil in her pocket. “Will that be all?”
Peter looked at Madeline, and they shook their heads.
“Is it that late? What time is it?”
He checked his watch. “Wow, it’s 10:15. We’ve been here over two hours. It feels like we just got here.”
They stood, and Madeline reached for her purse, but he took her wrist gently. “This one is on me. Aside from being Superman, I am also Chatham’s youngest living gentleman. I could never sleep knowing I didn’t pay for coffee.”
“You’re awfully sweet.” She was standing so close he could feel the warmth of her.
“You keep saying that, and I’m wondering, ‘Is that a good thing?’ My grandmother is awfully sweet.”
She laughed. “I mean in a non-geriatric sort of way.”
He reached over her head to hold the door, nodding to the waitress, and the little bells jingled as she passed under his arm. Outside the diner two black iron benches stood on either side of the front door in front of planters of hydrangeas blooming blue, pink, and light purple. Over the windows behind the benches tiny white lights were lit for the evening.
Madeline stopped in front of the lights, where they could hear the band at the Country Club. “Listen. It sounds almost haunting across the water.”
“That’s the regatta dinner. My family’s there.”
“Why aren’t you?”
Peter paused. “Because I’m here.”
“Right.” She blushed. “I’m glad.”
They walked a few minutes in silence, their steps echoing in the distance and the faint sounds of the band lingering in the air. A seagull passed over the gleaming black water, wings flapping.
Madeline took a deep breath. “Can I say something serious, Peter—about tonight?”
“Sure. But I might know where you’re going.”
“Am I so predictable? You can go first, if you like.”
“Okay. What I was going to say was, I—I mean what I was thinking—”
“Yes?” She stopped in front of him, the top of her head reaching almost to his chin. The moonlight surrounded them, the sound of waves hitting the side of the embankment that separated Main Street from the ocean. Far away, the music echoed across the bay.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “I can’t stop looking at you.” He put up a hand when she opened her mouth. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to tell you.”
She closed her eyes and breathed in when he leaned down near her face.
He spoke gently into her ear. “May I kiss you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. She met him halfway, and when she lost her balance and he slid a hand behind her, she opened her eyes. “You saved me again.” She let out her breath.
He looked into her eyes and knew. He had become whole.
Chapter 3
Resurface
1985
It was after seven when Peter woke in the morning to find he’d fallen asleep almost on top of the shoebox. He scrambled through the items, checking each one for damage. When he saw the clock, he began pulling off his clothes.
This was the wrong day to be late for work. Peter’s blueprints were at Mayor Patrick Fleming’s office this morning, the Boston Library Restoration Project to rebuild the famous historic landmark destroyed in 1979 by fire. Peter had worked on his plans for weeks. He knew it was imperative to keep the basic architectural design of the library while incorporating the lot next to it where a grand hotel had once stood. Mayor Fleming had plans for creating a new wing dedicated to a display of documents from the period between the Boston Tea Party and 1776, with an exhibit on Boston’s own Paul Revere, hoping to enhance the city’s historical district and create a cultural center for students and visitors. Peter found the whole project enticing.
The phone rang as he was stepping out of the shower.
“Baby, I didn’t know where you were!”
“Tara! I’m fine.” Peter caught his own eye in the mirror and frowned as he toweled himself dry. “I had dinner at Jake and Amanda’s last night. How was your evening?”
“Awful.” Tara’s voice was long-suffering. “Spending the night with our mother and aunts took absolutely everything out of me.”
“Your aunts! That’s right. How was it?”
“If I have to hear one more time how Uncle Marvin can’t sit next to Aunt Estelle, I’m going to scream. No wonder Amanda and Jake went to Vegas. I’m also furious about the flowers.”
“What flowers?” He dropped the towel as he pulled up his underwear, holding the phone steady with his shoulder.
“Those peonies I wanted for the wedding? Our floral stylist says I can’t have them in just that shade. I can’t believe that—how hard is it for a florist to get peonies? And to top it all off, the Wedgwood was terrible, not what I asked for at all.”
“I didn’t—” He attempted to stroke a dry razor across his chin.
“I’m just thankful I went. Can you imagine if I hadn’t? It would have been a total disaster.”
“A disaster, Tara?”
“I want this wedding to be ‘stylin’ Peter, absolutely to the max!”
He buttoned his shirt and adjusted his tie, the phone tight between shoulder and chin. He glanced at his watch on the bathroom counter.
“You know you’re very lucky to have such an independent woman.” Tara clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Not every fiancée is equipped to handle catastrophes like these. Peter, what’s wrong?”
“Tara—” He pulled up his pants and slipped on his belt.
“Do you miss me?”
He stopped. “What do you think?”
“I guess. It’s just—forget it.”
“What were you going to say?”
“I was going to say I always have to be the one to ask. But whenever I do, you’re all, ‘you watch too many movies’. People don’t talk like that in the real world.”
“I said that? I’m really sorry, Tara. You must have caught me on a bad day. I’m just busy.” He slipped on his socks and looked around for his shoes. He spotted them near his closet and stepped into them. “I don’t want to be late for the Mayor’s office. I’m meeting my competition for that library bid.”
“Killer!” She paused for a second. “I’ll just have to find another florist. Love you!”
He sighed. “I love you too,” he whispered.
He hung up the phone and saw the shoebox on his bed. He picked up the postcard Maddy had kissed, stared at the lipstick and words, and after a moment flung it to the floor.
“Sorry I’m late.” Peter made his way with his leather bag to the last empty chair in the boardroom, where Mayor Fleming’s secretary quickly set a glass of water in front of him.
“Peter Michaels, I don’t know if you’ve met everyone in the room—” Bill Torres, chief assistant to the Mayor, stood and began to introduce the six seated around the table.
Edward Gallagher was fifty years old and had designed the Community Center and National Bank. Franklin Batis, fifty-four, was responsible for restoring the oldest theater in Boston and creating a courtyard in the center of town, complete with its own park and statues of Boston’s war heroes. Tim Ryan, recently from Chicago, was introduced last, the closest to Peter’s age and, in Peter’s opinion, his biggest threat. At forty-three, Tim had already been featured in Architectural Digest as one of Boston’s new architects on the rise and been written up in Time magazine for his contributions to the Chicago skyline.
Peter rotated his neck and pulled his tie, adjusting himself in his chair. A tough room.
Edward Gallagher’s presentation began with a scale mo
del of the site, and although it was an impressive distribution of mini-walkways leading to different wings in the library, it lacked originality. The actual model appeared dated.
Franklin Batis’ presentation was exciting, a slideshow of photographs of the details he planned to incorporate. However, he never showed any completed work, and his ideas felt too modern for what Peter knew Mayor Fleming’s office had in mind.
Tim Ryan enticed them with his glass edifice, but he failed to either incorporate the building with its surroundings or match the library to its original period. His vision felt like a crystal cathedral set in the center of Boston’s historical brownstones and quaint cobblestone walkways.
Peter listened attentively to the plans and deliberations. He took mental notes and patiently recalculated his presentation, secretly watching for any reaction from Bill Torres. His attention was distracted by a flash of light in front of the Mayor’s secretary, who sat with her pad and pencil, diligently putting her stenography to good use, her pencil quick and her head never lifting. Peter’s eye was caught by the sunlight reflecting off a small silver chain she wore on her neck, a silver heart that dangled as she worked.
“Are you ready, Peter?” Bill Torres tapped Peter on the shoulder.
“Yes, I am. Thank you. Everyone’s work has been incredible, and I consider it an honor to be asked to be part of such a project, in the company of such talent and obvious visionaries.” Peter reached for his glass of water.
“So what do you see different? How can you help us create this vision?”
Peter pulled a copy of his blueprints from his bag, made room on the table, and unrolled them in front of the others. The details and scale of his design for the Library Restoration Project were precise and carefully thought-out. It was impressive without interpretation. Bill stood up to view it, and the others followed.
Peter took a pencil and leaned over to outline specific features as he spoke. “This was a walking district in the 1800s—people walked along these very pathways and streets. The buildings and storefronts were an extension of their daily lives. We’ve lost the connection we had to our past. We’ve become slaves to television, and soon, I believe, we’ll be slaves even to our PCs. Our young people are obsessed with VHS, MTV, and video games, with no love for books or board games anymore, losing their face-to-face connection to each other. We need to entice the public and give them back what they’ve lost. History can become part of the people’s every-day lives once again.”
Peter watched as the others walked around the table to study his sketches. He felt alive as he passed behind them and leaned in to highlight different sections. “I used the added area to create what I refer to as the ‘annex.’ It’s different from the historical part of the library—it’s a people’s place, a learning environment where students and citizens can study or work for free, with ample areas for work spaces and desktops, comfortable chairs and couches, places to congregate and study. Unlike a community center, this annex will have access through research archive machines, resource books, and helpful librarians to precise information from the historical library.” He showed the corridors that led directly into the main library so visitors could access both buildings without stepping outside.
Tim Ryan pointed out a glass-covered extension.
“The portal to the past will be a passageway to the most valuable documents and historical archives of the library,” Peter said. “Why not make the old attractive?”
“Bitchin’!” Tim Ryan whispered. He glanced up and met Peter’s eye, and everyone laughed and began to talk at once.
“But how do you plan to fit your annex into the budget?” The room suddenly settled around Edward Gallagher’s voice.
“Excuse me?”
“The budget we were all given. I’m assuming you took that into consideration before you designed an entire annex equipped with a ‘portal to the past’? I don’t mean to play devil’s advocate, but you’d need new approval from the Historical Society before this could even be considered.”
Tim Ryan and Bill Torres looked at each other.
“I agree with Edward,” Franklin Batis said. “There was a specific amount allotted toward this project, and adding such an elaborate extension would greatly increase both the budget and time-frame of the project. Did you take that under advisement?”
Peter rotated his neck, and as he did he glanced at the Mayor’s secretary, who stood touching the little silver heart on her necklace. Peter opened his bag, pulled out a stack of papers, and turned the pages of a document. “Here’s the pertinent section of the portfolio we were given, where it identifies the area, size, and dimensions of the lot and land. Although the annex is built outside those dimensions, the Historical Society must agree that, it being part of the initial building, it can definitely pass any inspections and codes.”
Tim Ryan studied the blueprints. “Your plans extend more than ours did into the old parking lot area to where the town market used to be.”
“Yes, but the township bought that land in 1981, so technically they can build into it as part of the new construction.”
“But you’re creating a compound, a group of buildings instead of a single edifice.” Edward Gallagher shook his head. “I agree with Franklin. That will cost money and time just to get the permits and pass inspection.”
“Gentlemen, let’s allow Peter to do some research with the Zoning Commission and find out if this is an option, and then we can move forward and I’ll ask the Mayor’s Committee if we can submit all the plans we saw today. How does that sound?” Bill Torres crossed the room behind Peter. “Give me a call and let me know what you find out, okay, Peter? Hang in there.” Bill patted him on the back as the others began to leave the room.
Peter stood alone, leaning over the conference table, staring at his plans. He let the blueprints roll up with a snap, pulled his tie off, and shoved it into his pocket.
“Did you get it?” Jake yelled as soon as he caught sight of Peter in his office doorway.
“The Mayor’s Committee is reviewing the plans to make a final decision.”
“I was just going to head out for a quick bite. Come with me.”
Forty minutes later, Peter and Jake sat at the Mason Street Café staring at their empty plates while the waitress set their check on the table.
Jake studied Peter, and then signaled the waitress for another coffee refill. “So what was in the shoebox?”
Peter drummed on the table and glanced at the television over the counter, mumbling under his breath.
“Madeline—did you really say that?” Jake leaned forward in confusion. “No way. What are you doing with her stuff?”
“I didn’t know it was her stuff until I looked through the shoebox.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dig all that up again.” Jake sat back. “Did Tara see it? Holy moly, I would hate to be the responsible party in a Tara episode.”
Peter turned to look out the window, where noon traffic paused at the light. “Jake, do you remember why Maddy and I broke up?” His hands beat rapidly on the edge of the table, his forehead creased.
“She left town without telling you where she was going. That’d be enough for me to take a hint, but you—you were a crazed maniac. You didn’t sleep and you ditched all your classes. I don’t remember ever seeing you like that before. Just kind of—in pieces. You never told me what you did to her.”
“Why do you assume I did something?”
Jake paused. “Did you?”
“No. At least, I don’t think I did.”
“All I know is I don’t want to relive those days again. She never contacted you after that, did she? Didn’t she even give you back a ring?”
“It was a chain, a silver chain with a little diamond heart that I’d just given her for Christmas. It was left in our mailbox in an envelope. My mother thought Mr. Marsden must have put it
there when he put their house up for sale.”
Jake shrugged and spread his hands. “Her loss, man. It’s the past, right? I mean, thank God you’re not still obsessing over it.” He shifted his weight uneasily. “Why are you bringing this up now? What the hell is it all about?”
“Believe me, if I knew that I would be a changed man.” Peter rubbed his eyes and sighed. “You asked me about the shoebox.”
“What aren’t you telling me, damn it?” Jake leaned forward onto his elbows. “Don’t bullshit me. There is something, right? This isn’t over?”
“Honestly, I thought it was until I saw the shoebox.” Peter glanced up at Jake and down again into his coffee cup.
“Catch a clue, dude—” Jake waved a hand in front of his face. “Does the name Tara ring a bell? Look, I’m really sorry. I should have never called you about it.”
“This isn’t your fault. None of this has to do with you or the shoebox. Frankly, I haven’t been too emotionally involved with this wedding. I just don’t know.”
“What don’t you know? Tara’s a hottie, she and Amanda are close, and we’re going to be brothers-in-law for the rest of our lives. You even said things are great in bed, right? So what is the problem?”
“So—you know how you can’t speak without mentioning Amanda at least once?”
“I do that?” Jake sat back. “That’s a little pathetic. Sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize, man. That’s incredible. I love that about you guys. I want to be able to do that too. But it’s different for me. Jake, what you feel—the way you look when you don’t expect to see Amanda and you suddenly do—the way you glance over to her at a party and even though you’re caught up in a conversation you still smile. I can see it in the way you throw your arm in front of her in the car if you unexpectedly brake, even though she’s wearing her seatbelt. When you’re about to get off the phone with her—after so many years, you still blush when you tell her you love her. Just a little, probably not enough for people to notice, but I notice. I don’t have that with Tara. Honestly, maybe I don’t even want that with her.”
The Shoebox Page 3