Boxer jumped to his feet and began to bark. She sat up and called out. “Who’s there?”
“Just me.” Ann Marsden came around the back of the house to the deck. “It’s okay, Boxer.” Ann walked up the steps and scratched Boxer’s ears, cooing at him, and his tail wagged. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”
“I’m not sick, if that’s what you mean.”
“I know you’re not.” Ann pulled one of the Adirondack chairs close and sat.
“Coffee, Mom?”
“Maybe later. I just wanted to catch you before work.”
Maddy sat quietly, Boxer nestled near her leg. “I’m sorry if I worried you. I didn’t mean to.”
“You didn’t.” Ann smiled softly, her eyes on Maddy’s face. “I think I suspected you wouldn’t be going in to school today. It’s all right. In all the years you’ve worked at that school not once have you taken a day off for yourself. I’ll make the call for you in a few minutes.”
“Kate and I called him, you know.”
Ann nodded. “What happened?”
“Some woman answered, and I hung up. Can you believe it? All these years I thought I was over him. It took me such a long time to get out of that depression when it came to him. But I did it and I was so proud of myself. Then it only took one day to send me back to Stage One again—when I think of all those years of therapy for nothing! Just when I had handled my feelings, they all come right up again like a backed-up sink waiting to erupt. I actually feel jealous. That woman who answered Peter’s phone—I don’t even know who she is, and I’m envying her. Does any of this make sense?”
“I guess it would if I were you.” Ann settled back in her chair and crossed her legs, smoothing her skirt over her knees.
“What am I supposed to think, Mom? Now I’m wondering if he just came to ease his conscience. One more thing on his to-do list.”
“Madeline, listen.” Ann clasped her hands. “It wasn’t until after Peter left and you went home that your father and I finally realized what he must be feeling. Dear, I can tell you this now, but you didn’t want to have this discussion when you first lost your sight. You were so angry, and we were very worried about you. Frankly, I thought—well, it’s in the past now.”
“You thought what, Mom?” Maddy pushed the hair back impatiently from her temples. “Tell me.”
“Your father and I thought that, given your state at the time—you were going to harm yourself.”
Maddy sighed and rested her head on her hand.
“You spent all day either crying or sleeping, darling. We didn’t know what to do. Every time I asked about Peter, you retreated further. We gave you space and waited days, weeks, months, and still there was no change.”
“I’m sorry.” Maddy put her hand on her mouth. “I know what I put you through.”
“That’s not my point.” Ann shook her head sadly. “I just want you to understand—we don’t always know the answers we think we do.” She looked away clasping her elbows in her hands. “If I told you that your father and I learned—” She hesitated.
Maddy reached out and gripped Ann’s wrist. “What? Did you learn something? Is it about Peter, why he came here after all this time? I can still hear his voice at the café as he wiped my chin after I spilled my coffee. I’m reaching for so many answers now, but I always come up empty. I can’t take this anxiety, Mom! My nerves are shot!”
Ann’s eyes darkened at the jittery tone of Maddy’s voice. She could still hear the hospital ringing with screams.
“Mom! What were you going to say? ‘If I told you your father and I’ what?”
Ann turned to Maddy and cupped her face in her hands. “I was going to say that your father and I did our best. We’re only sorry we couldn’t have spared you the pain and anguish we would have so gladly taken upon ourselves. You’re our daughter, Madeline. We brought you into this world believing we could shelter you from suffering forever. All parents believe that.” Ann shook her head. “But it simply doesn’t work that way.”
Maddy sat slowly back in her chair. “You and Daddy gave up everything to take care of me.” Her face was perfectly still as she turned toward Ann’s voice.
“We regret nothing, my dear.” Ann laid her hand on Maddy’s shoulder and stroked her hair. “We would do it all over again without question.”
“But I made it worse on you.” Maddy shook off Ann’s hand. “I didn’t let you call Peter to help care for me. I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want him to see me the way I was. Pride, I know! But I couldn’t face him, because I wasn’t the same. I wasn’t the girl he had fallen in love with anymore.”
“Dear, you lost your sight, not yourself. You never changed.”
“I did! I hated myself!”
Ann stood abruptly. “I can’t stand to hear you talk like this—”
“I’m sorry, but it’s true. I wanted to die. I was so angry—with God—at everyone, for taking my happiness away. That’s what I felt.”
Ann paused to look down on Maddy’s shining brown head and then stepped to the deck rail. She took a deep breath. She folded her hands and stood, her head bowed and her eyes closed. She breathed slowly and lightly, her shoulders tight. After a moment, her shoulders loosened, and she opened her eyes. She sat beside Maddy again and took her hand. “Darling,” she said gently, “do you feel like that now?”
“Of course not. But it took me so many years. How could I have dragged Peter into a life like that, all that darkness? It wouldn’t have been fair. I loved him too much.” Maddy stood suddenly and covered her face with a sob. “That’s why I was so terrified of you writing to him. I didn’t want him to come.”
“You were afraid of what he might have done?” Ann looked up at her.
“I was afraid of what he would have done. I know him. He would have left everything behind for me. I am certain. It was the middle of the Vietnam War and his very life would have been in danger if he had left school for me.”
“Well, then.”
Maddy put out a hand and leaned against the deck rail, her head tipped back to the warmth of the rising sun. “Mom.” She turned to Ann, who stood quickly and took her hands. “I’ve often wondered if I could have made other decisions.”
Ann paused, waiting.
“If I had let you notify Peter, I mean. If I’d let you write to him. The Michaels were your friends. I’m sure they would have wanted him to know what happened to us, and Peter would have come, and maybe then I would have been by his side all along.”
Ann carefully wiped a tear from her cheek. “You can’t be sure of anything in this life, dear.” She lowered her head as she pulled Maddy’s hands together. After a long moment she spoke barely above a whisper. “Sheila and I understood each other.”
“Mom, how could you know?” Maddy tightened her grip on Ann’s hands. “Mom. What do I do now?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I know what I don’t want to do. I don’t want to live with any more regrets. I don’t want to hurt anymore. Most of all, I don’t want to live another minute without telling Peter how I feel.”
Chapter 22
Perceptions
One cup of coffee was all Peter had to prepare him for what lay inside the huge conference room that morning. Mayor Fleming had arranged a press conference with thirteen reporters from all over Boston, and it made Peter short of breath to walk through the heavy double glass doors into the crowd inside. Bill Torres, Tim Ryan, and Mayor Fleming waited at the long table at the front of the room.
Peter made his way through the press, greeting each reporter with a simple nod and gesture. An assistant pointed out a table with coffee, pastries, and cans of soda, and then escorted him to his seat.
Bill Torres stood and introduced Peter to Mayor Fleming.
“Finally, we meet face-to-face, Peter Michaels.” The Mayor stoo
d and shook Peter’s hand.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Let’s get started, shall we?” Mayor Fleming took his place behind a small podium at the front of the room. “The city of Boston is proud to begin this long-awaited Library Restoration Project. After weeks of searching, studying, examining, and much consideration—” Mayor Fleming turned to the crowded room. “—We are happy to introduce Peter Michaels as the architect for our new library! His design was most suited to our city’s needs, and his vision will enhance both city and community.” The reporters applauded as the Mayor signaled Peter to step up to the podium. “I present to you: Mr. Peter Michaels, Boston Library Restoration Architect. We will begin taking questions.”
It reminded Peter of interviews after televised sporting events, all the reporters across the room calling out his name in unison. It made him feel like a piece of public property. He yanked at his tie nervously, finally nodding at a raised hand at random.
“Mr. Michaels, why do you think you were selected for such a coveted project? I understand there were many of the top architects up for this job, including Mr. Ryan, who’s here today.”
Peter shifted his weight and squeezed the sides of the podium as cameras flashed in his eyes. “In answer to your question—” He could hear himself swallow and wondered if everyone else could too. He glanced at the panel, where Tim Ryan caught his eye, and Peter shook his head at him, a suggestion of laughter under his breath. “In all honesty, I really have no idea.”
There was a sudden silence. After an instant Tim Ryan broke the stillness with a spontaneous laugh, and the room jolted into laughter with him.
Peter’s hands relaxed on the podium, and he smiled. “Seriously, all of the architects’ ideas were phenomenal. I was in the company of true visionaries and would be honored to work with any one of them, including Mr. Ryan.” Peter winked over the reporters’ heads at Tim. “Truth be told, the standards and goals of the Historical Society and citizens of Boston are extremely high. In order to incorporate so many ideas, we had to find a common vision.” He nodded, more confidently this time, to another waving reporter.
“Mr. Michaels, how will this new edifice change the cityscape of Boston?”
“When I designed the Library Compound, as some are referring to it—” Peter smiled at the panel. “—My main goal was incorporating Boston’s past and bringing it into our present. I want the citizens of today and tomorrow to be surrounded by this, our country’s history. I want to offer a hands-on experience, a common ground where citizens can learn and share, an accessible place no matter what their economic status, someplace inviting and tangible to all. We have a great chunk of important history here in Boston, and I want to make it accessible and at the same time preserve it for those who come after us. Boston’s library should be framed like art, but instead of a frame using walls of character and ceilings and intricate details, arches and peaks that mirror an era we’ve almost lost today. Let’s bring back the art of architecture to the city of Boston.”
Peter signaled to Bill Torres, who unveiled a black-draped board on an easel in front of the table. A lovely scale drawing revealed the entire Library Compound to applause and multi-flashes that blinded Peter. He glanced at Mayor Fleming and Bill Torres, and he could see they were pleased.
“Thank you, everyone.” Peter smiled and began to turn away.
“Mr. Michaels, what’s your response to the editorial in yesterday’s paper about the Community Building in Dorchester?”
Peter glanced at Bill Torres and Mayor Fleming. “I haven’t seen the piece you’re referring to. Is there a copy on hand?”
“May I?” The reporter held up a newspaper, and Peter nodded. The reporter cleared his throat and began to read. “It is high time the city of Boston receive a wake-up call. It is not about creating more, bigger, greater. It is about foundation, and what is Boston’s foundation? Its people and its neighborhoods are the platform on which it stands. The city has turned its focus away from its foundation to restore what is past and gone. Boston’s Mayor and Historical Society are spending millions on a restoration project of a burnt-down historical library even while our neighborhoods decay. Boston needs a savior, a savior for the community. Save your millions, leave the library; invest in your foundation, your communities. Invest in Boston’s people.’ Any comment, Mr. Michaels?”
Peter pulled on the knot of his tie, heat rising to his ears.
Bill Torres stepped to the podium. “Mr. Michaels was not aware of this editorial. The issue does not pertain to him and should be addressed to the proper authorities on community issues. He does not need to comment.”
“It’s all right, Bill.” Peter leaned in to the microphone. “I don’t mind. Although I wasn’t aware of the editorial, I am grateful you brought it to my attention. Thank you.” He smiled at the reporter. “The city of Boston is my home. I grew up in Chatham and went to school in Boston. Boston is very important to its neighborhoods, its people and me. When I was a young man exploring my options, I always came back to the realization that, whatever I did with my life, I wanted to make a difference. Maybe it starts as simple as a visual difference, but I believe through my work there is also a spiritual difference. Creating something—a building, a library, a bridge, and a church—these are visual layers of creation itself. Nothing is two-dimensional. True success for all of us is finding that what we love to do makes a difference. It alters each of us indelibly.”
“Would you have considered taking on a project like the Dorchester Community Building, where there might not be money or accolades equivalent to the Library Compound?”
“Of course.” Peter laughed.
Bill Torres stepped in front of the microphone. “That is not a decision Peter needs to make at this time. Those are a City and Zoning Commission decisions. Any questions unrelated to the editorial?”
“Hey, Peter,” a reporter shouted. “Are you going to postpone your honeymoon so you can break ground on the project?”
“Who is Miss Spencer’s gown designer?”
“Is Senator Kennedy invited to the wedding?”
Peter breathed deeply, his smile stiff.
“Mr. Michaels!” A woman shouted. “It’s my understanding Ms. Spencer purchased a Badgley Mischka priced at eight thousand dollars. Is that true?”
“I’m sorry.” Peter smiled around with a hint of desperation. “I don’t even know what a Badgley Mischka is.”
Laughter swept the room.
“Seriously, Mr. Michaels. We know Ms. Spencer booked the Langham Hotel, one of Boston’s most expensive. I understand filet mignon is on the menu, along with beef Wellington and lobster thermidor. A designer gown, elite hotel, and royal dinner—your fiancée knows a thing or two about the finer things in life. You might say she’s the one definitely making a difference. Your wedding appears to be the social event of the year. Any comment?”
Tim Ryan interjected. “When Frank Lloyd Wright designed the Guggenheim, did anyone ask whether he wore boxers or briefs?”
The reporters laughed, but Peter saw them pointing their microphones at him. “It is impossible to understand what goes into planning a wedding.” He held onto the podium firmly. “Even I have no understanding of it, and I’m the one getting married.”
This time Mayor Fleming and his panel laughed with the reporters.
“I have unfortunately not given attention to the details because I’ve been utterly consumed by the Library Compound. Yes, there are decisions I might have made differently if I’d been more closely involved with the wedding. I am a simple person, believe it or not. I would have been happy with an intimate gathering on the beach.” Peter paused. “But, as some of you men know, women and weddings are an unstoppable partnership. No man in his right mind would stand in the way.”
The reporter smiled. “Can you at least tell us where you’re going for your honeymoon?”
“We have nothing planned as yet. I am committed to this project and to Boston and will work on making this Library Compound the pride and joy of the city. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming and for giving me this opportunity today.” Peter blushed as the reporters applauded, and he was finally able to turn away, loosening his tie gratefully.
Chapter 23
Butterflies
Peter got home exhausted that evening and stopped just inside his apartment door. With the lights off it looked sparse, barely lived in, everything in its place around the few pieces of furniture he owned. He turned the lights on and sighed. The kitchen was still dark when he set his keys on the counter, the light on the answering machine bright. He looked through the mail he had brought in as he pressed the Play button.
He smiled when he heard Jake’s voice: “Beep! Call me, dude.”
He went around the counter and opened the refrigerator. Cartons of Chinese food, a bowl of apples, imported cheeses. He checked the cabinets, and as he was reaching for a bag of pretzels the phone rang.
“It’s six-thirty. What happened? I thought you were going to call.”
“Mom?”
“It’s Jake.”
Peter laughed. “I think I know the difference between my mother’s voice and yours. You sounded like her, though, with that anxious tone.”
“I’m only curious,” Jake defended himself.
“I literally just walked through the door. I had a lot of work to catch up with and didn’t have a chance to call. Sorry, man.”
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