Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) (9 page)

There was more, I was sure of it. I knew Patrick or Matthew would be able to fill in the holes, but even after twenty-three years, I could barely manage these memories.

“I met someone. A girl—Tiel.” I looked to the ground, the trees, the tombstones, the sky, hoping to locate the words I needed because I couldn’t find them within myself. “I think I’m a little lost, Mom. I knew it before I met Tiel, but it really hit me this weekend. Tiel loves everything.
Everything.
She loves music and food and people, and I’m not sure I love anything. I don’t think I know how to.”

Packing up my supplies, I glanced at the tombstone again. “I’ve never
wanted
to love anything. I’m not sure that I can. But I was with her, touching her and feeling happy—or something that felt close enough to happy—and I wanted to feel that way all the time.”

I readjusted the chrysanthemums and stood. “Same time next week, Mom.” I ran my hand over the curved top of the stone, not yet prepared to say goodbye. “You’d like her,” I said. “There’s something about her that feels . . . I don’t know. It’s ridiculous, but it’s like I’m okay—for once in my life—when I’m around her. I don’t know how, and maybe I’m hallucinating, but she does something to me.”

“It is bizarre to be doing this on a Tuesday,” Shannon said as she settled into her seat at the conference room table, cell phone, latte, and laptop in hand.

“It would be less bizarre if you were on time,” Patrick muttered.

“I’m five minutes late. Does that warrant a debate?” Shannon asked. “Or are we going to start the meeting?”

He rolled his eyes and exchanged an impatient expression with Matt. “All right, people. Shannon’s here, so we can start.”

“Thank you, Patrick,” she said. “How was everyone’s long weekends?”

And this was how it went every Monday. The six of us—Shannon, Patrick, Matt, Riley, me, and our newest addition, Andy Asani—hiked up to the attic conference room, shared updates on our work, and argued about everything. It was the loudest portion of my week. We were genetically incapable of having a discussion without yelling; every conversation existed on the same level as a barroom brawl.

“We went to a seafood festival in New Hampshire,” Andy said, nodding toward Patrick.

It had been over three months since we realized they’d been seeing each other all winter, and I still didn’t understand their relationship. I couldn’t date a woman and work with her all day.

Then again, I didn’t know the first thing about
dating
women.

“You went to a
seafood
festival?” Riley asked.

“He ate the fish,” she said, jerking her thumb at Patrick. “I drank the beer.”

They exchanged a quick high-five before he said, “I was bartending down in Rhody. Newport kicks ass on long weekends.”

Patrick glanced at me, frowning, then turned to Riley. “Are we not paying you enough?”

“I was filling in for a buddy, and I just like it,” he shrugged. “But if you’re looking to unload some cash, I won’t stop you.”

“And what about you, Sammy?” Shannon asked.

I glared at her, waiting for her to realize she stood me up at Commonwealth, didn’t return my calls, and ignored every single one of my fucking texts this weekend. She went right on typing and sipping her coffee.

“My weekend was sensational, Shannon. I went to six different music festivals in four states, got drunk at the Feast of St. Anthony, passed out in Cambridge, and almost died in a goddamn elevator crash. Where the fuck were you on Friday and why the fuck weren’t you answering your phone?”

No one moved for a full minute, and then Riley said, “Did you get to the Thomas Point Beach Bluegrass show? I heard that was good this year.”

“Is that a metaphor for something? Or are you talking about an actual elevator?” Patrick asked.

“Yeah. What do you mean, you almost died?” Matt said.

“The power went out in the Back Bay, and I was trapped in an elevator at the Comm Ave. property for eight hours,” I said.

“The same elevator that slammed into the basement of that building?” Matt asked. “The one I read about, with the massive system failure compounded by the outage?”

“Same fucking one,” I said. “So I’d love to know, Shannon. How was your weekend?”

“Did you go somewhere?” Patrick asked her. “You didn’t mention anything . . . I thought you were staying in town.”

“That’s because I don’t need you to approve my weekend plans, Patrick,” she said. “I don’t have to tell you where I’m going, or what I’m doing, or who I’m with.”

“But it would be good if you tell me, so I don’t wait around at a property and get stuck in a fucking elevator,” I replied.

“Jesus Christ, Sam, I’m sorry! I lost track of things, okay? I’m sorry.” She slammed her coffee cup down and crossed her arms over her chest. “I went away with some friends, and I forgot about the appointment at Comm Ave., and—”

“The only person you spend time with who isn’t presently accounted for in this room is my wife,” Matt said. “And she was with me, on the Cape.”

I turned to Matt. “Do you ever get tired of saying it with that sanctimonious tone? ‘My wife’?”

He shot me a smug grin. “Never.”

“But you’re okay, yeah?” Riley asked. He pointed to the yellowing bruise on my face. “Is this from the elevator or blacking out in Cambridge?”

“Elevator,” I said.

Waking up in Tiel’s apartment left its marks, but they weren’t bruises.

“Why didn’t you call one of us?” Andy asked, angling her pen at Riley, Patrick, and Matt.

I lifted a shoulder and mumbled a response into my coffee cup.

“All right,” Patrick murmured. “Let’s get back on track here. Sam’s alive. Shannon can’t manage her appointments. Moving on.”

We reviewed the active projects, as well as the ones we were considering. I didn’t mention the Commonwealth property; I wasn’t convinced I wanted to see the inside of that building ever again.

“Sam . . .” Shannon held up her hand while she paged through her notebook. “I can’t go with you to the ASNE event in November.”

The Architectural Society of New England’s annual banquet didn’t matter to me, and if Shannon hadn’t insisted that I attend and personally collect my awards each year, I wouldn’t go. But she claimed it was great networking—even though none of those people agreed with our approach to preservation—and she made a point of attending, and befriending everyone in the room.

“And where will you be?” I asked.

She continued turning the pages, stopping occasionally to rearrange the sticky notes and mark reminders on her daily checklists, and murmured, “It’s personal. If you need me to find someone to go and hold your hand, I will, but don’t pout over it.”

I snapped my laptop shut and stood, sending the chair careening into the brick wall behind me. “You’re being a dick, Shannon,” I called as I stormed down the stairs.

They’d talk; they always did. Either it was my outbursts or my obsessive tendencies or my whoring, but regardless of the topic, they’d hide the sharp objects and nominate someone to check on me.

Back in the comfort of my office, I set out my projects for the day. After an hour of hectic, unfocused work, I was prepared to storm into Shannon’s office and put my issues on the table.

I was halfway down the stairs when my phone chimed. I’d snapped a picture of Tiel reclining on the grass this past weekend, and seeing it on my screen had me stopping mid-step.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” she said. “There’s an AC/DC cover band performing tonight. They’re acoustic, and I think there’s a banjo involved, but I hear good things. You should come with me.”

I laughed and hustled down the stairs, bypassing Shannon’s floor and heading outside, onto Derne Street. “Should I?”

“Yes, you should. You need more banjo in your life. In fact, the shortage of banjo in your life is a rather dire situation.”

I hiked to the top of the street and watched the Beacon Hill traffic. I didn’t have a creative reason to decline the invitation, and I was struggling to concoct one. I was comfortable being the guy with the booked calendar, but it dawned on me that Tiel didn’t give a damn about any of my bullshit posturing.

“All right, Sunshine, but I need to put my head down and get some shit done.”

“Wise decision. I’ll text you the address,” she said.

I jogged down the street and up to my office, closed the door, and dug into my projects with newfound urgency. Hours passed without my notice as I plowed through designs, emails, client calls, and some scheduling conversations with my preferred contractors.

A knock sounded at my door, and I pulled my glasses down my nose before looking up from my drafting program. Shannon stood outside and dangled a bottle of pale yellow juice between her fingers.

“I come bearing gifts,” she said. “You have to be hungry.”

Glancing at the clock, I realized it was nearly four in the afternoon, and I’d been working on this design straight through since eleven. I was hungry.

I nodded and stood, stretching to work the kinks out of my neck and back. She was careful to shut the door quietly, knowing I hated the way everyone else slammed everything around here.

Did they not remember the hell we went through to restore this building? Or the shit we took from Angus when we bought it? This brownstone was a labor of love, one that owned actual blood, sweat, and tears from each of us. The least we could do was handle the doors with a bit more care. I wasn’t going to be the one repairing those hinges.

“I wanted to apologize about Friday. There’s nothing else I can say other than I’m sorry.” She set the bottle on my desk along with a bag of raw pistachios, and sat. “Carrots, honey, lemon, and celery. Andy said you were loving all things carrot.”

Andy was my partner in juice crimes. She was the only one who appreciated a decent cold-pressed juice in this office, and she often spoiled me with some of her homemade creations.

One glance at the label on the bottle and I knew Shannon dropped at least ten dollars on this juice. She probably sent her assistant, Tom, to get it from the Kendall Square café, but it was the thought that counted.

“Thank you,” I said. A glance at my glucose monitor showed I was damn close to setting off the low blood sugar alarms, so I dug into the juice first. “I was going to stop for lunch soon.”

“You can’t be skipping meals. I’m going to have Tom start placing a lunch order for you every day. You’re going to get yourself sick,” she said.

I hadn’t been taking care of myself, not the way I should. But Shannon didn’t need to know that.

“Save the nutrition lecture for another day, Shannon.”

“Fine.” She paused, took a breath, and continued on. “I’m sorry about the ASNE event. It’s the only event I’ll miss this season.”

I thought about her comment while I plowed through a handful of pistachios, and realized it was ridiculous for my big sister to escort me to these events.

“Actually, skip them all,” I said. “I’m sure you have better things to do.”

For as long as I could remember, she had been the ranking female figure in my life. I could dump my problems on her and she’d sort them out, gathering them and placing them in an order that made sense. I’d spend all day winding up issues in my head, letting them build and strengthen until they were little cyclones, and she’d walk every single one of them back.

My role was equally well-established. I helped her select reasonable clothing—her taste was atrocious, and left to her own devices, she’d wander the streets in cable knit ponchos and purple culottes—and managed her online dating profiles. We ate brunch together most Sundays, then spent the afternoon hitting open houses throughout the city.

My siblings claimed Shannon coddled me, and that I disproportionately sided with her in business, but we shared a bond they’d never understand. We were both exiled, refugees from our own father.

He detested all of us, but Shannon and I took the lion’s share of his wrath.

Angus kicked her out before she finished high school. He invented reasons to hate her, but most of all, it was because she was our mother in every way possible, and he was set on destroying every memory. It was easier to tear Shannon down than live with the reminder of Mom. He did the same thing to Erin, but he also liked beating the shit out of her.

He evicted me the summer before college. He was convinced of my homosexuality—despite my earnest efforts at losing my virginity to a woman—and wouldn’t tolerate that kind of sin any longer. He clung to the gay piece as the focal point of my expulsion, but in all reality, he abhorred everything about me.

For nearly a decade, Shannon and I learned to live with his torment and abuse, shielding each other from the worst. But over the summer, things started changing.

She seemed distant and distracted, and became aggressively defensive when I called her on it. We’d never kept much of anything from each other, but now we were relative strangers.

She peered at me, her expression turning sour. “Is this about Angus?”

“What? No. No, this has nothing to do with him, and if it’s the same to you, I’d rather we not continue bringing him up.”