Matthew crouches to tie a shoelace, twenty feet of gravel and dust between them, pausing to get a better look at Patrick, some indefinable air of sickness about him, as if the drive up has made him queasy. Does Patrick know where Hannah was this morning?
Maybe he shouldn’t bring this up right now. Later, perhaps. He pulls the shoelace tight and thinks, But before we go any further, I should level with him. Matthew stands up, wiping his hands on his shirt. Patrick, there’s something I need to tell you, he says.
What? says Patrick, looking somehow lost, as if their boyhood landscape is alien to him.
I know that you and Hannah are married, says Matthew.
Patrick’s body turns stiff, Matthew raising his hands, as if to hold him back. But I promise you I had no idea when I first contacted you, he says. I found out later on, sometime after our brief meeting at Le Crainois. And I stuck to the promise I made you that day, I haven’t tried to get in touch with you since. All I’ve done is reply to your messages.
A truck blows by headed east, a car going west. Patrick is toweling his face with sweeping hands.
There’s something else, says Matthew. You remember Randy McCloud?
Sure, says Patrick, taking his hands from his face, looking immensely agitated, as if he might leave.
But Matthew keeps going, because everything can still be resolved, he truly believes that. This is where it happened, he says. This was the orchard where they found Randy dead next to his truck.
So what? says Patrick, the sense of agitation appearing in his voice now as well. What’s the point of all this, Matthew?
The point is that the police never worked out who killed Randy, says Matthew. But I know who killed him. Matthew waits until Patrick looks him in the eye. It was my father, he says.
Something seems to drain out of Patrick as he looks down at the ground, then up again. OK, so you never shared your big childhood secret with me, he says.
Right, says Matthew. Well, it never came up.
A pickup drives by, and for a moment Matthew thinks he recognizes it, Pete’s pickup truck, but it is just a green truck.
Why are we doing this now? says Patrick, squeezing his brow and closing his eyes for a moment.
You’re right, you’re right, says Matthew. I guess we’re doing this now because I wanted to tell you everything, he says. But now I realize, I don’t think I can.
Everything? says Patrick. Really? Why not?
Matthew wants to say, Because you’re married to the rest of it. Only it feels like a bad idea to talk about Hannah again, something odd about the way Patrick reacted to her name. Matthew pushes his hands deep in his pockets. Look, he says, nodding sideways, I have something to show you, remember? And then we can talk after that if you like. You want to see what it is? he says, taking a few deliberate steps toward the orchard. The actual entrance is farther up the road, he says, but this is the best way to see it.
Patrick glances across at his car, then up at the orchard. Fine, he says. After you, then.
The orchard is set on a steep slope. Matthew heads up the hill, pulling an apple from a tree and taking a bite before throwing the fruit away. They need another week or two, he says, looking over his shoulder, Patrick keeping his distance.
The day is absent of breeze, the air troubled only by the sounds of insects and traffic, cicadas and car engines, the growl of a motorcycle. Matthew stops at the brow of the hill, putting his hands on his hips. When Patrick reaches him, standing almost alongside, Matthew points down into the valley.
This is what I wanted you to see, he says.
The land drops away before them, the Swangum Ridge blotting out the horizon, and in the valley below, in an apple-fringed clearing, paint peeling from its weathered boards, there stands an old red barn.
We completed a few months ago, says Matthew, but I decided to hold off for a while before starting work. I own the barn along with most of the land you can see on this side of the road, including this orchard. More than enough apples for several kitchens. And the soil is incredible, glacial till, you can grow just about anything here. Plus it’s a great location. Look at that view of the Swangums, imagine sitting outside at a wooden picnic table, watching the sun set behind the ridge. Not much competition from other restaurants, plenty of city folk at the weekends—climbers, hikers, second-homers … Throughout fall you could pull in the apple pickers and the leaf-peeping crowd. Weekdays and off-season, there are enough locals with money to sustain the business, this whole area’s much wealthier now than when we grew up here. What do you think?
When Matthew turns to look at him, Patrick pulls his hand quickly from his eyes. I didn’t realize the food supply business was so lucrative, he says.
It’s just an old barn, says Matthew.
Plus all the land, the orchard, the huge loft in Tribeca …
I’ve been lucky, says Matthew. Most of my money comes from investments rather than the business.
You should give me the name of your broker, says Patrick, his voice almost suggesting there is something to laugh about here.
I use a few different places, says Matthew. There’s a great guy called Levine I could hook you up with. The returns are modest, but I like him—he has a country home in the Poconos where he cold-smokes his own salmon. But if you want something riskier with higher potential returns, the place I’d most recommend is called Idos Investments. Apart from having to deal with an asshole called Don Trevino, I have nothing but good things to say about them. Remind me when we’re done here today and I’ll put you directly in touch, the VIP treatment, you don’t want to have to go through the minions.
Patrick only stares at him, his lips pale and stiff.
Is something wrong? says Matthew.
This was your plan? says Patrick. Just this?
I was in the middle of completing the purchase when I invited you to Le Crainois, says Matthew. I was going to bring you up here after our lunch. I only found out about Hannah later on, like I told you. Honest mistake.
Patrick doesn’t say anything, just looks away from Matthew and stares down into the valley at the rickety barn.
Look, I know there’s a lot we should talk about, says Matthew. And after this we’ll go somewhere and talk everything through if you like, but why don’t you just come take a look for now?
Matthew begins heading downhill, looking over his shoulder to see if Patrick is following. Patrick wipes his nose with the back of his hand and then starts to walk.
Work gets under way in a week, Matthew calls out over his shoulder. Some light landscaping to begin with, he says. We’ll need a parking lot. The shell needs shoring up and eventually a new lick of paint. We basically need to gut the inside and renovate. We’ll make everything from reclaimed barn wood—the bar, tables, flooring—and we need to build an addition at the rear for the kitchen.
They are close enough to the ridge to see the turkey vultures soaring over its sheer white face, sliding through the air, six or seven of them, like figure skaters tracing patterns in ice.
I know the right people to help out with the vegetable garden, says Matthew. We could be almost self-sufficient in a few years on that front. Also I know all the best cattle farms, who has great chickens and pigs. And there are some excellent local cheese makers as well. Local, that’s one of the magic words in the business these days. Plus, Maine’s only a few hours away—a ready supply of lobster, fresh fish delivered before lunchtime, straight off the Portland dayboats. This could be the first restaurant of many.
The ground has leveled out, they walk across a small meadow of wildflowers, the lush grass speckled purple and yellow, and then along the last of the dirt track that leads from road to barn.
I know why you think you can’t say yes, Patrick, I do understand, but you don’t have to say anything right now. Everything can be resolved, says Matthew. I really do believe that.
Matthew stops when he reaches the front of the barn, its double doors held shut by a large rock leaning into a crack where the doors don’t quite meet. You recognize that? he says, pointing at the rock. It’s from up there, Swangum conglomerate, harder than granite. He lifts the rock, moving it to one side and swinging open one of the doors. I’m afraid you’ll have to use your imagination, says Matthew, glancing over his shoulder and seeing Patrick closer now, before turning back, stepping inside the barn and breathing in the smell of the wood as he enters.
Breathing the good air—he turns to see if Patrick is breathing it too, but there isn’t time to do anything but flinch as the rock smashes into his skull.