Chapter 5
Piles of paperwork from Mayor Fleming’s office waited for Peter when he arrived at work the next morning. The Mayor’s Committee had agreed to consider his plans while allowing him a temporary window to talk to the Zoning Commission, but in addition they required a 250-word Statement of Intent on how his firm would add to the historical flare while keeping the original architectural vocabulary of the site.
Peter’s partner, Rob Rowland, congratulated him when he called the office from out in the field.
“I don’t know, Rob. It’s like a test. I feel like I’m back in college.”
“It is a test, Peter. These people know you’re qualified. That’s not what they’re trying to find out. They know every one of those architects who made submissions is entirely capable of taking on such a project. What they want to know is who cares the most, whose overall vision is for the good of Boston, keeping the original flare and feel of the past. That’s what you have to show them. You should be brushing up on the era and background and all about the original architect and building. What they want is to be swept away by your ideas. You can do it! Stick to the original budget plans. Although they submitted recent ones, they always have to refer to the originals, and if there was more square footage then, believe me, it’s there to work with.”
“I do know what they want. Everywhere you look, another high-rise is going up or another building breaking into the skyline. You taught me to be passionate for detail and keep what’s important. Even my mother always told me God is in the details.”
“Then that’s what you have to write. Let them hear that when they read your words. Let them envision it through your language. We’re visionaries. That’s what architects are. Well, masochistic dreamers, to be exact.”
Peter laughed, shaking his head at his partner’s familiar tone. Rob had always been a great mentor.
As soon as Peter hung up he looked at his watch and dialed again, and as he waited he smiled involuntarily. “Hi, Mom. Did you get my message yesterday? I must have called you guys three times.”
“Honey, I’m so glad you called.” Sheila Michaels’ voice was quick and light. “I was just going to call you. I was at the store making the arrangements for the party. Tara told you, didn’t she? Your father and I want to throw an engagement party for you two. Is that okay? I know that it’s a bit late. We should have done it before.”
“Mom, you don’t have to do that.”
“Now, son.” Richard was on the other line. “If you don’t let your mother do this, she is going to be all holy heck to live with.”
“Excuse me, I’m listening!”
“You know I’m joking, dear. You’re still my sweet honey. What’s the latest with the project, Peter?”
“Problems with the budget. I went over-budget due to an oversight with the original site plans. They also want me to write a Statement of Intent, two hundred and fifty words on ‘original architectural vocabulary.’”
“Did you talk to Rob? What did he say?”
“To stick with my gut feeling and stay true to my designs.”
“Listen to him. You’re talented, and you’re not afraid of taking risks. Don’t you worry. Boston needs more people like you.”
“About this party—is Saturday okay?” His mother’s voice was distracted.
“I’m sure it’ll be okay with Tara.”
“It will be tasteful and beautiful, and Tara will love it. How do you feel about lavender? Never you mind. I love you.”
Peter heard the click of the phone.
Richard cleared his throat. “You know, that woman can talk me into anything. And I see she has the same effect on you.”
“I know.” Peter laughed.
“Hey, your sister has a new boyfriend. Are you ready for this? A chiropractor.”
“That’s great! A doctor.”
“All they do is squeeze a bit, press on your back, and bill you. The prices are insane! Oh, now Sheila wants me. It is probably about the menu for your party. You two should elope.”
“Richard, don’t you tell him that!” Sheila called from the other room.
“I’m kidding, honey. Got to go, son. I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Peter sighed as he hung up. The few minutes on the phone weren’t enough. The sound of his parents’ voices had only made him homesick.
Peter missed Chatham. He missed its ghost stories, lighthouses, and old Indian legends. He had grown up in a lovely Cape Cod home overlooking the Sound right across from Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, with the Michaels’ own dock and a small two-seater sailboat. It was nothing compared to their seafaring neighbors, but it was good enough for an evening sail on a lazy summer night. Peter liked to sit with his father and sister Amy on Saturdays and fish right from his own boat by the dock. What he loved was the peace, spending an entire day at sea with no itinerary, no schedule to follow, just the sounds of the ocean and gulls, the wind and his breath.
He knew Tara would love Chatham too, but for all the wrong reasons—the glamour of the Vineyard, the money in Nantucket, the celebrities who vacationed there, and, of course, the Kennedy family. Everything the natives detested.
“Stop it, you nitpicker. Tara’s a good woman,” Peter whispered to himself as he tried to focus on his notes for the budget and essay ideas. He made a phone call and spoke to Bill Torres, who kindly directed him to a friend on the Zoning Commission, who said he’d have a word with the Zoning Adjustor and messenger Peter a new set of the original plans. Peter stood over his blueprints and searched for ways to use the space provided in the proposal, but he realized it would involve restructuring everything. He would have to start from scratch.
He had been standing in the same spot for what seemed like hours when he glanced up and saw Jake by the door. “What did you do to yourself?” Peter nodded at Jake’s hair, laughing.
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Turn around.”
Jake smiled, turning. “Before you say anything—it was Amanda’s idea.”
“A mullet? Are you kidding me? Since when do you need a mullet to excite Amanda?”
“I didn’t say I needed it. We went to see St. Elmo’s Fire last night, and Rob Lowe had one.”
Peter laughed out loud. He kept walking around Jake and touching his hair. “It looks like something’s living back there.”
“It’s the latest thing. The girl who did it said it was righteous.”
Peter shook his head affectionately. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Thanks for shooting from the hip, man. It’s nice to know your friends won’t spare your feelings. Was this a bad idea, coming here? I thought you might want to do lunch.”
“No, sorry. I’m swamped.” Peter went back to his desk, running his hands through his hair. “Besides work, my mother is throwing us an engagement party.”
“I know. Tara called Amanda. Amanda called me, and that’s why I shot over here. Thought you might want to vent.”
“Vent!” Peter clutched his hair in both hands. “It’s more like choke! Jake, I don’t have time for this—I have this budget to work on. I have to worry about restructuring, a zoning adjustment, and now a Statement of Intent to write! You had to see these guys. I had them at first. I thought, ‘No problem, I got this meeting.’ My plans were clearly what Mayor Fleming wanted; everybody loved them, even that Ryan guy who was in Architectural Digest and the Times. Then I messed up on the budget. They were waiting for me to tell them how I had calculated it, and I couldn’t.”
“Dude.” Jake was patting his mullet, trying to see his reflection in the glass wall. “You’ll work it out.”
“How is it everyone is so sure of me except me?” Peter turned to pace. “I’ve managed to mess up everything else. Why should this be any different?”
Jake paused. “You’re talking about Tara?”
“Truthfully—” Peter stopped to pick up the New Year’s Eve photo on his desk. “That’s the last thing I want to talk about right now.”
“Fine. I can see you’re upset. I just came to see if you wanted to grab lunch—”
There was a knock, and Peter crossed the office to sign a messenger’s sheet. He tore open the package. “I apologize, Jake. This is really important. It’s just the wrong time.”
“Yeah, it seems like the wrong time all the time, lately. The other night you didn’t have time to watch the game, yesterday you didn’t return my call, and now you can’t take a break for lunch. I get it.”
“Get what? It’s not about you.”
“I know. You have other things on your mind. Other people.”
“That’s not what I meant, Jake. Jake!” Peter turned, the half-opened package in his hand, but he was standing in the empty doorway watching Jake jog across the lobby toward the elevator.
Peter closed his door and dropped into his black leather chair. He stared at the New Year’s Eve photo Tara had had matted and framed for his desk. Then he put his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. After a moment, he opened his middle drawer and pulled out a small, shiny photo with crinkled edges and a dog-eared corner curling a bit. He stared into Maddy’s beautiful hazel eyes with their green flecks. She seemed to be staring back at him. She was turning in his arms and smiling, the sunny beach and their bright crumpled towels a blur behind them, as Peter—twenty years younger—extended his arm to snap the photo.
He rubbed her face with his thumb gently as though touching the outline of her face, and he closed his eyes again.