Acknowledgements

Writing a book is a solitary endeavor. Publishing a book is a team effort. I would like to thank the following individuals who were such a critical part of my publishing team and who had a hand in making this book a reality. First and foremost, I want to thank my publishers at Eckhartz Press, Rick Kaempfer and Dave Stern, who are pursuing an evolutionary and refreshing approach to publishing in Chicago. It has been a pleasure to work with you and I will always be grateful for your dedication and unwavering support. I would also like to thank my editors, Kelly O’Connor McNees and Ashley McDonald, who helped me to polish and refine the words and sentences of my story. I do believe you can judge a book by its cover, and I want to thank Susan Rackish Janssen for painting such a poignant image, one that truly encapsulates the essence of the story. I also want to thank Siena Esposito and Vasil Nazar for their book interior and cover designs and for helping to pull it all together. I am so proud to be one of many published authors in Chicago, and I want to extend my gratitude to everyone who is involved in supporting our local writers. In particular, I want to thank Randy Richardson, President of the Chicago Writers Association, who has been a tireless friend and supporter of the Chicago writer. Lastly, I want to thank my wife and children for their endless love and total support of every new endeavor I pursue.

About the Author

Dan Burns has realized a successful career as a corporate executive, entrepreneur, educator, business owner, and now as a full-time writer.

Dan was born and raised in the Chicago area, where he currently works and resides with his family.

For more information on all of Dan’s writing projects, please visit www.danburnsauthor.com.

Photograph by Kate Burns

Recalled to Life is available at

www.eckhartzpress.com

CHAPTER 1

All the clock hands and timepiece gears and digital counters in the world became weary, slowed, then stopped altogether, if only for a moment. That’s how Peter O’Hara felt at this moment in time, on this special day. Standing alone under the shade of a blooming catalpa tree, the wind blowing calm and cool on a late spring afternoon, Peter was at peace.

If you were so inclined to be a half hour early for the release of students from the Briar Avenue Public School on this day, on the east side of Briar Avenue, directly in front of the main entrance, you would see him standing there, smiling and content. You wouldn’t think anything of the fact that he was standing there alone, and you would be as comfortable as he was. You would feel like you knew him and would be tempted to walk over and speak to him. The street would be silent, the landscape still, and you would feel like Peter did, lost in time.

Peter O’Hara was a captive of life and of his career, yet he was also a willing captive of his family and his son in particular. There was nothing more important to him than his family, but it often didn’t seem that way. He pledged to himself that no matter what life orchestrated on this particular day, he would turn it off, shut it out, say good-bye, and walk away. For, on this day, there was nothing that could, or would, stop Peter from picking up his son from school.

Nothing.

It was a Monday, and it was a fine and special day. Peter knew it, and his son would realize the significance of the day shortly. Peter had been planning the day for some time but had kept the details to himself. He was good at keeping secrets. As he stood in front of the school and waited, he felt better than he had ever felt in his life. Today he would reveal the secret, and it would certainly make one extraordinary little man very happy.

He had managed the routine for this day with expert care, leaving nothing to chance. In his schedule for the day, Peter made a point to get to the school at least an hour early. His primary motivation was to ensure that he would not be late, regardless of the circumstances or the traffic. When he was at the office, it seemed there was always someone who had an issue, a question, or a problem that only he could address, and no matter what time of the day or day of the year, the smartest people on the planet could not predict the traffic that would be waiting for him on his way from his office in downtown Chicago to the suburbs. He planned to leave the office at exactly one o’clock and knew that even with a few last-minute interruptions and a traffic jam of epic proportions, he could be at the school by three, guaranteed. His plan worked well. On this day the interruptions were few and the traffic was light. He arrived at the school a half hour early, which allowed him to enjoy the quiet time alone while he waited for his son. It was unusual, but for a brief moment he had not a care in the world.

From his vantage point, Peter viewed the full expanse of the neighborhood grade school. He had missed the sight of the building and was glad that he was back. It was last year that his son Jake had asked if he could ride the school bus with his friends, thereby eliminating the need for Peter and his wife to juggle the drop-off and pick-up schedules. Jake said he wanted some independence—a statement coming from an eight-year-old. Peter smiled as he thought of it. He and his wife had struggled with the decision, wanting to give Jake his independence but also wanting to keep him close and protected. They agreed to give it a try, and neither he nor his wife had been back to pick Jake up since. Though Peter missed the car rides with his son, the decision worked out well, and work quickly filled the void.

Peter appreciated the architecture of the building. He studied its lines and imagined the craft of the artisans who had laid the brick and stone some eighty years ago. The bricks were dark, reddish-brown, and rough-edged, set in a natural mortar and accented by blocks of ancient limestone at every edge and opening. He looked at the building, searching for a message from the architect who designed it. The building captivated him, the form and structure pulling him in. The school grounds surrounding the massive building were manicured and quiet, providing Peter a solitary refuge. He looked on, lost in his thoughts, aware of nothing but the building and the quiet surroundings.

If you were at the school to pick up your son or daughter on this day, you would likely have noticed Peter. He was in his late thirties, slim and fit, and his shoulder-length hair was raven-colored. He smiled with little effort and looked relaxed while he waited, and though you might not be able to pinpoint why, you would likely want to find out who he was. His gaze was thoughtful and inquisitive, fixed at a point along the roofline of the school. He looked like a cross between a successful artist and a CEO, a fitting description since he was a senior architect and associate partner at one of the leading architectural firms in the country. He definitely looked the part. Most noticeable was his standard-issue uniform, which was unlike what most of the other parents were wearing as they arrived. His perfectly tailored suit hung on him like fine drapery, and his shirt was a blinding white. He took creative liberty with his tie selections, yet they always contributed to the overall palette and presentation. He was of average height, but he stood tall and prominent, much like the buildings he designed.

After waiting just a short time, Peter’s solitude was broken when his phone beeped. It was a muffled and barely audible sound, but it got his attention. He sighed, looked at his watch indifferently, and ran a hand through his hair. He thought about his next move, and his body tensed. Any remaining trace of his smile faded. He thought for a few seconds more then reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the phone, and pressed a button. Peter listened to a voice message that seemed to go on much too long. He became agitated, a brief Jekyll and Hyde moment. He hung up, shook his head in disgust, and returned his gaze to the building, hoping to forget the message and the interruption altogether. He took a deep breath and straightened. After a few minutes, the transformation reversed itself, and he was calm again.

The school was situated in the center of town, bordered on four sides by established, tree-lined residential streets. As the end of the school day neared, the streets came alive with the rush and roar of a crowd, as though an enormous floodgate had been opened at one end. The school was a high-powered magnet, drawing people in from every corner of town for the daily ritual. The once-empty streets became crowded with parked and idling cars filled with waiting parents, grandparents, and babysitters

Peter heard the faint sound of a bell ringing from inside the school. His heart quickened much in the same way that it had when he had been a student there himself, knowing that freedom was just a moment away. As if on cue, the front doors opened wide, and children spilled out, a flood of arms waving, legs sprinting, and countless voices ringing out at elevated pitches. Quiet changed to pandemonium. Children ran everywhere, car engines started, and parents emerged as if from nowhere. He looked around and noticed for the first time the deluge of cars that had gathered in the streets.

He found himself in a swarm of anxious bystanders and looked out of place. He didn’t notice. Instead, he focused on the main doorway of the school, straining over the mass of heads gathered in front of him. Where did they all come from? he wondered. Most of the other parents were on their phones and talking with an unnecessary level of aggression and volume, like they were in the midst of preventing the launch of a nuclear weapon. Many had bags over their shoulders containing the requisite gear for their child’s after-school activities. Peter was free of such an anchor. They all seemed overly restless and looked at their watches time and again, as though there was absolutely no second to spare. Their modus operandi was simple: get the kid, shove a snack in his mouth, hurry him into the car, and speed off to whatever was next. It looked exhausting.

In order to maintain his line of sight, Peter swayed back and forth between the bouncing people lined up in front of him. He spotted his son Jake as he exited the building and waved a hand to get his attention. Jake noticed and sprinted toward his smiling father, weaving with swift determination through a maze of parents and other children. He did his best to squeeze through the numerous human barricades without touching anyone. He made his way to his father and stopped short in front of him.

Surprised, Jake leaned in closely while looking around, as if someone might be listening. “Dad, what are you doing here?”

“It’s nice to see you too,” Peter said. “I thought I would surprise you.”

Jake looked at him curiously. “A surprise?”

Peter had him hooked. It was that simple. “How would you like to go see Grandpa?”

Jake’s eyes opened wide, and his face beamed with excitement. “Really? You mean it?” His mouth remained open, and his eyebrows peaked as he waited for an answer.

“I mean it. It’s time.” Peter took Jake’s backpack, put his arm around his shoulder, and navigated him through the maze of people as they hurried to the car.

For the next twenty minutes, Peter and Jake drove down a seemingly endless patchwork of whispering and peaceful tree-lined streets. If you weren’t from the area, you would think that all the streets looked very much the same. Each had two lanes with well-established oak trees at both sides of the curb that rose up and connected in the form of a grand arch forty feet above the street. The houses, representative of an earlier century, were moderate, colorful, and cherished. Most were set back fifty feet on unassuming lots. Children played in the front yards, riding bikes, chasing dogs, and letting go of all the pent up energy that still remained from earlier in the day and the previous winter. Yes, you would think that all the streets looked the same, and you would realize that is how it was meant to be. You would think it would be a nice place to live.

As he drove, Peter’s expression was serious and fixed and contemplative, although he wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. The first part of the plan had gone better than he had expected; his mind was on a break, enjoying the intermission. He was glad to be in the car, sitting next to his son in quiet confines away from the madness in front of the school. He was conscious only of the roadway and its many signs and distractions, and the second part of the plan eluded him for the moment.

Sitting next to him, Jake was quiet, looking out the side window at the world passing him by. He was eight years old and small for his age. The circumstance of his current height didn’t bother him, except for the few times he got pushed around at school. He knew it was just a matter of time until the forces of biology and heredity kicked in and elevated your stature. Those were his father’s words, not his, but he still believed them. Jake wore jeans, gym shoes, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a sleeveless vest. Atop his head was his favorite Red Sox baseball cap that his father had bought for him years ago on a business trip through Boston. The team was a good thousand miles away, but Jake claimed it was his team. He wore the hat even though it was a stark contradiction to the Cubs or Sox hats that his friends wore. He had the same dark hair as his father, yet by all other accounts you would not know they were related. He had big, green eyes and a small and slender nose.

A thin scar was visible above his left eye. The scar was an add-on feature obtained at a friend’s birthday party two years ago when he was a bit too eager to rush in for the candy while one of the boys was still swinging wild at an un-dead piñata. He had a reserved and wondrous quality to him, keeping to himself more times than not while always observing with a keen eye the life that transpired around him. Jake seemed not to have a single concern, and at the same time you could tell that he cared, a trait most evident in the way he looked at something. He was conscientious, thoughtful, and considerate. You could see all of that in his eyes, an unusual and uncanny quality for an eight-year-old. He stared out the car window and took in the sights and sounds around him.

“I called your mother to let her know we wouldn’t be home until dinner,” Peter said.

Jake appeared not to hear and said nothing. There was nothing more that needed to be said. A slight smile formed at the corner of his mouth as he continued his gaze out the window.

They drove on in comfortable silence as they made their way to the other side of town.

As they arrived at their destination, Peter pulled the car over to the curb and shut off the engine. Jake unbuckled his seatbelt and was out of the car before Peter could say a word. Peter got out and joined Jake on the sidewalk where they stood side by side, looking up to a grand, pillared entryway. Set atop two stone columns made of stacked nineteenth-century granite and looming fifteen feet above the ground was an arch of intricate and distressed ironwork, across which, in block lettering, THE SHADY ACRES HOME was displayed. Jake stared at the sign in wonder. He turned to his father, who nodded back to him. Peter put his arm around Jake, and they walked through the entryway and up a long brick-paved driveway.

In the distance was a massive, ivy-covered, red brick building. It looked imposing and stately, like it might have housed the founding fathers. The chipped, faded green, slate roof had weathered a thousand pounding storms, and the rain that flowed down its slopes had been captured by copper gutters with a veined patina you would think had been brushed on by the meticulous hand of an artist. The painted trim of the building was cracked but intact, its original light beige color bleached white from the harsh sun. You might think the building had seen better days. Possibly the better days were yet to come.

The building rested amid a primeval stand of trees, mostly red and white oaks that towered over and shadowed the struggling maples, and there were a few black walnut gems interspersed in an arbitrary pattern. The forest was untouched and unspoiled by man, greed, and the need for change, the only exception being a simple network of crushed stone walking paths that allowed for casual navigation through the ten-acre property.

At the end of the drive, they came to a stairway that led up to the building’s entrance. There were only five cement steps, but they went off some ten feet in each direction. Collectively they were large enough to hold a fair-sized choir. The steps were worn at the center from the visitors of the last century, and Peter and Jake added to the wear as they ascended the stairs. They entered the front door of the building and walked into an open, high-ceilinged room flooded with daylight. The windows were bare, the light was harsh, and the cream marble floors contrasted with the dark and aged woodwork. Their footsteps echoed in the empty room, one that could accommodate a museum exhibit. Directly ahead of them was a massive, wood desk that stood four feet high, behind which a young man in a security uniform sat. In a different building you might think you were standing before a judge arguing your parking ticket. The young man behind the desk was Sam Cartwright, a local college student, twenty years old with reddish-brown hair flattened by the day’s stress. His complexion reflected years of struggle with acne and adolescence. His single-issue blue security guard shirt hadn’t been pressed in a while, and its cleanliness was questionable.

Peter and Jake approached the desk.

“Well, good afternoon, Mr. O’Hara,” Sam Cartwright said.

Peter was slightly distracted by the unusual music coming from an unidentified source, but he reacted to the booming voice, a voice that didn’t match the face from which it came. “Oh, hi, umm,” was all Peter could muster and his words trailed off.

Sam stood up behind the desk, and with a pleasing and overly accommodating demeanor he said, “The name’s Sam, Sam Cartwright. I was here when you came to visit last week.” He looked and waited, hoping for a sign, any sign, of recognition.

Peter remembered their last meeting and at the same time felt the young man should sit down and relax. “Of course. It’s nice to see you again. Sam, this is my son, Jake. He’s here to visit his grandfather.”

Sam smiled with confidence and conviction and rested his hands on his hips like he owned the place. “Hi, Jake. Have you been here before?” Sam was trying too hard, and though he didn’t know it, he was wasting his time.

Jake didn’t even realize that the young man was speaking to him. He looked up and all around, scouting and surveying the room and taking it all in. His nose twitched, and he made a face. Something didn’t smell quite right.

“This is his first time here,” Peter said.

“Well, Jake, welcome to Shady Acres,” Sam said.

Jake was preoccupied, on a mission of his own. He grabbed his father’s hand, turned, and started walking.

Peter held firm and pulled him back. “Hey, wait a minute. I need to sign the guest log.” He scribbled on a sheet of paper fastened to a clipboard then slid the clipboard across the counter toward Sam. “Thanks. We know where we’re going.”

Peter took Jake by the hand and led him down a very long, dimly lit, deserted hallway. There were framed, painted portraits of old, stone-faced men and women along each wall, and Jake likely felt that the oil and canvas caretakers dated back to prehistoric times. Jake glanced at a few of them with an inquiring eye as he tried to make sense of their relevance, but he lost interest quickly. He had something else on his mind. Sam watched them both as they disappeared around the corner at the end of the hall.

They walked in a U-shaped pattern around the building and came to a stop at the room marked 146. Between them, the tarnished brass numerals were visible on the closed door. Peter looked at Jake. His side profile reflected concern and caution. Jake turned to his father. His eyes grew wide as he smiled, brimming with excitement. Peter couldn’t remember that last time Jake was so excited. They nodded to each other.

Peter knocked and, without waiting, opened the door wide. The heavy slab creaked on its hinges. They stood for a moment and looked in on an unassuming room, small and brightly lit by the afternoon sun through the three large windows that made up the wall opposite the door. The room was furnished with antiques from various eras with little concern for matching styles. A full-sized bed and a single night stand, both made of dark mahogany, were flush against the right wall. To the left, there was a simple, oak dresser in a natural and much lighter finish, on top of which a dusty television sat. The faint sound of classical music came from a large, floor-model radio in the near corner. You could almost hear the radio tubes humming. In front of the windows was a high-backed chair with only the back visible.

They walked into the room with trepidation in their steps. Peter grabbed hold of two wooden folding chairs that leaned against the wall behind the door. He reached back to close the door, and they proceeded to the chair by the window. They were conscious of the sound their footsteps made on the hard, parquet floor; the wood creaked under the pressure of their weight. They came around the side of the chair to find an old man looking with fixed eyes to the afternoon scene unfolding outside.

The old man was Jack O’Hara, Peter’s father. He sat, motionless, save a barely noticeable rising of his chest. His head was leaned back and to the right against the high wing-back of the chair, and his eyeglasses rested halfway down the bridge of his nose. His mouth was closed, and his dry lips barely connected. He was breathing softly, the air whistling through his nostrils. He had not noticed that anyone had entered his room.

Peter unfolded the chairs in front of Jack and arranged them to his liking. He stepped forward, leaned down, and kissed his father on the forehead. “Hey, Pop. It’s Peter.” He straightened and stepped back as Jake made his way forward, timid.

“It’s alright,” Peter said.

“Hi, Grandpa,” Jake said, the words catching in his throat as they came out. He seemed to think about saying it again but held back. He extended an arm slowly and touched his grandfather on the arm. He reacted with surprise at how soft and warm the skin felt. Jake stood there for a long moment, looking and wondering.

Peter and Jake sat down, their backs to the windows and facing Jack, who hadn’t moved. He was quiet and unaware of their presence. Jake really wasn’t sure what to do, so he rested his folded hands in his lap and chewed his bottom lip.

Peter reached over and placed a hand on Jake’s knee. “It’ll be all right,” he said. Calm and collected, Peter got up to take off his suit jacket. He hung it on the back of his chair then sat back down. In a voice that was louder than necessary, he said, “Pop, remember the last time I was here, I told you I was being considered for that associate partner position?” He waited a few seconds, although he didn’t expect a response. “Well, I found out today that I got it.”

Jake snapped his head toward his father. “You got a new job? Why didn’t you tell me? Do you get a new office? Did you get a raise?” He struggled to get all of the words out at once as he bounced up and down on his chair.

Jack said nothing and remained motionless.

Peter put his hand back on Jake’s knee. “Take it easy. I just found out myself, and yes to the office and the raise.”

“I bet that pud, Marc, is disappointed,” Jake said with unexpected conviction.

“Pud? Who taught you to talk like that?”

“You,” Jake said sheepishly.

Peter smiled, somewhat proud, but glad that his wife wasn’t around. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop listening to me?”

Jake grinned, and his pride in his father returned. “Dad, tell me what happened.”

“Well, there’s not much to say. There were three of us being considered over the last year, and they really seemed to like my last design. You remember. I showed you.”

Jake searched his memory vault. “I remember. The Murphy Building?”

“The Murray Building.”

“Yeah, the Murray Building, that’s what I said.”

Peter grinned. “Anyway, the partners spoke to the customers I worked with and got a lot of great comments. The partners like happy customers. They bring more business to the firm.”

“And... ” Jake said, leaning in and wanting more. “What else?”

“That’s about it. I got the news this morning.” Peter explained it to Jake with the same enthusiasm he would show if he had just won two dollars on a lottery ticket—no big deal. He had planned for the promotion and had expected it for so long that it was a little anticlimactic.

That wasn’t the case with Jake, who was wide-eyed, smiling, and still squirming in his seat.

Jack was a wax figure in his chair.

As though flipping a switch, Jake changed the topic. He got comfortable and suddenly couldn’t contain his excitement any longer. He moved forward in his chair and leaned in to talk to his grandfather. “Grandpa, I have to tell you about the game-winning hit I made last week.” He looked at his grandfather’s face and waited for a sign. Nothing.

He turned to his father and looked for a sign.

“It’s okay,” Peter said. “It’s a good story, and I’m sure he’s listening.”

Jake turned back, scratched an itch behind his ear, and continued. “Uh, it was the bottom of the ninth, two outs, man on third, the game tied. It was my turn to bat, and... ah... I was a little nervous.” He got up to show his stance, holding an imaginary bat and digging his worn gym shoes into the wood tiles to secure his footing. The rubber sole against the clean floor made a loud screeching noise, and Jake looked around to see if anyone noticed. He looked to his father, who shrugged.

Jake pulled up his pants by the belt loops and built momentum as he continued, “The coach told me to swing away at the first pitch, and that’s what I did.” He swung his imaginary bat through the air. “POW! Right up the middle, and our man on third scored to win the game.” He raised his arms and ran in a small circle around the chairs. “Wooooo,” he hollered. He gave his father a high-five then stopped to look at his grandfather, who showed no reaction at all. Undeterred and still smiling from his game-winning hit, Jake sat down.

Peter was glad to hear the story again and to see it told with such animation. Jake never talked much about baseball, his team, or the games he played in, so this was a treat. This was the first time he actually saw Jake’s pride in the fact that he played the game. Jake’s love of being outdoors and his effort far exceeded any natural athletic ability. It seemed like he saw baseball simply as a game, as something to do, but that didn’t bother Peter. It certainly didn’t bother Jake. They both just wanted it to be fun.

Over the next hour, Peter and Jake took turns telling their stories to Jack. They covered topics like work, school, Mom, favorite meals, sports, and planned activities for the summer. As Peter prepared for his next revelation, he leaned in toward Jack and looked into his blank stare. While Peter spoke, Jake looked on with his chin resting on folded hands. They both watched Jack closely for any sign of contact, of life. When Peter spoke, he became quite animated in his storytelling, arms waving and hands gesturing for effect. Jake watched his father as though he was the greatest storyteller ever.

Jake got another turn and stood up. “Grandpa, do you want to hear about the fish I caught?” This time he didn’t wait for an answer. “Dad took me to the lake, a, a while ago.” He couldn’t remember exactly when, and he looked to his father, confused.

“Last year.”

“Last year?” Jake said, surprised it was that long ago. “Anyway, you should have seen it—it was a monster!” With words and gestures, Jake told his grandfather about the monster fish. He showed how he set the hook, lifting hard on his imaginary fishing rod, then showed how he fought the fish in a battle of wills. When the fight was over and Jake was victorious, he held his hands up eighteen inches apart to show the size of the catch. Peter and Jake both smiled with pride.

The stories completed, they sat quietly and looked at Jack.

Jack looked straight through and past them with no movement and no emotion.

On his last birthday, Jack had turned seventy years old. He looked eighty. He had lost most of his hair except for two small, cotton ball patches of wispy, white strands above each ear. He had more hair on his eyebrows and coming out of his nose and ears. His face was pale, and his skin was blotchy. Though he was clean-shaven and looked fresh, he appeared uncomfortable, slouched in his chair as he gazed over the top of his eyeglasses. He wore a pressed, collared, white shirt that seemed to have been aged from the sun. It hung loosely on him and was tucked into dark slacks, with the waistband material bunched up under a tight belt. The whistling breath through his nostrils had softened to just a whisper, and his eyes were lost and watery.

Peter sighed, stood up, and folded his chair. “Well, I think it’s time to go. Can you help me with that chair?”

Jake rose, folded his chair, and followed his father to put it back behind the door.

As they walked back toward Jack, Peter said, “Jake, I know it seems like Grandpa’s out of it, but he can’t help it.”

“It’s okay,” Jake said. “I just like talking to him.”

“You know, I truly believe that he can hear everything we’re saying. I don’t know why or how; it’s just a feeling I have. That’s why I come here. I need to keep him updated on everything that’s going on so that when he’s ready to come home, it will be like he never left.”

Jake shrugged in agreement. “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” Peter said, realizing that wasn’t quite accurate but not wanting to worry his son any further. He walked back around in front of Jack, leaned down, and kissed his father’s forehead. “I’ll see you later, Pop. I’ll be back next week.”

“Me too?” Jake asked.

“We’ll see,” Peter said as he stepped back.

Jake stepped up and leaned forward to hug Jack, squeezing his arms in behind Jack’s neck. He pulled himself forward and, while leaning, he rested his forehead against the chair back, which kept him from falling onto Jack and that put them cheek to cheek with each other. Jake whispered softly into his grandfather’s ear as his father looked on. Then he released his grip and stood upright.

Without saying anything further, they both turned and walked out of the room.

Peter and Jake exited the building and stopped momentarily at the top of the steps. They looked out at the wooded landscape, at nothing in particular. Peter took Jake by the hand, and they descended the steps and walked back down the stone driveway.

Peter said, “What did you whisper to Grandpa?”

“Uh, oh, nothing. I just said good-bye, that’s all.”

Peter didn’t believe him. “Just good-bye, huh?”

They both smiled and walked hand in hand down the long driveway.

Halfway to the car, Jake stopped and looked up at his father. “Thanks, Dad, for bringing me here.”

“It was time,” Peter said. “I’m sorry it couldn’t have been sooner.”

“That’s okay.”

“You know, Grandpa is family, and in the end that’s all we’ve got.” After the words were spoken, Peter thought it sounded a little deep and wondered if Jake understood.

Jake thought about it for a moment. “Yep, family’s all we got,” he said, trying to sound like his father.

They both smiled, happy and content, lost in the moment. Jake stepped forward and hugged his father tightly. Peter gave him a firm squeeze and looked down at him. “C’mon, we don’t want to keep Mom waiting.”

Jake reluctantly loosened his grip and stepped back. He took his father by the hand, and they walked on through the pillared entryway, got back into their car, and drove away.

It was a day that would remain fresh and significant in their memories for the rest of their years.

The following morning, Peter made his pilgrimage downtown as he did on most days. If he left by seven, he could be at the office by eight-thirty at the latest. If he left later, his arrival time was anyone’s guess. He enjoyed the solitude of the drive, even if it was for just a short time. His car was his refuge, and though it was eight years old, it was reliable and comfortable. He drove in silence when he wanted to, yet the stereo could accommodate his love for pure and clear classical music at a volume only he could tolerate. He was the only one in the family who cared for that type of music, and his car was his orchestra hall.

Peter’s favorite perk from the firm was his reserved parking space in the garage next door to the office building where he worked. It was a big deal to him because the parking garage was always full, and his space was on the first floor, just as he pulled in, which saved him from the dizzying turns he would have to take to try to find a spot on a higher floor. He was always trying to save a minute whenever he could, and the parking space was a real time saver. He parked the car and was out of the garage in under a minute, walking the half-block down Michigan Avenue to the office building.

The entrance was clearly marked with a marble slab chiseled with JACKSON, PARKER & FINCH, ARCHITECTS. The building was a contemporary work of art, combining brushed steel with blue and silver glass panels. It was sleek, straight, and perfect, rising twenty stories into the downtown skyline. It wasn’t the tallest building, but it was one of the most striking, exhibiting an exquisite grace in a field under pressure to build bigger and taller.

Once he came out of the garage and hit the sidewalk, Peter was all business. It wasn’t a conscious effort but felt more like he was on autopilot. Peter approached the entry of the building with a quickened pace and a definite sense of direction. He disappeared into the revolving doors without missing a stride.

He rode the high-tech elevator up to the twentieth floor and felt the ride up to heaven would likely be just as smooth. Jackson, Parker & Finch resided on the top three floors of the building. They had that right, since they had designed, financed, and constructed the building. Aside from the first floor, which accommodated a variety of small retail shops and a reserved but sleek promenade, the remaining floors were filled with numerous businesses and professional offices, all of which paled in comparison to the success and prestige of the firm.

Peter exited the elevator, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit made of a wool fabric the color of night. He checked his appearance as he stepped out, and though he was hurried, he felt confident and focused, ready to accept the new day as a fresh start. He walked past an empty reception desk and down a long aisle, greeting several early-starters along the way. There were only a dozen workers on the floor at that time of the morning, but there was already a buzz of activity.

The aisle was bordered by continuous rows of half-wall cubicles in a palette of muted earth-tone fabrics and finishes. In some of the cubicles, the tops of heads were visible. The office area was decorated like an art gallery. The walls were lined with a collection of exquisitely framed artwork of colored angles, unconventional lines, and renderings of commercial buildings of all shapes and sizes. Delicately illuminated by recessed and obscured spotlights, the creations were displayed to spur creativity and to serve as an exhibition of the firm’s best work. The open space was naturally bright from the light coming in through the spotless glass walls, and every visible surface was free of even the slightest hint of dust.

As Peter reached the end of the aisle, he passed his assistant, April, who occupied the cubicle just outside of his office. She always made a point to be at the office before he arrived, and Peter liked that about her. It seemed that whenever he needed something, anything, she was there for him. Peter thought of her as a miracle-worker, able to somehow navigate through the daily administrative, political, and logistical barricades with swift and effective dignity. She was good at her job, and every day Peter tried to let her know that he appreciated her efforts, one way or another. She had auburn, curly, shoulder-length hair and was petite. She had perfect ivory teeth, and her skin resembled fine china.

“Good morning,” Peter said as he came around her cubicle-desk and faced her.

“Good morning, Peter. Say, Mr. Parker just stopped by looking for you.”

Peter grinned. “Mr. Parker? His name is Tim. We grew up in the same neighborhood, for Christ’s sake. Remember? And I thought we dispensed with all the formality a long time ago. How long have we been working together anyway?”

“I know. I’m sorry, but he makes me call him Mr. Parker. He said he would be back in a few minutes.”

The door to his office was open, and Peter turned and walked in while April was still talking. He seemed to do that often without realizing he was being rude. It would have annoyed April if anyone else had done that to her, but with Peter she let it go. He looked at his watch as he approached his desk, behind which was a wall of windows from waist height to ceiling. Beyond the glass was a view of the perfect downtown cityscape, a unique amalgam of brick, concrete, steel, and glass set before the perfect, blue-green backdrop of Lake Michigan. The sky was clear, blue, and perfect, and Peter stood there looking out and realizing how lucky he was.

He set his briefcase down and looked for something on his desk. It was the desk of a busy person, meaning that it was messy. There were rolled-up drawings, piles of documents to review, and stacks of unread books, many of which he might never get to. It wasn’t like him, the messiness, but he just couldn’t keep up with everyone who came in and left something. He couldn’t keep up with the stuff he left. Someday, he would have to allocate a few extra hours to catch up and put a system in place to control it all. Someday.

After a few seconds of looking around, Peter became frustrated. He shouted, “April, do you have any idea where the Gattling proposal is?”

“It’s over on the work table, lower-left corner,” she shouted back, like she knew the question was coming.

Peter looked from where he was standing and immediately spotted it. He walked to the work table, picked it up, and leafed through the first few pages.

While he read, Tim Parker entered his office, walking in like he owned the place. Tim was the boss, one of the partners of the firm, and he dressed the part. He looked at the suit Peter was wearing, noticed a slight resemblance, and seemed to pout. His short hair was perfectly parted, not a single hair out of place. Its color was too dark and unusual to be natural.