Dolly All the Time(59)

Henry’s looking at the numbers. “It will be a beautiful restoration. No doubt.”

“If we can get all the permitting done quickly, we could start before Thanksgiving,” Nick says.

“It could move to January,” Stewart says. “But not beyond that.”

“I assume you’re all okay with the numbers?” Henry asks, casually.

“We are,” Stewart says, less casually.

“Just seems like you’re going to an awful lot of trouble for not such a great return. Why do you all feel it’s worth the time?”

Stewart places both hands on the table and takes a moment before handing his dad the rendering of the restored buildings. “To make this,” he says. “To make some money, keep the lights on, as you say, while also preserving something beautiful and honoring the largely forgotten craftsmanship that went into building it all. It’s history we can keep walking through.”

Nick nods. “It’s going to do wonders for the neighborhoods around downtown.”

“Which none of us own,” Henry says.

“We don’t need to own everything,” Stewart says. There’s a bite to his voice.

Hillary says, “We’ve been through this at length with our board. Same conversation. Where we’ve landed is that this project is great for our reputation. What we’re not getting in stellar returns, we are definitely getting in goodwill.”

“Great,” Henry says. “Because that’s where we could all end up shopping.”

“Dad,” Stewart says, sharp.

The waiter comes with our food, giving us all a pause. I have fettuccine, and Stewart has ravioli. We remark on how lovely it all looks.

When he’s gone, Stewart goes on. “In the long term, we are all going to be proud of what we built. We’re giving people back their history and showing them the best of themselves.”

Henry doesn’t say anything. He’s just looking at Stewart.

“Have you ever been to Addie’s ice cream?” I ask Henry.

“Of course,” he says.

“It’s the old ice cream parlor in Whitfield,” I say to Nick and Hillary. “Small, with a hand-painted sign hanging on a rusty chain. When my brother was little, he got a chocolate cone there and the scoop fell off outside on the sidewalk. He was so upset, and my dad went in to get him another one. When he came out, he was carrying that huge banana split they sell, the one with the sparklers and the flags and everything? And my brother laughed so hard at the surprise of it all. It’s one of my happiest childhood memories, and when I pass by that old, shingled building with the bad yellow trim, I can still hear it. It’s like I walk right back into that moment, you know? I think Stewart likes doing that for people, by preserving the best of our old things.”

Henry looks at me for a beat. “My dad was the one who invented that sundae. He had a hard time convincing Addie to use the sparklers, but it was Ellen’s birthday and he was adamant.”

“Does Ellen still go there?” I ask.

“She does,” he says. “Every year on her birthday.”

“There you go,” I say. “I go back to Whitfield to see my family, but even if they weren’t there, I’d go to visit my memories.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say,” Stewart says, leaning back and placing his arm on the back of my chair. I feel him relax next to me, and the tips of his fingers graze my neck. “The movie theater alone feels like time travel. The original brass doors with the big glass panels and the marquee sign surrounded by incandescent bulbs. It’s a moment in time. The hand-carved wood. No one’s building that way anymore, so once it’s gone, it’s gone. It’s exactly the kind of thing your dad would have wanted to preserve.”

Henry says to Nick and Hillary, “I suppose you know Stewart drives a thirty-year-old car.”

“As soon as they build a better one, I’ll buy it,” Stewart says. He raises his glass to his dad with a smile. And then to Nick and Hillary, “I suppose you know my dad lives in a two-hundred-year-old house?”

Henry laughs. “All right, touché.”

“I’d love to see it sometime,” says Nick.

“We should have a closing dinner at Eight Oaks when this is done,” Stewart says. Everyone loves this idea, and they talk for a while about the timeline for moving forward. I’m wondering if they’ll serve lobster and if my dad will get the order when I have a sinking feeling that this closing dinner will happen in post-Dolly time. They’ll get together to celebrate, and Stewart will have that thirty-something model on his arm. There is no time to sulk over this, because Hillary is asking me where I live.

“Near Boston College,” I say.

“Oh, are you in education?”

“Well, yes. But not at Boston College. I teach kindergarten at Abigail Adams Elementary.” The name of the school lends, I hope, a little gravitas.

“Parking’s terrible around there,” Nick says.

“It is,” I say. I can feel the smile spread across my face. Finally, an area of my expertise. “But I use it to my advantage.” I lean in and tell them about my parking scheme. I actually use the word “arbitrage.”

“Seriously?” Stewart asks. “How did I not know this?”