Jack folded the letter into an envelope and tucked it into the rucksack that was packed and waiting by his feet. Pretty well everything that he owned now fitted into that one bag.
Taking a final, lingering look around the room that he had called his bedroom for the past week, Jack stood up, picked up the rucksack and made for the door. He picked up his only other possession, the box containing his grandfather’s war memorabilia, and slowly descended the stairs. A waft of cooking smells—coffee and bacon, he thought, drifted up to greet him.
Downstairs, he entered the kitchen. The conversation taking place at the table stopped and Mr Chipman, Michael and Laura all looked at him. He saw the same pity in their eyes as he had seen there every day since the fire.
Laura smiled. ‘Do you want some breakfast before we go?’
‘No, I’ll be okay—I’ll get something at the station,’ Jack replied.
‘Are you sure you want to go, Jack?’ Mr Chipman asked. ‘You know you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need.’
‘I know that, Mr Chipman, and thank you very much, but this is something I need to do.’
‘I understand, son.’
Michael cleared his throat. ‘The funeral is on the eighth of January…’
Jack nodded. ‘Alice said. I won’t be going, though.’
A long silence lingered in the room before Laura spoke. ‘Okay, do you want to get going?’
‘Yeah, I think so—don’t want to miss my bus.’
Mr Chipman and Michael rose from their chairs, meeting Jack part way across the kitchen. Michael pulled Jack into an embrace. ‘You take care out there. I’ll be over to see you in the next break.’
Jack held his best friend tightly, not wanting to let him go. He knew that he would never return to Cape Cod and only hoped that Michael was good to his word and came to see him. He broke away and moved into Mr Chipman’s outstretched arms.
‘It’s been real good having you around, Jack. It’s been a pleasure working with you and if you ever change your mind—your job will always be here. I mean that.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Same goes for your bedroom—it’ll always be here for you.’
‘I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Mr Chipman—really.’
‘Okay, enough of all this,’ Laura said, reaching for Jack’s hand. ‘Let’s get going.’
Mr Chipman and Michael stood on the porch and waved as Jack climbed into Laura’s car.
Laura turned to him with a smile, as she pulled out from the driveway. ‘You’re sure about this?’
‘Absolutely. Let’s go.’
‘And you don’t want to swing by to see Alice or—’
‘No,’ Jack interjected, as they drove past the end of Iyanough Avenue. His former home—still enclosed within a weave of police tape—had been reduced to an unsightly pile of unidentifiable rubble. His car, standing beside the house, had been damaged beyond repair. According to Alice, the fire department had managed to pull out a few bits and pieces, but nothing of his. She was still in hospital, suffering from first-degree burns and lacerations to her arms. With the fire raging, she had re-entered the house and had checked all the upstairs rooms for their dad. Then, she had somehow managed to drop down over the banisters to search their dad’s study. It had been there that she had almost succumbed to the smoke, before being rescued by firefighters and pulled out of the window moments before the house had collapsed. ‘He has to have been in the basement,’ she had said afterwards. And she had been right; his body—burned and crushed beyond all recognition—had been retrieved from the basement two days ago. An accident—that was where the investigation was so far pointing—possibly originating with the Christmas tree. But Jack knew better—he was certain that it had been started deliberately by their dad: the bigamist’s final act of cowardice, a sardonic ending for the lauded war veteran.
As they drove along Main Street, Jack’s eyes were drawn to Rory’s Store. He craned his neck as they drove past. The old man was standing outside, hands on his hips chatting to a customer—moaning, likely. Jack grinned. It was almost a year ago that he had stopped working there. So much had happened in the intervening months; he was a different person now, about to embark on a new life, leaving this one in Massachusetts behind.
With an ironic smirk, he realised that what he was about to do was the exact reverse of what his dad had done in 1950.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Laura asked.
Jack took a long breath as they entered the Mid-Cape Highway. ‘Just day-dreaming about life in San Francisco.’
‘It’s a big step, alright,’ Laura commented.
She was right: it was a massive step into the unknown. In an emotional phone call two days after the fire, he had spoken to his grandparents for the first time in his life. He was going to live with them, in the house in Cow Hollow in which his father had grown up. He planned to go back to college. And Laura, Michael and Alice had promised to come out to stay in the spring break.
They entered the Sagamore Bridge, leaving the Cape behind them. In front, was his future. ‘I’m ready.’
Chapter Twenty-One
27th August 2016, Boston Logan International Airport, Massachusetts,
