Boston, Massachusetts
December 1966
John Reardon paused mid-handshake so photographers could capture the moment. The director of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, Perry Rathbone, had one hand in his and the other on John’s forearm, giving an enthusiastic pump while the architect for the new wing, Hugh Stubbins, looked on. The smell of sulfur from the flashbulbs hung in the air as the men filled the space in the center of the grand rotunda, surrounded by serene John Singer Sargent frescos.
Perry Rathbone gestured toward the entrance. If you’ll follow me, Mr. Reardon, we can head out to the groundbreaking ceremony.”
John clapped him on the back. “I’m not funding the new addition, Perry. I’m simply helping to fill it.”
“What good is a new wing without the art?” he replied.
“True.” John extended his hand to his wife who appeared by his side. “We all need beauty in our lives.”
Bridget blushed in a way that took him back to that hospital waiting room where he first laid eyes on her thirty-five years ago. He gave her hand a squeeze.
“Come. You’ve done your work here.” Bridget pulled him away from the group. “Eoghan, Peggy, and our granddaughter are coming for dinner, and I invited your brother and Dorcas and Patrick.”
“Lovely.” John moaned. “An evening of spoiling Imogen will be ruined by Dorcas’s constant complaining that Patrick can’t find a wife.”
“He’s not getting any younger. It’s past time he settled down.” Bridget commented absently.
“I fear for the woman that would have him. That boy has been in trouble since he was old enough to walk.”
“If he could stay out of jail for ten minutes, he’d have a lot more luck.” She agreed.
“Last I heard he and a few ne’er do wells have been casing the First National Bank on Commonwealth Avenue. The manager already called the cops about them. Eejits. Never thought I’d see the day when I actually wished my nephew was running with Whitey Bulger and his Winter Hill Gang.”
“A bank robbery’ll get him sent up to Concord for a good long stretch. Can’t Seamus set him straight?”
“Seamus has his head in the bottle. Buddy McClean sent him packing just like Whitey Bulger did to Patrick. Dorcas hasn’t been livin’ with her sister for a year because all’s right in the world.”
John sighed and repeated the thought that haunted him. “Two brothers with all the same blessings, all the same advantages and disadvantages, all the same dreams. How–”
Bridget stopped him on the empty sidewalk with a hand to his chest. “Don’t.” She kissed him gently. “You can’t keep wondering about things you can’t answer. You did everything you could for your brother. You do everything you can for him. For Patrick. For Dorcas. You can’t keep asking God why you were the lucky one. You just were.”
“I don’t have to ask God. The answer is in my arms.”
Bridget sighed. “Maybe Eoghan and the girls will stay the night and we can all go to mass together in the morning. I feel the need to thank the Good Lord for my blessings.”
“I suppose we owe Father Michael a visit. I have a container ship coming in tomorrow evening. Nothing too important though.”
“Then it’s settled.” Bridget withdrew from her husband’s embrace, and they continued down the sidewalk.