Page 63 of The Night We Lost Him

“Well, it’s not a lot more complicated,” he says. “Everyone who was around him saw it. The joy when he was on a project site, his singular focus when there was a new property opening. Even when he was just in the office… All I’m saying is, you can feel it. When someone comes alive. That’s when Dad would always feel the most alive.”

I stare at Sam, feeling weird suddenly. Had I missed it entirely, what Sam had somehow been able to see?

Sam’s hands are tight on the steering wheel. The car still in park.

“He’s not wrong about the other thing, either,” Sam says. “Tommy…”

“What other thing?”

“I haven’t been myself lately,” he says. “You want to know why?”

“If I say no, will it hurt your feelings?”

“Very funny. I have something I want to show you.”

“No thank you.”

“It’s a bit of a detour if I’m being honest.”

“This is getting worse.”

Which is when he turns on the ignition and puts the car in drive.

* * *

We cross over the Hudson River and drive for a little over an hour until we hit the city of Kingston.

Upper Kingston. Which looks more than a little like it belongs in a movie set, especially with the winter lights, the holiday decorations still up.

Kingston was the first capital of New York State, and the architecture is locked into that history with this incredible mix of colonial stone cottages, colorful buildings, wrought iron balconies. The world of it so interesting and unique despite the fact that I was driven here against my will.

As soon as we pass through the town center, everything around us gets more rural again—shuttered farm stands, weeping willows, and RVs taking over the landscape.

Sam pulls over to the side of the road beside a wide-open farm, donning fruit orchards and tree-lined hilltops. A silver crest over the driveway entrance reads FITZGERALD-GROVE STONE FRUIT.

“Why are we stopping?” I ask.

Sam motions out the windshield. “This was originally where Dad wanted to build The Acres,” he says. “The Fitzgerald farm.”

“Okay…”

“Two hundred and eighty acres, the most beautiful sugar maple trees, three different kinds of orchard fruit. Apples, peaches, cherries. And when I tell you it’s the best peach you’ve ever tasted, I’m not lying.”

“What’s happening right now?”

“I’m the one who found the farm. After months of looking at eighty farms up and down the Hudson Valley,” he says, “I came up here to try and secure the sale of the property and the family wasn’t particularly interested, which is typical at first, but most of the time they come around when they hear how Dad organizes his property buys. Eighty percent of the land is preserved, guaranteed. We keep a small working farm on-site, which they can manage if they want. And, of course, they can stay in their house. We build out five acres for them to have forever. So they aren’t being asked to leave or relocate. Plus, they have more money than a lifetime of tending to the whole place could give them.”

He pauses.

“Their daughter, who lived on property, she’s a lawyer and she came around fairly quickly, but she had other siblings who just really weren’t into it, so ultimately the family declined. But that’s how we got to know each other.”

“I’m not following.”

“Taylor. I’m talking about Taylor. This is her family’s farm.”

I turn to look at him. “Your ex-girlfriend?”

“That’s not even the craziest part. We’d met before that. Taylor and me. We met back when I was coaching baseball up at Hotchkiss. The school rules were that all the coaches also had to teach a class, so I was teaching this science elective on the psychology of sports. Which basically was me explaining to a bunch of juniors how to stay mentally tough on and off the field.”

---