Page 122 of Sapphire Spring

Finally, they were escorted back to their cabins and allowedto shower before lunch.

Lunch with their families.

His father was there, sitting by himself in the clearing, dressedin his usual work outfit of pressed chinos and a dress shirt. Had he ironedthem himself at the motel? Something about this detail, the time and care ithad taken his old man, struck him with unexpected force. Mason started for him,relieved to see that none of the reunions around them seemed all that warm ortearful. Instead, he saw the quiet evidence of strained marriages and childrenalienated from their parents. If he and Pete didn’t exactly throw their armsaround each other, they’d fit right in. This was not a Navy ship returning toport after months at sea.

His father stood, and for what felt like an eternity, theyjust stared at each other.

“We’re going to eat lunch, I guess,” his father said.

Mason nodded.

“How’s the food?”

“Not terrible.”

Pete grunted. “Stellar review. Where’d they keep you guysthis morning?”

“Working.”

His father grimaced. “You haven’t been working.”

“Not the firm, Dad. On a set ofstairswe’re building.”

“Ah.Soit’s a labor camp too.”

“More like we work on our mind-body connection throughmanual labor. And…you know, it’s about contributing to something larger thanourselves.”

“Getting paying customers to make improvements to theproperty, you mean? Slick operation they got here.”

“That would be the dramatically nonspiritual way of lookingat it.”

Pete rolled his eyes and jerked his head in the direction ofthe meal hall. Some of the other residents and visitors had started shufflingthrough its propped-open double doors. Mason followed his dad inside. The shiftin mood between breakfast and lunch was remarkable. The place felt like alibrary now. No smiles, all whispers and deep thoughts, everybody sitting asafe distance apart as if they were terrified of being overheard.

His dad started eating like a famished horse, a sign he wasfighting nerves.

“That dude’s in the NHL.” Pete jerked his head in thedirection of a giant bruiser of a guy Mason only knew as John C. The guy hadshared tons of personal details about his marriage, but nothing about being apro athlete. Most of the guys at Pine Rise didn’t use last names, and Masonwasn’t a hockey fan.

“All right, well, don’t tell anyone you saw him here,” Masonsaid.

“Yeah, I’m just dying to talk about my time at this place.”

“Three days will be easier than thirty, I’m sure.”

“They didn’t have, like, a weekend package you could do?”

Mason shook his head. “What didyouguys do thismorning?”

“Some guy came in and talked to us about…” He twirled his forkin the air. “What you do here.”

“Tony?”

“Ponytail?”

Mason nodded.

“That’s the one.”

Another long silence.

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