Return of the Wild Son

Seeing no point in answering truthfully, Nate swallowed the first symptom of indigestion and said, “Just fine, Carlo.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder to the restaurant entrance. “I am kind of in a hurry, though.”

“Sure, I understand. Isn’t everybody in this town?” Carlo jogged across the circular drive, the keys jangling in his hand, and zigzagged through a maze of vehicles.

Nate needed Carlo to return with his car before Brendan Willis and his associate finished the last of their pricey merlot and came outside. It was bad enough that Nate had paid the hundred-and-fifty-dollar lunch tab. He didn’t need another helping of condescension.

And he’d been so confident this time. He’d chosen Willis’s Boneyard Films as the perfect production company for his latest screenplay after the big studios had turned him down. Boneyard’s innovative producer was getting his name in print in Variety and Entertainment Weekly .

Still, Boneyard was a small independent, which meant Willis should have jumped at the chance to sign a Nathaniel Shelton script.

Now, an hour-and-a-half lunch later, Nate was fairly certain that even though the producer had agreed to read the script, their collaboration was going nowhere.

“I’ll call you in a week or so,” Brendan had said.

A week or so? Nate was used to getting offers an hour after dropping off his work. Of course, that was before he’d produced three flops in a row. But he was an award-winning writer, for Pete’s sake, though most of the power brokers in this town seemed to have forgotten that accomplishment.

His steel-gray BMW pulled up to the curb and Carlo jumped out. “You have a good day, Mr. Shelton,” he said. Nate pressed a modest tip in the guy’s hand and drove off.

He headed toward his Beverly Hills condo. With the weekend ahead of him, he had to regroup, study the latest industry news journals and come up with another production company to pitch his latest project to. This was a big town, with countless possibilities, and Nate was a hell of a writer. No need to panic—yet.

The ringing of his cell phone jerked him back in his seat. He hit the speaker button and snapped, “Shelton.”

“Nathaniel?”

At the sound of the gravelly voice, his heart constricted. “Dad? Is everything okay?”

“It’s better than okay.”

“Why, what’s happened?”

“I didn’t tell you before, son, because I didn’t know what the parole board would decide.”

“What are you talking about?” Nate’s father had been incarcerated twenty years of a twenty-four-year sentence. Was parole possible this soon for a second-degree murder conviction? Nate knew his father had only been before the board one other time.

“I didn’t get my hopes up,” Harley said. “Guys are almost always flopped the first few times around.”

Flopped. Prison talk for turned down. Nate had learned a lot of new meanings for old words since his father had been taken away. “Dad, what are you saying?”

“I’m going to be approved, Nate. Dr. Evanston told me a few minutes ago that I’m getting out May 23.”

Nate’s jaw dropped. He did a quick calculation. “For real, Dad? That’s only five weeks off.”

“It’s real enough. Assuming I don’t make anybody mad or break any rules in the meantime. There’s still some paperwork…” He paused. “Notification of victims, housing plans, probation details, that sort of thing. There’s also one more review before the parole board processes my release. But the doctor wouldn’t have told me if he wasn’t sure of the outcome. We’ve been through too much together.”

Nate’s mind raced. He’d have to make arrangements for Harley to come to L.A. His father would have to find a place to live, a way to earn a living. But all that could wait. “Congratulations,” he said. “This is great news.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Harley said. “To go from having no thoughts about tomorrow to all of a sudden having a future, to having to make decisions. I’m just getting used to the idea.”

Nate hadn’t had that luxury yet. “Don’t worry, Dad. We’ll work it out. I’ll take care of plans to bring you to Los Angeles, and we’ll—”

“No, Nate. I’m not coming to California. That’s about all I’m certain of at this moment.”

“But where will you go?”

“I’m moving back to Finnegan Cove.”

Nate swerved, nearly hit the curb. “What? You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious.”

“But, Dad, you won’t be welcomed there. Hell, I wouldn’t even go back to Finnegan Cove.”

“It’s the only place I know, Nate,” Harley said. “All I’ve ever known. It’s home.”

Nate refrained from pointing out that Finnegan Cove hadn’t been kind to the Sheltons and chances were, wouldn’t be now. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

His father lowered his voice soothingly. “It’ll be okay, Nate. I know what I’m doing.”

The hell? In the past twenty years maybe a few people had come and gone from the small town on Michigan’s western shore, but Nate figured the population would have stayed pretty much the same. Two thousand folks, give or take, lived in comfortable bungalows, and a few fancy Victorian houses from the town’s lumber boom days. The same mom-and-pop businesses probably still lined Main Street.

And no doubt the same attitudes prevailed. And memories for certain details had probably only grown sharper. Like Harley Shelton’s face on the front page of the Finnegan Cove Sentinel. Like the face of his eighteen-year-old son as he’d left the courthouse after the verdict was read. Like the absence of Harley’s older son, who hadn’t shown up for the trial at all. It baffled Nate why Harley had decided to go back where he wasn’t wanted.

“Where will you live, Dad? You think you’re going to just put down a welcome mat at your door and neighbors will drop by?”

“No, Nate, I don’t. I’m not naive.”

“Frankly, I’m beginning to think you are.”

“I’ve found a place to live. A place where nobody’ll bother me, and I’ll be able to stay pretty much to myself.”

“In Finnegan Cove?”

“The outskirts, yes. But I need a little help. It might take a couple of bucks to get this place in shape.”

“I don’t mind helping you. I’ve always told you I would, but you’ve got to be reasonable. Going back to Finnegan Cove is not a good idea. Why don’t you consider L.A.? You can start over, make a new life for yourself.”

“Believe it or not, son, there are aspects of my old life I remember fondly. It wasn’t all bad.”

Nate pulled into his underground parking garage, grateful he didn’t have to drive anymore. Paying attention to the busy Los Angeles thoroughfare while having this unexpected conversation with his father would tax anybody’s ability to concentrate. He parked in his assigned spot. “Where is this place you found, and how did you find it?”

“I read about it in the Sentinel about six months ago.”

His father read the local newspaper? This man was surprising him more and more. Nate wanted nothing to do with the town, yet his dad maintained his ties. Maybe prison life did that to a person. Made you appreciate what you had before, even if it was less than ideal. “Okay, where is it?” he said.

“It’s right on Lake Michigan,” Harley told him. “In fact, you know it well.” He paused. When Nate didn’t say anything, he said, “It’s the Cove Lighthouse, Nate. It’s for sale.”

“The lighthouse?” Nate’s voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched in his own ears.

“Yep. It’s perfect.”