The two men stood silent for a long time. Alan finally sighed, and shook his head.
“I don’t know. On paper, it all looks great, but when you look at what we really have to work with—well, I just don’t know. It might be easier to tear it down and start over.”
Phillip nodded. “It would be cheaper, too. But we’d lose something if we did that. There’s history in that building, Alan. Almost the whole history of Westover is tied up in the mill.”
“Don’t you mean the history of the Sturgesses?” Alan replied.
“I’m not sure there’s a difference.” Then he saw the grin on Alan’s face, and chuckled. “All right, so I sounded like my parents. But the whole attraction of the place will be the fact of the restoration, so we don’t really have any choice, do we? And the structure’s sound, believe it or not. I had an engineer survey it a few months ago.”
Alan regarded the other man skeptically. “Did your father know that?”
“You know how Father felt about the mill.”
“And he had a right to, after what happened to your brother.”
There was a silence; then Phillip spoke again, his voice softer. “What happened to Conrad Junior was an accident, despite what Father believed.” Then, when Alan said nothing, Phillip turned to face him. “Alan, you don’t believe all those stories, do you?”
“The ghost stories? Of course not. But apparently your father did.”
Phillip’s expression tightened. “He’s dead now.”
“Yes.” Alan paused, then chose his words carefully. “What about Carolyn? What does she think of all this?”
Phillip eyed Alan shrewdly. “The fact that you asked the question suggests to me that you know the answer.”
“I just wondered,” Alan replied, shrugging noncommittally. “She just always hated this place, that’s all.” Then, meeting Phillip’s eyes, he went on. “A lot of people in Westover hate this mill, Phillip. They see it as a symbol, and the memories it evokes aren’t pleasant ones. A lot of the children of Westover died in that building—”
“That was a long time ago, Alan,” Phillip interrupted. “And while I’m not pretending it was right, child labor went on all over New England back then. It wasn’t just here, and it wasn’t just the Sturgesses.”
“I’m not saying it was,” Alan agreed. “All I’m saying is that a lot of people here still look at that mill, and think about what went on in it.”
“Something none of them really remembers,” Phillip pointed out. “Let’s not forget that the mill’s been closed for a century, and stories get exaggerated. If Father had been smart, he’d have done something with the property years ago.” Suddenly Phillip cocked his head, and gazed at Alan suspiciously. “Alan, is there something you’re not telling me? Is the board likely to hold up the permits just because of the history of the building?”
Alan shook his head. “Nope. The permits will go through without a murmur. As far as the board’s concerned, history is history. If turning this old wreck into a mall full of cute little shops will make people in Westover some money, the aldermen are all for it.”
“But you doubt that it will,” Phillip stated.
“I do,” Alan agreed, but then smiled ruefully. “Of course, as your wife will tell you, I’m not the most imaginative son-of-a-bitch around, and never think anything will work. So why don’t we go inside and have a look around, and I can tell you just why the dump will collapse when we start working on it.”
“And I,” Phillip laughed, “will expect you to buy me a drink when nothing collapses at all.”
They crossed Prospect Street, walked to the corner of the vast building, then turned left onto a weed-choked path that paralleled the building’s long northern wall. Halfway down, they came to a metal door, its paint badly weathered. But when Phillip slipped a key into the padlock that hung from an oversized hasp, it opened easily.
“Father had the lock checked every month, from the day Conrad Junior died. Sometimes he did it himself. When I was a kid, I used to beg him to bring me along and show me the inside of the mill, but he never would. I guess—well, I guess he never got over my brother’s death at all.”
“He really never even let you look around?” Alan asked.
Phillip shook his head. “It used to drive me nuts. Sometimes I’d lie awake nights, looking down at it from my window, plotting how I could sneak in. But then I’d think about what Father would