“How long you think it’ll be?”

“Don’t know. Figure at least an hour,” I said.

“No hurry. I’ll be waiting.”

“Mind if I leave my bag in the trunk?” I said. “You can drop me off at the station. I’m going straight back to New York.”

“Sure, you don’t want to stay at Mikey’s beachfront resort for a few more days?”

“Sound nice. But I have a lot of shit I have to put in order.”

“Careful, those locals can be a tough crowd.”

I got out of the cab in front of the First Presbyterian Church in Amagansett. Parked at the curb was a World War II Army pick-up truck, filled with fishing nets and covered in rust and dents and graffiti that looked like it was hurriedly added with a loose paint brush, ‘DEC political prisoner’, ‘Know your rights’, ‘Fishing permits are illegal.’

I vaguely remembered the truck was Stuart’s.

Seated in a chair near the entrance, greeting people was an elderly woman, who I presumed was Mary, Stuart King’s wife. I recall he always referred to her as “My beautiful bride Mary.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, reaching out to take her hand.

“John Rondell,” she said.

“That’s right,” I said, surprised.

“I asked you to come so I could give this to you,” Mary said, as she turned to a younger woman standing behind her. “Get the box,” she said.

The younger woman approached and handed me a large cardboard box stuffed with papers, some wrapped in brown legal folders, many held together with rubber strings. ‘This is for you,” Mary said.

“What is it?” I said, taking the box in my arms.

“Stuart's papers. He wanted you to have them. Said you would know what to do with them.”

“Well, thank you Mary, but I haven’t spoken to Stuart in more than fifty years. I’m surprised he remembered me at all.”

“Oh, he remembered. Talked about you all the time. Said you were a lawyer in New York City. Said you were a good man, you would know what to do.”

“I don’t understand, Mary, do what?”

“Pick up the fight,” said a voice from behind me.

“Excuse me,” I said, turning to face a very large man.

“I’ll take that,” he said, hands outstretched. “You have to get up there and say something.”

Without thinking, I handed him the box and said, “Who are you?”

“Dan Bennett,” he said, the barest of smiles crossing his weathered face.

He held the large box in the corner of one enormous arm and reached out to shake my hand with the other.

“How’ve you been Johnny?”

“Good, Dan. Nice to see you.”

And it was good to see him. Dan Bennett was my only friend when I lived in East Hampton. Dan was a member of the Bennet clan, one of the old fishing families in East Hampton, also known as Bonackers. We were the same age. We worked together on Stuart King’s fishing crew.

“You go on up there and say something. We’ll talk later,” he said, turning to enter the church. Dan was followed by a small group of other local fishermen, each turning to look at me, unsmiling as they entered with their wives to have a seat.

When it was my turn to speak, I didn’t have anything planned. I didn’t know what to say after fifty years, and so I went with what I knew.

“I understand Stuart got your beach back, isn’t that great. To hell with those people.” And I sat down.

It remained quiet, the only sound the creaking of the wood floors of that three-hundred-year-old church. And then it began. A few whispers, a few claps and then applause, polite at first and then it grew, people began stomping their feet loudly on the wooden floorboards.

The pastor eventually stood up and calmed things down. At that point I just wanted an exit from the church and East Hampton. The service over, I left through a side door, looking for Mikey and his cab. I quickly spotted him standing next to a tree near the front. I headed over.

Before I made it, a well dressed man with silver hair approached.

“Hello Johnny,” he said, offering his hand.

“Do I know you?” I said, grasping his hand.

“Sure do. Edward Wilson.”

It took a moment before it came to me. I knew Edward Wilson.

“Good morning, Edward.”

“Quite a speech, there.”

“Stuart was a friend,” I said. “Long time ago.”

“I’m sure he was.”

“What do you want Edward?”

“Can we talk?”

“Nothing’s stopping you.”

“All right. I know.”

“Know what?”

“You own the camp down on the beach.”

I hesitated, not sure what to say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the shit, Johnny. I’ve known for thirty years. You bought that property and put it in an LLC.”

I was silent, waiting to see what else he had to say.

“Who do you think’s been making all those offers to buy it from you? That’s me, that’s my company. I just assumed you knew.”

“Look, Edward, I don’t have time for your bullshit. I need to get back to the city.”

“Back to the city? To what? Word is you’ve been disbarred. Your not an attorney anymore.”

“Suspended,” I said.

“Oh, right, you have that little alcohol problem you need to straighten out before they’ll let you practice again.”

“What’s your point Edward? What do you want?”

“I think you know, Johnny. You understand exactly what I want. Sell me the camp.”

I could see Dan Bennett approaching with the box of papers, followed by his crew of fisherman, so I said, “This is not the place. Can we talk about this later?”

“Later? What’s later? I’ve been offering to buy the camp from you for thirty years. Seems to me it’s time Johnny. Your wife, I understand she put you out, wants a divorce, going to take all your money. Your just a bum now Johnny, maybe you can go back to fishing with the rest of this motley collection,” he said, nodding at Dan Bennett and his group.

“There a problem here, Johnny?” Dan Bennet said.

“No problem. Edward’s leaving.” I said.

“The offer for the property stands. But not for long.” Edward Wilson said, before he walked off.

“What was that about?” Dan Bennet said.

“Edward Wilson being an asshole.”

“What’s this about property for sale?”

“The camp,” I said. “I’m sure you know it. Down next to Truck Beach.”

“What about it?”

“I have an interest in it.”

“Well, good luck with that. Here’s your box,” he said, handing it to me.

“Thanks Dan. It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, Johnny. We’re having some food over at the firehouse. Stuart’s wife will be there. Why don’t you stop by? We can catch up.”

“I wish I could. I need to get back to the city. I have some things I need to clear up.”

“Too bad,” he said. “Loved your speech by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

We said goodbye and I got into Mikeys cab with my box.

“Well,” he said.

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough.”

Mikey was angry, understandably. I owed him an explanation.

“Can we find someplace to get a drink?” I said.

“Yeah, my place. I don’t go to places that serve alcohol. We can pick something up on the way over.”

“You don’t drink?”

“No, quit years ago.”

With that, we remained quiet for the rest of the ride, picking up a large bottle of vodka along the way. Once we were back at the camp, I poured myself a good one and we sat outside under the awning.

“All right, spill,” he said.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you needed to know.”

“Know?” he said. “I’m the fucking mayor. You own this place? You didn’t say anything? What the fuck Johnny, I thought we were tight here, no bullshit.”

“Yeah, no bullshit.”

We were quiet for a moment.

“Thirty years ago,” I said, “I heard the convent burned down and the property was for sale…”

“No, from the beginning. I want to know what happened after I left you at Penn Station. You were taking the train to East Hampton, to go live in a convent. What happened?”

“It was a group home, and it’s a long story any way.”

“I have time,” he said.

“I never thought I’d ever see you again. Remember, we planned on getting together? You were going to come out and visit, come out with some of your boy’s?”

“I didn’t hear from you. I thought you were going to call.”

“Well, I got on the train, and then I jumped off…”