The Mill River Recluse Read Free Page A

even farther from the thoughts of the men in the Lincoln coupe.
    The father and son were the second and third generations of a family established in Vermont some seventy years earlier. The vast mineral deposits of the state, especially the exceptional white marble, had lured a steady stream of immigrants to quarries in the Green Mountains. Hungry for jobs and new opportunities, Italians, Swedes, Finns, Scotsmen, Irishmen, and others followed newly-constructed railroads north to West Rutland. They eagerly took on the exhausting and dangerous work of cutting marble.
    One of those immigrants had been Patrick’s great-grandfather, a young Irishman named Kieran McAllister. He had crossed the Atlantic in cramped quarters in the belly of a Cunard steamship and had endured working as a quarry laborer for two years without serious injury. With decency, common sense, and a little luck, he had earned the respect of the quarry owner and a promotion to the position of foreman. The increased salary had enabled him to join a group of men in opening a new quarry. Eventually, he had established a marbleworks in Rutland, where quarries could have blocks of marble cut or carved before their shipment to buyers.
    The marbleworks had been good to the McAllister family. Having been the first of its kind in the area during the most prosperous days of Vermont’s marble industry, the business had made Kieran a wealthy man. Through fifty years, World War I, and the Great Depression, the demand for marble had remained steady and had even increased at times. Now, Kieran had been gone for two decades, but the McAllisters still enjoyed the fruits of the prosperity that he had sown, as evidenced by his grandson’s penchant for new automobiles.
    Stephen looked over at Patrick and grinned. “She handles beautifully,” he said, patting the steering wheel. “V-12 under the hood, hydraulic brakes. She’s a keeper.”
    The new Lincoln was only the latest in a long line of expensive automobiles that Stephen had purchased. He had five at the moment. When he tired of a particular model, he traded it for whichever new car caught his eye. On Saturdays when Patrick was home from school, Stephen and his son took a car from his current collection and drove through the countryside southeast of Rutland County. Now that Patrick was through college, he looked forward to their outings as routine weekly escapes.
    “Maybe I’ll see for myself how she handles on the way back,” Patrick hinted.
    “What, you mean you don’t want to ride your graduation present home?” Stephen asked.
    Stephen glanced at Patrick and was overwhelmed with pride. His son, a Harvard graduate, capable, refined, a true gentleman. Some day, after Stephen retired, Patrick would assume the helm of McAllister Marbleworks. Until then, they would work side by side to ensure the continued success of the family business.
    On this morning, their drive was more than a leisurely jaunt. Stephen and Patrick were headed to a farm on the far side of the town of Mill River to select a horse as part of Patrick’s graduation present. Mill River was located about eight miles southeast of Rutland, where Kieran had established the Marbleworks. While Rutland had become a bustling center of commerce, thanks to the marble industry and the railroad, Mill River remained a sleepy, quaint throwback to the early days of New England.
    The winding road finally cleared the green hills and straightened out, and Stephen turned the Lincoln down the main street of the town. They glided past a number of small houses, a hardware store, a post office, a beauty salon, and the town hall. A stone church stood at the end of the street on the right. The road curved sharply, then passed through a covered bridge that spanned the river for which the town was named.
    Stephen couldn’t understand why his son found horses so alluring. He did know that Patrick had taken up riding when he arrived in Cambridge, Massachusetts his freshman year