The Week That Never Happened

Every few months the phone rings, and it is always Jerry. How's the weather up there. When are you coming down. Peter Fitzpatrick always has a reason. Next month. After I finish the book. Maybe when it cools off. Soon. Jerry Romano never once makes him feel bad about it. That is the thing about Jerry. He just says alright, Petey, and puts it on the calendar in pencil, and calls again in a few months to ask about the weather. This goes on for seven years. Then one ordinary Thursday, for no reason he could ever explain, Peter opens his mouth to say next month and hears himself say something else entirely. What follows is one perfect week. Morning coffee on a screen porch. Two blue chairs by a pool angled toward the water. Neighbors who stop by for no reason at all. A boat that catches nothing. Sandwiches with too much mustard. And fifty six years of stories told the way old friends tell them, starting with the words remember when. Remember when we skipped school and drove to the shore. Remember when your truck died on Route Nine at one in the morning in February. Remember the hurricane party. Remember the waitress who knew our order for six years. Remember your dog and the platter of hamburgers. There is no villain in this book. There is no crisis. Two men in their seventies sit by a pool and do almost nothing, and it is the best week either of them has had in years. And then Peter drives home. And at three in the morning, the phone rings. The Week That Never Happened is a quiet novel about friendship, procrastination, and the invitations we keep meaning to accept. It is funny for a long time. The last twenty pages are something else. Readers who have lost someone they meant to visit should keep something nearby. Some invitations change everything. Some moments stay with you forever. Some goodbyes come too late. Do not wait so long next time.