Sean Doran has been away for over twenty years, in third
world countries
trying to do as much good as possible. THE SHORTEST WAY HOME
is all
about Sean coming home to Belham, MA as he is burned out and
needs to
recharge. His mother died when he was young of Huntington's
Disease
and its something he has been running from ever since. He
has a fifty fifty
chance of getting the disease himself. Once home, he
realizes his Aunt
isn't as healthy as she once was. His Aunt Vivian is the
legal guardian for
Kevin. Kevin is the son of Hugh, Sean's brother, who died a
few years
before of pneumonia. Sean soon learns that Kevin is in need
of a father
figure in his life. They develop a very special bond and
Sean is quickly
attached to the boy.
Sean's sister Deidre also lives at home with Aunt Viv. She
is an aspiring
actress and a waitress who has been helping out as much as
possible.
Once Sean comes back home she pretty much washes her hands
of it all.
She tells Sean it was all about him for all the years he was
away and now
it's his turn to take the responsibility of his family.
THE SHORTEST WAY
HOME also finds Sean running into his old school mate named
Rebecca.
They used to be the best of friends in high school until
Sean moved away.
They start to rebuild their relationship that was left behind.
Sean doesn't want to be tied down to his family. He likes
the freedom of
being able to keep moving around doing the most good he
possibly can.
To make matters worse, his father, who abandoned him thirty
years ago,
shows up. Sean is torn with wanting to meet him and telling
him to get lost.
This is one dysfunctional family and you will find yourself
cheering them on
while you are reading. The characters are complex but, lovable.
THE SHORTEST WAY HOME is filled with humor, as well as
sadness. It is
filled with memorable characters that I won't soon forget. I
was so wrapped
up in all their lives and couldn't wait to see how Juliette
finished their
stories. I fell in love with them all and found myself
cheering for them
through out the book. I could see THE SHORTEST WAY HOME being
made into a movie for Lifetime or the Hallmark Channel.
Sean has spent twenty years in Third World war zones and
natural disaster areas, fully embracing what he'd always
felt was his life's mission. But when burnout sets in,
Sean is reluctantly drawn home to Belham, Massachusetts,
the setting of Fay's much-loved Shelter Me. There, he
discovers that his steely aunt, overly dramatic sister,
and quirky nephew are having a little natural disaster of
their own. When he reconnects with a woman from his past,
Sean has to wonder if the bonds of love and loyalty might
just rewrite his destiny.
Excerpt
When the plane took off, Sean didn't experience that
exhilarating lift–off surge he usually got when his
body, mind, and soul were ejected into the earth's
atmosphere. This flight was no prelude to the next
adventure. In fact, it was adventure's negative image. It
was an anti–adventure. He was going home.
High in the whispery layers of cloud above the
Democratic Republic of Congo, Sean had a moment of regret.
Maybe he shouldn't have left. Maybe if he'd just hung in
there a little longer, the burnout he'd been feeling
would've worked itself out—and maybe the knots in his
back would've followed suit.
A miraculous healing of mind and latissimus dorsi. He
chuckled at the thought, and at his own sudden nostalgia for
the hardest, most heartbreaking stint he'd ever taken on.
Not that he disliked his work. In fact, he loved it.
Recently, though, his plan for his life, his very vision of
himself, seemed to be coming unraveled. Threads popping,
holes gaping like a poorly constructed sweater. And he had
no idea of what to do about it.
When he changed planes in Nairobi, Kenya, he downed a
quartet of ibuprofen tablets and balled up his old canvas
jacket for a pillow, hoping for sleep during the overnight
flight to London. Something crinkled when he laidy his head
down. Paper in one of the jacket pockets.
It was Deirdre's letter. He'd first read it while
walking back to his quarters from the hospital mail room a
month or so ago, and must have jammed it into a
little–used pocket and forgotten about it. Or tried to
forget about it. He certainly hadn't kept it on purpose.
Traveling light was a sort of obsession with him. But
somehow, despite his distaste for the letter and for hanging
on to stuff, her words had come along for the ride.
Sean,
How's everything. Hope you're well. So, it's great
you're over there saving the world and all, but we're having
our own little natural disaster here at the moment. Aunt
Vivvy's lost it. She brought home a dog. I am not making
this up. A big one, some kind of german shepherd or
doberman. The thing is huge—scares the crap out of Kevin.
On the upside, I got a part in Joseph and the Amazing
Technicolor Dreamcoat at the Worcester Footlight. Just the
chorus, but I'm also understudy for one of the leads.
Hopefully, she'll develop a facial tic or get incarcerated
for criminal lack of talent before the show goes up.
Rehearsals start in a month, and I'll be gone a lot. Not as
much as I'd like, but a lot.
Kevin's okay, though all he does is go to school, study
and walk in the woods. It's creepy.
I really think you should come home. I know I keep
saying that, but I've about had it now, Sean. Seriously.
So happy birthday. 44. Wow. Who'd have thought, huh?
Dee
Actually, Sean wouldn't be turning forty–four for
another six months. He guessed it was Hugh's birthday she'd
been thinking of, and since their brother had been dead for
six years, he wasn't around to correct her. Sean didn't
really care if Deirdre knew the actual date of his birth,
though she was his sister, and he imagined normal families
kept track of things like that.
He tucked the letter into the seatback pocket in front
of him, intending to give it to the flight attendant when
she came by collecting trash. It was midnight and relatively
quiet, the plane's muscular hum obscuring what little
evidence there might be of human interaction. Sean closed
his eyes, but as he drifted off, the image of the letter
peeaking from the seat pocket insinuated itself into the
landscape of his dreams.
The connecting flight out of London was oversold, and
passengers waiting to board were getting unruly. As Sean
stood braced against a wall, willing his aching back not to
go out on him, he saw a man in a business suit jab his
finger toward an airline employee behind the desk. The
aggravated drone of his voice rose until Sean heard him
yell, "I demand an explanation!"
Sean chuckled to himself. He hadn't set foot in the
so–called "first world" in years. Granted, he'd lived
in the poorest, most degraded places on the planet for most
of his adult life, so the contrast was particularly
palpable. In the tiny hospitals and medical outposts he'd
staffed, people were grateful just to be kept alive for
another day. They didn't demand explanations.
As the plane began its businesslike descent into Logan
Airport, Sean gazed out the window. The city seemed to be
posing for one of those tourist postcards with the word
"Boston" written in colorful letters across the top. Low
humidity, he realized. Weird for June. He could see
everything so clearly. The Custom House Tower, Rowe's Wharf,
Chinatown. He knew that planted awkwardly among the dim sum
restaurants and acupuncture clinics was New England Medical
Center Tufts Medical Center, where his mother had first
been diagnosed. It was a genetic coin toss—heads you
got it, tails you didn't. She'd lost the toss. Her older
sister Vivian had won. Depending on how you defined winning.
In 1980 the whole family—Sean, his parents, baby
sister Deirdre, and six–year–old brother
Hugh—had moved into Aunt Vivvy's cavernous house in
PelhamBelham, Massachusetts . Sean's father was a merchant
mariner, out at sea for months at a time, and his mother
could no longer remember if she'd fed the dog six times or
at all. That dog was sent to live with a new family. Sean
always suspected that Aunt Vivvy had simply had him put
down. She was not an animal lover. Or a lover of anything
other than order and gardening, as far as he could tell.
And now she had a dog of her own? Sean wondered if
Deirdre had over–dramatized the visit of some
unfortunate pooch to Aunt Viv's perfect,
crabgrass–free lawn. Drama was the currency of
Deirdre's life—she was the Warren Buffett of
drama—and she was clearly invested in Sean's return. A
hostile takeover of his life designed to increase her assets
and cut her liabilities.
No one met him at the airport, nor did he expect anyone
to. He took the Logan Express toward Framingham. It all
looked different from the ground. The Massachusetts
Turnpike, a smooth ribbon of roadway, laid itself out
submissively before the bus. He'd ridden this stretch
countless times in his childhood, but now, after years in
places where the roads were little more than rutted,
hole–pocked paths—if there were roads at
all—the Mass Pike seemed suspiciously unimpeded, as if
it were a trap of some kind, leading him docilely toward his
downfall.
As the bus sped forward, a strange feeling came over
Sean, his heart rate increasing, his breathing oddly
shallow. Had he picked up some sort of respiratory bug? The
sound of his pulse throbbed in his ears as he gripped the
battered straps of his backpack. He had to get off the bus.
He had to run from this illness, and though he was sure he
was sick, he also felt as if he could run faster than he
ever had. He took a few deep breaths, and closed his eyes to
the Mass Pike racing by. Then it came to him. It wasn't a
bug at all, though it was a rare condition, at least for him.
Anxiety.
Deirdre met him at the bus station in Framingham. She
was waiting in the drop– off/pick up area, idling Aunt
Vivvy's ancient but meticulously maintained Chevy Caprice
Classic. He heaved his backpack into the back, got into the
front seat and took a deep breath, hoping the oxygenated
blood would soothe his still–constricted veins.
Deirdre watched him for a moment, and then reached over
to give him a brief hug. He responded a second late, as she
was beginning to release him, making the gesture even more
awkward than it normally would have been. Six years, he
thought. I barely know her anymore.
"So, um . . ." She glanced around, and spied his pack
behind him. "That's all you've got?"
"Yeah, that's it."
"Looks like the one you had in high school."
"It is." He sucked in another oxygen load, and glanced
over at her as she backed out of the waiting area. Her pale
skin was sprinkled with freckles—Irish fairy dust,
their mother used to call it. And fanning out from the
corner of her eye was a tiny thread of a line. Crow's–
feet? How did his baby sister already have crow's–
feet? But she was thirty–two now, he remembered. She'd
only been twenty–six the last time he'd seen her,
after their brother Hugh died.
"Who's at the house?" he asked.
"Viv's there. Who knows where Kevin is—probably in
the woods somewhere. School's out next week, so there isn't
much homework going on." She glanced at him, dropping her
chin so her eyes peeked out over the tops of her sunglasses.
Drama, he thought, here it comes. . . .
"And there's George." Her gaze returned to the road.
Would he take the bait? Hell, why not. "Who's George?"
"Oh, you'll see. Can't miss her," Deirdre said dryly.
"Especially when she sniffs your crotch."
He smiled—he couldn't help it. Deirdre knew how to
deliver a line.
"Good," he countered. "Haven't had a good crotch sniff
in some time."
"She's thorough. You'll be set for years to come."
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