Free Harvard Yard by William Martin Page B

for whom life was good, or who wanted it to seem that way. He had sandy blond hair graying at the temples and the same kind of long face and toothy smile his mother had, a physiognomy so familiar in New England that it might have been sculpted by the last glacier. He was also six-four and seemed to know the first lesson of good height: make them look up to you.
    A mug of bourbon and hot cider appeared under Peter’s nose, in the hand of Ridley Royce, who didn’t even say hello. He just whispered, “The story of the Wedges . . . eleven generations from noble Isaac to a guy wearing pants the color of cranberry sauce.”
    “Hello, Ridley.” Peter took the mug. “Meet my son.”
    Ridley gave Jimmy the once-over. “Apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Can he have a beer?”
    “No, thank you,” said Jimmy. “Against track team rules.”
    “A Fallon turns down a beer? I take back what I said about the apple.”
    Ridley’s great-grandfather had bred a few short genes to the Wedge strain, so Ridley didn’t resemble any of the Wedges around him. Bald had also been part of his legacy, but discreet little plugs of hair defied that bit of Wedge DNA. And after four generations, there really wasn’t much Wedge in him. But Ridley was still family. “Drink up, Peter,” he said. “You’re about to get what I call ‘the Full Wedge.’ Here comes Will.”
    “What does he do these days?”
    “Venture capitalist, former president of a bought-out bank, tireless Harvard fund-raiser. Nicknamed Williwaw at prep school because he reminded friends of a whirlwind . . . always spinning from one thing to the next.”
    “And he really does look good in crimson pants,” said Peter. “As long as he wears a blue blazer to tone them down.”
    Will was within earshot now, hand extended. “Mr. Fallon, I presume.”
    Peter introduced his son, who was shoving his hands into his pockets and pulling them out and shoving them back, miming the nervous boredom that came upon most kids caught in the midst of grown-up greetings.
    Will Wedge looked Jimmy over. “Do we have a legacy here?”
    “It’s up to him,” said Peter.
    “Can’t go wrong at Harvard,” said Wedge to the boy. “Now go get yourself some food, and say hello to some of my nieces around the grill.”
    “And be polite,” said Peter.
    “So”—Wedge turned to Peter—“what brings you to the Wedge Woody?”
    And Ridley intervened. “He’s an old friend, Will.”
    “Who also happens”—Wedge’s voice lost some of its good cheer—“to be one of the best-known antiquarians in Boston.”
    “Documents and books,” said Fallon.
    “Yes,” said Wedge, all the good cheer gone, “it’s good to bring the past to light.”
    Peter saw a nasty look pass between Wedge and Ridley, but an old classmate was calling to him, so Will plastered his grin back on his face, gave out with a loud greeting, and went off through the charcoal smoke.
    “What’s his problem?” said Peter, not taking his eyes from Will Wedge.
    “I’ll tell you later. First, let me introduce you to—”
    Harriet Webster Wedge, carrying a plate of shrimp. “These are what a treasure hunter would enjoy,” she said.
    “Thanks.” Peter dipped a shrimp. “I haven’t been called a treasure hunter in a long time.”
    “Oh, but you are. And I’ve always wondered . . . That Revere tea set that you found years ago. Didn’t you save a piece?”
    “The sugar urn. By accident. Sold it to pay for the damage I did finding it.”
    “You blew a hole in the subway at Copley Square, didn’t you?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Peter no longer reddened with embarrassment at the old story.
    “Amazing the things we’ll do for money,” she said.
    “I did it for history,” he said.
    “Oh, bullshit on that. Say you did it for the money and we’ll get along. But I’m too old for stories.” And off she went with her cigarette dropping ashes in the cocktail sauce.
    “I didn’t call it ‘the Full Wedge’ for