“Troy,” Wanda said, tugging on her ex-husband’s sleeve. “Come on. This really isn’t the place to—”
“No, I think it is,” Troy replied. “I think we have the right to ask Mrs. Bostock what exactly she’s sorry about. Is she sorry that she left our daughter alone in her house knowing three prep school boys were going to arrive later that night? Is she sorry she left Phoebe there without any adult supervision—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Henderson interrupted, clapping his hand on Troy’s shoulder. “It’s time to let some of these other folks have the floor.”
“Fine,” Troy said, though he continued to stand there, staring back at Brook. “But I just want to add one last thing. As far as I’m concerned about you saying you’re sorry? It’s an insult.”
“Sit down!” Wanda said, pulling on his arm until Troy reluctantly took his seat. Henderson opened up the floor again for further questions and the meeting went on, but it seemed to Brook that her exchange with Troy had unsettled the genial atmosphere of the gathering.
“This has always been a good, caring community,” said Devon Lowell, one of the town’s selectmen, when no further hands were raised. He stood up in the second row and turned to face the crowd. “Understanding the law’s important and all that, but I say let’s try our best not to forget the values that’ve always made Barnsbury such a great place to raise a family.”
“Okay, folks,” Henderson added, as people started to get ready to leave. “Thanks for coming. I’ve got a handout up here that goes into more detail about some of the issues we covered. And a good article on how to talk to your teenager about drinking and drugs. Feel free to take extra copies and share them with your friends.”
As Brook began to zip up her parka, a middle-aged woman who’d been standing near her in the back walked over and said, “Troy’s known for holding a grudge. I’d just let what he said roll off your back, if I were you.”
“Thanks, I’ll try,” Brook said, smiling as she tried to remember where she’d seen the familiar-looking woman before. “Weren’t you a teacher’s aide at Deer Mountain?”
“I still am,” she said, holding out her hand. “Trish Blondel. I’m a friend of Wanda’s, so I know what I’m talking about when it comes to Troy. And I thought it was great that you came tonight.”
“Thanks again,” Brook said as the two of them were separated by the press of the departing crowd. Several other people nodded at Brook or said hello as she made her way out the door and into the parking lot. But she also overheard a woman say, “When kids act like that, I’m sorry, but it’s got to tell you something about the way they were raised.”
It was another frigid night and most people hurried to their cars, but Brook took her time, going over the meeting in her mind. She was sure that she’d been right to attend. Even though Troy and some of the others had been tough on her, she felt she’d come through it okay and maybe even made a good impression on some people. It was with this renewed sense of confidence that she approached Troy when she saw him about to climb into his pickup.
“Listen,” she said as she came up to him. “I know you’re upset. And I think you have every right to be.”
“That’s big of you,” Troy said.
She remembered what Wanda’s friend had said about Troy holding a grudge. She couldn’t let herself be put off by his attitude. She took a deep breath and tried hard to find just the right, conciliatory tone. “I’m terribly sorry about what happened to Phoebe. She’s a wonderful girl. I’ve gotten to know her pretty well over the last couple of years, and I’ve really started to think of her as family. So this whole terrible thing was—”
“You think of her as family?” Troy said. “Is that why you had your lawyer say Phoebe was having sex with your son? My daughter is a virgin, by the way. We took her up to the ER after the assault and a doctor confirmed what we already knew. So, I have to tell you, if that’s the way you treat your family, I’m not surprised that your son is so totally messed up.”
“I had no idea the lawyer was going to say that,” Brook replied, taking a step back. “And we didn’t tell him to say anything of the sort. I was shocked by it, too. Liam denied it to me afterward. One of the other boys obviously got the wrong impression about Phoebe and made that truly unconscionable statement.”
“And I asked Phoebe about it, too,” Troy said. “You know what she told me? She said that Liam told his friends my daughter quote unquote really puts out!”
“That can’t be true. Liam would never—”
“Oh, please,” Troy said, throwing up his hands. “I’ll tell you what’s true: you have absolutely no idea what your son did or didn’t do. You were fifty miles away! He got drunk. He assaulted my daughter. And then you proceeded to smear her in public like she was nothing! Like she was some kind of a slut! Well, you’re not going to get away with it!”
“I’m sorry, Troy,” Brook said. “That should never have come out. But, I promise you, Michael and I had no idea the lawyer was going to introduce it. What happened was awful. But it’s time we all tried to move on. The magistrate already—”
“Oh, screw that hearing! It was obvious to everyone there that your lawyer had the magistrate eating right out of his hand. This time I’m going to get a fair hearing. This time we’re going to put together a case so damaging that no amount of money and influence in the world is going to be able to whitewash it.”
“This time? What do you mean?”
“My lawyers are filing a civil suit against you tomorrow. We’re moving on, all right. We’re moving right back to court.”
14
Michael got up early the morning after the town hall meeting, made his usual thermos of coffee, and headed out to the studio. He hadn’t slept well. He’d had some kind of a dream or nightmare just before waking that he couldn’t quite remember—but that had upset him badly. Well, there was plenty to be upset about.
Brook had come back from the meeting in a terrible state. As she explained what had happened, Michael could feel his anger mounting. She’d made a public apology to Troy! And now he was hitting them both with a civil suit. Why the hell hadn’t Brook listened to his warning? Michael was too pissed off to comfort her. It took all his willpower just to hold his tongue. She had no idea what she was dealing with when it came to Troy, but she still thought she knew better. Just as Michael feared, the dismissal of the criminal charges had only goaded Troy further. And now he was bound to use Brook’s apology against them. He was going to use everything he could find against them.
The walk up to the studio cleared Michael’s head a little. The sun was rising above the mountain ridge, tingeing the snow-covered tree line shades of pink and gold, then blazing across the frozen expanse of fields. The clear winter morning forced him to take a hard look at himself. He didn’t much like what he saw. He had to get his temper under control. He had to get a grip on his emotions. Underneath all these other problems, he could feel a deeper anxiety shifting and stirring. Fragments of the bad dream he’d had kept resurfacing. What was it? The lake again? The image of Sylvia wading into the water? No, he just couldn’t deal with that now! He needed to focus. Be aggressive. Get out in front of the fight that was coming with Troy.
By the time he opened up the studio, got the Jøtul stove going, and turned on his computer, he’d decided to work out a plan of attack. He was making a mental list of the steps he and Brook needed to take when he saw the headline on the Harringdale Record’s online site. It was under the local-news banner: “Civil charges citing Social Host law expected to be filed this morning against Barnsbury couple . . .”
He set down his coffee cup and stared at the computer screen. There was something about actually seeing his and Brook’s names in print that stopped him cold. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course, the Harringdale paper was going to carry the story. And there was bound to be more local coverage. The question was, could they contain the damage? Could they keep it from being picked up by other media
outlets and spreading to Moorehouse—and beyond?
His son was Michael’s first concern. He’d hoped for some kind of reconciliation with him after the hearing went their way, but Liam had remained as cool and closed off as ever. He’d just shrugged when Michael asked if he wanted to go back to Moorehouse that semester. Despite Michael’s misgivings about the prep school, he knew Liam couldn’t possibly return to his old life in Barnsbury and Deer Mountain at this point. But if the civil suit became public knowledge, Moorehouse might object to Liam’s return. And then what? Michael saw his son drifting, from one school to another—lonely, unhappy, and further and further estranged from them.
Michael needed advice, and he needed it now. As he considered his options, he began to wonder if he’d made a mistake not listening to Brook when she suggested they ask her family for help. How much of his resistance had just been a matter of his own damned ego? Well, to hell with the anger and humiliation he so often felt when dealing with the Pendleton clan. If they could help Liam keep his place at Moorehouse and out of the limelight during this new legal battle, Michael was more than willing to swallow his pride.
• • •
He heard only Brook’s side of the telephone conversation with Peg, but that was enough.
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But, as I said, all the charges were—no, you’re right. Of course, it’s still a matter of perception. . . .”
Brook frowned, her hair falling into her face as she looked down and shook her head. He couldn’t read her expression, but he did hear her voice grow softer, almost meek.
“No, I think we can handle that side of things. Michael’s found a very good local law—yes, of course, we’ll keep Staff’s people in mind. But I’m actually calling to talk to you about Moorehouse and what you’d advise. We thought perhaps we should contact the headmaster, let him know what’s happened. Yes . . . I remember you saying you were on the committee. So you know him well? Would it be too much to ask . . . ? Yes, of course, I’m aware of that—I know you moved heaven and earth to help get Liam in last summer . . . and you know how much we appreciate . . .”
Brook held the receiver away from her ear, allowing Michael to hear his sister-in-law’s response. It was in the tone of a lecture, though Michael could make out only snatches:
“. . . did try to warn you . . . understand the importance . . . Pendleton name . . . honestly worry . . . feel it essential . . . family first . . . frankly embarrassing . . . but owes his job to me . . . see what I can do . . .”
When it was over, Brook hung up the phone with a sigh.
“There goes at least a pound of flesh,” she said. “But it was worth it. She’s going to call Foster Norwood now. She was on the search committee that ended up recommending him for headmaster five or six years ago.”
• • •
“Here, let me just—,” Brook said, standing on tiptoe to smooth down Michael’s hair after he pulled off his wool watch cap. He wished now that he’d kept it on. The entrance hall in Foster Norwood’s house was freezing, which only added to Michael’s general unease. He tried not to show it, but he never felt particularly welcome at Moorehouse.
The white clapboard nineteenth-century buildings on the 250-acre campus had been meticulously restored to retain their old New England quaintness, but behind the famous chapel, where teenage boys had been attending services for nearly two hundred years, sprawled a new ultramodern sports complex underwritten by a billionaire alumnus. Michael and Brook had met the headmaster once before when they dropped Liam off at the school last September. He’d spoken reverently about the school’s fine academic reputation, but it seemed to Michael that Norwood’s voice only came fully to life when he mentioned the school’s ice hockey team.
“The Warriors were in the New England prep finals eight years in a row!” he’d told them. “I was delighted to learn that Liam seems to know his way around a puck.”
The mood today was bound to be decidedly less jovial. In just three days the winter term at Moorehouse would commence. The piece in the Harringdale Record had been fleshed out the next day with a longer story that described the civil case in detail, named Brook as “an heiress to the Pendleton fortune,” and, though not revealing Liam’s name, mentioned that the boy in question attended “a prestigious prep school favored by the very wealthy” in Connecticut.
Peg had made the initial call to Norwood, but reported back that the headmaster wanted to talk to them directly.
“Sometimes I think it’s best to discuss these sorts of issues in person, don’t you?” Norwood told Michael when he called. But it sounded more like a command than a question, and Michael had arranged to meet with the headmaster the very next day.
On the ride down in the car, Michael and Brook had debated what, if anything, they should say about Carey’s and Brandon’s role in what had happened. Brook was all for voicing her suspicions, but Michael pointed out, “As long as Liam refuses to tell us what really happened, what’s the benefit? We incriminate the other boys without really gaining anything from it.”
“I just hope that you made it clear that Liam’s innocent,” Brook insisted.
“Yes, of course. But I think the best approach is just to say that we’re to blame for what happened. I say we go down there, plead mea culpa, and say how much Liam wants to put this behind him.”
Though the middle-aged woman who’d answered the door said the headmaster would be ready to see the Bostocks “in just a couple of secs,” when the seconds stretched to nearly twenty minutes Michael began to suspect that Norwood was keeping them waiting on purpose. Letting them know who controlled things. God, how Michael hated power plays like that! He was reminding himself that he had to stay cool and focus on Liam’s future, when Norwood finally emerged from his ground-floor study, right hand outstretched.
“Sorry to keep you folks waiting,” he said with a gap-toothed smile. A former marine, the headmaster appeared to be almost bursting out of his blue blazer and sweater vest, the Moorehouse blue and gold striped tie noose-tight around his neck. He was probably around Michael’s age, though he came across as younger—clean-shaven, round-cheeked, thick fair hair tamed by a brush cut. He radiated boyish, can-do enthusiasm.
“I’ve been stuck on the phone with maintenance,” he went on, ushering them into his office. “Sorry about the subzero temperatures. The boiler system’s acting up again.”
They took the two leather armchairs facing Norwood’s walnut desk. Michael guessed that this was where the troublemakers routinely sat—all those high-spirited, hormone-fueled teenagers—awaiting the headmaster’s punishment. How he wished Liam’s problems were as simple as those Norwood probably routinely mediated: a prank gone wrong, a one-too-many missed curfew. Group photos lined the walls: students dressed in the Moorehouse colors taking the playing field, a handful of boys skiing across the snow-covered fields, a chorus lined up in rows in the chapel, mouths wide with song. Michael knew that the students were required to wear blazers and ties during school hours. That they addressed their teachers as “sir” and “ma’am.” It was a place that seemed as unreal as Hogwarts to Michael, one where he’d never belong. Even now, as he tried to mentally organize his arguments on his son’s behalf, he felt handicapped by who he was or, more to the point, who he wasn’t.
“Thanks for seeing us,” Michael began, “at such short notice.”
“Please!” the headmaster said, leaning back in his swivel chair. “I don’t need to tell you how indebted we are to the Pendleton family. And, frankly, I’m grateful that Mrs. Jeffries reached out to me about this—and that you both obviously understand the seriousness of the situation. Too many parents simply look the other way when it comes to teenage drinking. During breaks and weekends, of course, the students get to do whatever their individual families deem best. It’s one of those tricky areas for us at Moorehouse. An open, honest discussion like this one is very welcome.”
“Just to be clear,” Michael said. “We don’t condone underage dr
inking at our house. What happened was not something we would have turned a blind eye to if we’d had any idea what was going on. And we realize that it was a serious error of judgment on our part not to be there that night. As I told you on the phone, we were cleared of any criminal charges. But the father of the girl involved has decided to go after us in civil court.”
“Right,” Norwood said, nodding. “I understand. And there’s already been some publicity. But it was just this local girl’s word against Liam’s, right? The other boys weren’t involved.”
“Yes,” Michael said quickly.
“Because I see from the sign-out sheet,” Norwood continued, looking down at a manila folder that he had in front of him on the desk, “Brandon Cowley drove Liam home. Brandon’s a sixth-form prefect. A student leader. One of our top athletes.”
“Yes, Brandon and his brother, Carey, brought Liam home,” Brook said. “They did so earlier in the year, too.”
“But they are not named in this new litigation, correct?” Norwood asked.
“No, just Liam,” Michael repeated. “And there’s no question that he’s very sorry about what happened.”
“He’s still—,” Brook began, then hesitated before going on. “He’s a little young for his age. And we want to keep him from suffering any lasting harm from all this. We want to make sure he’s safe here at Moorehouse.”
“Safe?” Norwood asked, leaning forward. “In what sense?”
“He was drinking,” Michael said. “There’s no denying that.”
“Yes,” Norwood said, looking from Brook to Michael. “But, as I explained, Moorehouse can’t dictate what happens in the privacy of your family. As long as it was Liam alone, and in your own home, I don’t believe that the matter falls under the school’s purview.”
“That’s a relief,” Brook said, smiling for the first time since they sat down.
A Place For Us Page 13
