Michael Eddy didn’t think so. He knew exactly how much the school paid her and, even allowing for her work at the club, wanted to know how she could afford Aruba and a BMW. She told him how, as she had told Elizabeth, and when Peter Oliver asked about Victoria’s Secret, she explained that she bought jeans there, not lingerie. When people stared passing her in the halls, she simply walked on. When faculty members left her sitting alone in the cafeteria, she read a book. She might have taken her frustration out on Mitch Rellejik, only he didn’t come in until late. Midafternoon, as soon as she finished work, she left school, genuinely happy to be done for the day.
She took heart when she saw that the press contingent remained lighter than it had been the day before, and once in her apartment, dared turn on the evening news. It was a mistake. The story was covered prominently on every channel, taking parts of the morning’s stories and giving them lurid twists, and there were more photographs. In one she scowled at the camera. In another she hid her face. And then there were the glamour shots.
Lily had classy publicity photos taken shortly after she arrived in Boston. She also had older ones that were beautiful and dignified. Naturally, the media didn’t use those. They were painting a picture of a woman who lived above her means and paid for it by sleeping with powerful men. So they chose the most lurid shots they could find, from her earliest days in New York, in which the skimpy leotards she wore emphasized slim legs, narrow hips, and full breasts.
She felt naked and exposed. She also felt furious—embarrassed—horrified!
Worst, she didn’t know what to do, and told Dan Curry as much when she arrived at the club. He gave her the name of a lawyer, which was small solace. More comforting, he had word from the Cardinal.
“He’s sick about this, Lily. We’re all sitting around wondering whether the Pope will reverse his elevation, and the Cardinal is sitting around worrying about you. As far as he’s concerned, you didn’t ask for this, you don’t deserve it, you’re a victim caught in the line of fire. His lawyers have told him not to be in direct touch with you, but he doesn’t like it.”
That was fine, she thought. Still, a call from him might have been nice. Even one made from a phone booth. Or a friend’s telephone. Just to make her feel less alone. But she understood. He was in a bind.
“He’s thinking of you, Lily. He told me to tell you that he knows you have the strength to weather this and come out stronger and even more sure of yourself than before.”
Lily clung to those words through a difficult night of playing before an audience that stared and talked and crowded in on her. She went to bed praying that this was the worst, and after an on-again, off-again sleep, woke up feeling tired and tense. She was listening to a ponderous Tchaikovsky piece that reflected her mood when a somber Elizabeth appeared at the door with the morning Post. The headline read, DETAILS EMERGE ON CARDINAL’S WOMAN.
With a hard swallow, Lily took the paper, and at first there was nothing more than a recap of the allegations. Then, to her dismay, Terry Sullivan turned to Lake Henry.
Blake comes from a well-to-do family in the small, north central town of Lake Henry, New Hampshire. Her father was a major landowner until his death three years ago. Her mother lives in the family’s large stone farmhouse and oversees the hundreds of acres of apple orchards that make the family business one of the region’s major producers of apple cider.
The Post’s Headline Team has learned that Blake grew up with a severe stutter that kept her apart from other children.
Lily sucked in a breath. Swallowing, she read on.
She turned to singing as a means of communication. Experts on speech defects confirm that this is common. “Our casebooks are filled with examples of children who are unable to complete a spoken sentence, yet can sing an entire song without fault,” said Susan Block, director of speech therapy in the Boston public schools. She also confirmed that severe speech defects may create emotional problems.
In Blake’s case, these took the form of rebellion. When she was sixteen, she was involved in the commission of a felony. Apprehended and charged alongside a twenty-year-old accomplice, who spent six months in prison for the crime, Blake was put on probation. She completed that sentence shortly before graduating from high school, and left town soon after.
With a horrified cry, Lily dropped the paper. Devastated, she looked at Elizabeth. She started to speak, but had to take a calming breath before the words would come out. “That file was sealed!” she finally said. “The judge told us no one would ever see it!”
Elizabeth couldn’t hide her curiosity. “What did you do?”
What did she do? She’d been dumb, was what she did. She’d been dumb and young and dying to be popular.
“The boy I was with stole a car. I didn’t know it was stolen, and there I was, smiling and laughing, having the time of my life because Donny Kipling was so tough he was cool. I was sixteen. I hadn’t ever been kissed. I had barely dated, so I went out with him in that car, and he just kept saying, ‘Don’t worry, this is fun,’ but he told the police I planned it, and witnesses said I looked like I was really into it. There was no trial. The case was continued without a judgment, and when I finished my probation, the charges were dropped.”
Numb, she picked up the paper again.
Blake rarely returned to Lake Henry after that. Sources who wish to remain anonymous have told the Post that she is estranged from her mother and her sister Rose. Another sister, Poppy, refused to comment on a recent conversation she held with Blake.
“How did they know I talked to Poppy?” she asked. Then, furious, she remembered. “Someone listened in on my phone. I heard that click.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Elizabeth said. “They’ll do what they have to for a story.”
Hadn’t Terry said as much? “But the judge sealed that file. How could they learn about it?” She felt violated and exposed.
“Bribery.”
“That’s not fair.”
Elizabeth was suddenly apologetic. “Neither is this. I have to cancel you out for the Kagan fund-raiser.”
Lily stared at her, stunned.
“Campaign manager’s orders,” Elizabeth said, gesturing toward the newspaper. “He called when he saw this. It’s too inflammatory. Your being there would be an event in itself. Distracting from the candidate.”
Lily knew there was more to it. “She doesn’t want to be associated with me.”
“Don’t take it personally. It’s politics. One bad connection can ruin a candidate.”
“But I’m not a bad connection. The picture they’ve painted is false.”
Elizabeth sighed. “It really doesn’t matter, y’know? The fact is that this is on the front page of every paper in the state. It’d be suicide for Kagan if you play at her event. I can’t do it, Lily. I’m sorry.” She backed toward the door as the phone rang. “Don’t answer it,” she warned as she left, “and don’t turn on Justin Barr.”
Unbeknownst to Elizabeth, her instructions were connected, and remarkably prescient. But she wasn’t there to hear what Lily heard on her machine, the pompous voice of a guy who thought he was bigger than big. “Lily? Are you there, Lily? This is Justin Barr, and we’re on the air. My listeners want to hear your side of the story—”
“They do not,” Lily muttered and turned off the machine. She packed up for school, went down the back way, and ran off through the waiting crowd, wearing sunglasses so that no one would see if she cried—and if she did, it wouldn’t be from fear or sadness. Her jaw was rigid. She was absolutely, positively furious.
Michael Eddy was waiting for her at the large wooden door of the school. He let her in and held up a warning hand to the press, but the warning shifted her way when he said, “My office, please.”
Putting the sunglasses on her head, she followed him there. He didn’t offer her a seat. She didn’t take one.
“I’m getting calls from parents and trustees,” he said, with one hand on the back of a chair
and the other at the nape of his neck. His eyes were accusing. “They want to know how we could hire someone with a criminal record to teach their children. I told them we didn’t know. I want you to tell me why we didn’t.”
Lily’s heart was pounding so hard it practically shook her blouse. With what little breath was left, she said, “I don’t have a criminal record. The case was dismissed. The file was sealed. I was told that that protected me.”
“Who told you that?”
“My lawyer. The judge. It was very clear.”
“Didn’t you think the parents here would care?”
She thought about how to answer, but the longer she thought, the more angry she grew. “What’s there to care about? I’ve told the truth. I was never convicted of anything.”
“Then why the probation? And why a sealed file? You’re teaching children here, Lily. You should have said something.”
She disagreed. But Michael wasn’t in her shoes—and she wasn’t in his. She looked at him, not knowing what to say.
He sighed. “I hired you, and I’m the head, so I’m on the hot seat. I mean, hell, Justin Barr is making us look like fools. He’s riling up the same people we solicit for the annual fund.” His shoulders drooped. “I won’t fire you. You’ve done too good a job. But I’m asking you to take a voluntary leave of absence.”
Her eyes went wide. She loved her work here, she needed the money, and she hadn’t done anything wrong! Frightened, she asked, “For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Until this blows over? Until people forget?”
“That may take a while.”
The way he said it, the way he stared at her without blinking, told her more. “A permanent leave of absence,” she said, because the whole situation was so absurd, why not that?
“An indefinite leave. Just until you find a job somewhere else.”
She stared right back, angry at him now and not caring that he knew. He could play with words all he wanted, but yes, he was firing her. She tried to see it from his side. All she saw was a man who didn’t have the courage to stand up for someone he believed in.
The bottom line, of course, was that he didn’t believe in her.
Fitting her sunglasses to her nose, she left the office. She refused to think about the a cappella groups that she had brought so far, refused to think about the soccer player who couldn’t play the piano for beans but was learning something about music. She refused to think about the dozens of students she had taught and enjoyed in the last three years, and instead let her anger carry her to the front door; but sentimentality welled up anyway.
It died the minute she saw reporters on the steps. They came to life, surging toward her as she walked.
“Why are you leaving so soon?”
“How does the Winchester School stand on this matter?”
“Have you been in touch with the board of trustees?”
She tried to blot them out, but the questions were too close, too loud, too galling.
“Is the stutter the reason you won’t talk with us?”
“Is it true that the New Hampshire charge was for grand theft?”
“Were you having sex with your accomplice?”
Revulsed, Lily shot a look at the man asking that question, wondering what hole he had slithered from. “That’s disgusting,” she murmured and walked quickly on, ignoring another round of questions until a familiar voice said, “Are you prepared to apologize to the parents of Winchester students? They feel deceived.”
It was bald-headed, baby-faced Paul Rizzo. She eyed him sharply. “How do you know?”
“I’ve interviewed them. They’re paying big bucks to educate their kids, and they think it’s inappropriate for someone with your history to be teaching here. Would you comment on that?”
She shook her head and returned to ignoring the questions, but she couldn’t shake a sense of hurt. Yes, those parents were paying a lot of money, but if the point was a good education, she had delivered—and she hadn’t been overpaid, that was for sure, not given her salary, not given the hours she put in. Those parents had a good deal.
They should have known it, should have appreciated it, should have felt even a small measure of loyalty. Same with Michael. Same with the board of trustees.
Besides, allegations were unproven charges. What about being innocent until proven guilty?
By the time she got home, she was angry again. She let herself into the lobby, all but closing the door in the face of Paul Rizzo, who had been breathing down her neck. She strode to the elevator, pressed the button hard, and listened for the clank and whirr inside that would tell her it was on its way. When the sounds grew more distant, she looked at the panel. The elevator had risen to the top floor.
Tony Cohn lived there along with five other tenants, but Murphy’s Law said that he would be the one en route to the lobby, so she was prepared when the door finally opened.
He did a double take when he saw her, stepped out of the elevator, glanced at the front door, and swore. “Do you know what an imposition all this is?” he asked in a voice she had never heard. “I rent here for the prestige of it. Forget that now.”
She was so taken aback that she didn’t think to stutter. “I didn’t ask them to come.”
“No, but thanks to you they’re here. Do you know that I’ve gotten calls? Phone calls? The Post, Cityside, even my own friends, wanting to know about you.” He swore again, stepped back into the elevator, with her in it now, and punched the garage button before she could punch her own. She had no choice but to go down first.
She retreated into a corner of the elevator, folded her arms on her chest, and wondered what she had ever seen in Tony Cohn. Scowling, he wasn’t attractive at all—and he had never given her the time of day, not really.
He snorted and said, “When I took this apartment I had the realtor check out the other tenants. The slate was supposed to be clean.”
“It is clean.” Then it occurred to her that what he had just said was odd. “You checked out the other tenants? Why would you do that?”
The door slid open. “Some of us have images to protect.”
He was out before she found a suitable retort, so she put a foot against the door to hold it open and called after him, “Only ones with their own secrets to hide!”
She let the door close, jabbed at the button for her floor, and glowered as the elevator began its ascent, thinking that every cloud did have a silver lining, and that if nothing else, this fiasco had shown her what an arrogant, egocentric jerk Tony Cohn was.
By the time she reached her floor she was regretting having wasted a single fantasy on the man. But she forgot about him completely when she opened the door to her apartment and heard the phone ringing. Dropping her briefcase, she gripped the back of the chair until the ringing stopped. She heard her own voice—then remembered that she had turned the machine off that morning. Ten consecutive rings would have turned it on again, which meant that she’d had at least one persistent caller.
“Uh, yes,” said a hungover-sounding male voice, “I’m calling for Lily Blake. I’m, uh, a writer. I ghostwrote the biography of Brandi Forrest, uh, she’s the lead singer with the rock group Dead Weight Off. Anyway, I’m sure you’re getting lotsa other calls, but if you, uh, want someone to write your story, we should talk. I, uh, already called my publisher. They like the idea of sex and religion. They can get something out real fast. Uh. It’s all in the timing. So if you want, call me.” He left a number with an area code that she didn’t recognize.
Lily erased the message, then listened to those preceding it. Justin Barr must have been the persistent one, because his call came first. He called three additional times, at twenty-minute intervals. There were also calls from reporters in Chicago, St. Louis, and Los Angeles—all leaving names and numbers, as if she would really return their calls. There were messages from two friends expressing concern, and messages from two clients canceling engagements.
There was also a message from Daniel Curry, asking her to call. His voice held an odd edge. Nervous, she punched out the number of the club. His greeting was gentle enough, but she heard that edge again. “Tell me,” she said, steeling herself, and he sighed.
“You know how I feel, Lily. I know nothing happened. I believe in both of you. I love both of you, so this tears me apart, but here’s my problem. The phone has been ringing off the hook with complaints.”
“Complaints?”
“We’re completely booked for tonight, large tables, mostly sixes and eights.”
“Isn’t that good?”
“Not this time. Regulars can’t get reservations. Others complained about having to wade through reporters last night. The thing is that these people are the backbone of the club. The ones booking large tables now are fly-by-nights. They aren’t the ones who’ll be coming weekly, six months or a year from now. They’re just jumping on the scandal bandwagon, one member inviting five, six, seven friends for the show, but that’s not fair to the faithful.”
Lily had a death grip on the phone. She knew what was coming.
“I could take the easy way out,” Dan said. “I could blame it on money and say that the regulars will defect and then where will we be—but they won’t, Lily. It isn’t a matter of financial survival. It’s the principle of the thing. I’ve always run the club a certain way. It’s a quiet, private place. A classy place. That’s why we loved having you play. Because you are classy.”
She waited.
“But this whole business is sordid,” he said. “Not a word of it is true, but it is sordid. Members are getting calls from the likes of Terry Sullivan and Paul Rizzo. Justin Barr is trashing us—not that we’d ever let that bastard step foot in the place, but he’s creating a notoriety that we just don’t need. Having people come to the club just to see—quote unquote—the woman who seduced the Cardinal, isn’t what we’re about.”
Lake News Page 7
