Lake News

by Barbara Delinsky

  “You’re pushing it, John.”

  “Am I? You can’t picture Rossetti being a stud? Come on, Brian. The pieces fit. Terry is repeatedly beaten, probably defending his mother, who is beaten because she’s in love with Fran Rossetti, who was probably a live ghost in that marital bed. So Terry grows up despising Rossetti, writing essays condemning the church in that Italian neighborhood where his mother grew up, which just happens to be the same one where Rossetti grew up. Rossetti is elevated to Cardinal—a move that is anticipated long enough for Terry to stew. He looks for legitimate dirt, finds none, so he produces it himself.”

  “Did the mother confirm this?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Then it’s all speculation. I still have that tape.”

  “Test it.”

  John could have left it at that. But he hadn’t even mentioned the brother—Neil Sullivan, the priest.

  If that brother had been favored over Terry—if he had been loved more than Terry, beaten less than Terry, and held up to Terry ad nauseam as an example of everything Terry wasn’t—Terry’s resentment would be understandable. It didn’t take a genius to guess that Terry might equate his brother with the Church and hate the two. Nor did it take a genius to wonder whether the mother’s adoration of this first child, this marked-for-priesthood child, had something to do with Fran Rossetti becoming a priest.

  All things considered, John had a good case. But the journalist in him didn’t want a good case. It wanted the best case.

  So he set about locating that brother.

  CHAPTER 24

  Hannah’s birthday was Tuesday. Lily had arranged to leave the cider house early so that she could shower and change, then drive over and help Hannah dress. They were picking up her friends at four, heading to a movie and dinner.

  Lily was startled to find Hannah alone. It seemed that Rose had dropped her home after school and taken off with the younger girls. “I told her to go,” Hannah said. “Emma and Ruthie had gymnastics. I told her to take them. I don’t need her help getting dressed.”

  Lily knew that, but it would have been nice if Rose had chosen to stay. Again she feared that she might have made things worse between mother and daughter. But it was done.

  Hannah was newly showered and draped in a huge towel that was knotted over a flat chest and held in place by the press of pudgy arms. Her hair was dripping down her back in unkempt twists. But she was waiting with a face full of excitement.

  There was something to be said for that, Lily decided, and pushed qualms about Rose aside. Playing the beautician, she sat Hannah on a stool in the bathroom and blow-dried her hair until it was glossy and smooth, with only the slightest curl at the end, per Hannah’s wishes. Discovering bangs she hadn’t realized were there, she blew them out, even cut a few more to produce a full, flattering set. She helped Hannah pull on the green tights, dashed a spritz of her own toilet water behind her ears, then helped her into the Black Watch plaid dress. When it was fastened and straightened, Lily put the ribbon in Hannah’s hair, drawing the sides back and up and draping the tails of the bow along the graceful fall at her shoulders. She turned Hannah to face her, thinking to rub her cheeks for the tiniest bit of color, but the color was already there, a soft pink on flawless ivory skin. Hannah was Rose’s daughter, indeed.

  “You look,” Lily said with a satisfied breath as she turned her niece to the mirror, “absolutely beautiful.”

  Hannah seemed to grow an inch taller, right before her eyes, and the height made her look all the more slim. It was an auspicious start for an auspicious event, the most surprising part of which, for Lily, was Hannah’s friends. They were delightful. Shy at the start, even with Hannah, they quickly warmed. Opening gifts in the car was a perfect ice-breaker. Once they were on the road, Lily, listening from behind the wheel of the Blake Orchards van, heard repeated comments on Hannah’s awesome dress, awesome hair, awesome shoes, all woven through a conversation that was increasingly easy.

  Hannah was lovely and poised, holding her own in looks and sociability with the other girls. More than once Lily wished Rose, Art, Maida could see her. In their absence, she felt pride enough for four.

  Since Hannah had a wonderful time, Lily did, too. She suspected she was predisposed to it, being in a fine mood from the start. What John had learned about Terry changed the picture. The newspaper hadn’t yet agreed to test the authenticity of its tape, but it hadn’t refused. Cassie thought that was a good sign. She was hopeful that if the tape was found to be suspect, a settlement would follow fast.

  Lily didn’t want money. She wanted a public apology, and she wanted it with as much fanfare as there had been when the story first broke. She would never forget the humiliation of having her private life bared for all the world to see. Nothing that happened in Lake Henry could compensate for the unfairness of that. The pain of it rushed back every time she thought about returning to Boston.

  That said, any fears she had about being recognized with Hannah and her friends proved groundless. She didn’t know whether people had forgotten, or fewer had seen her picture than she thought, or her shepherding of five young girls had simply thrown them off the scent, but she saw no one she recognized, and no one who recognized her.

  The whole outing went perfectly, and after the last guest was dropped home, Hannah scrambled into the front seat and, on her knees, leaned over the gear shift and wrapped an arm around Lily’s neck. “Wasn’t my party wonderful?” she cried with all the glee of a child.

  Lily smiled as she drove. “It was.”

  “Didn’t I get neat presents?” Hannah asked and gave an avid commentary on each. She went on for a while about the movie. Then she said, “I liked dinner even better—and not because of the food,” she quickly added, “but because my dress was pretty and I was with my friends.”

  “Your dress was pretty, but the girl in it was beautiful.”

  “They kept saying that, didn’t they?” Hannah asked, beaming.

  “They certainly did.”

  “Oh. Look, Aunt Lily. You missed the turn to my house.”

  “Want to stop quickly at Gram’s? Tell her about the party?”

  “Yeah!”

  But Maida wasn’t alone. Rose was there with Emma and Ruth, both of whom were in their pajamas and ready for bed. Hannah thought this was the greatest thing, her mother being right there when she stepped triumphantly from the van. All Lily could think was that if she hadn’t decided to stop here first, Hannah would have gone home to an empty house.

  Not an empty house. Art was probably there. But Art wasn’t Rose. Hannah needed her mother to see her. She needed Rose to tell her how pretty she looked, needed Rose to see that she wasn’t all bad.

  But Maida was the one to come forward first, her eyes large with surprised pleasure. “Look at you,” she said with genuine enthusiasm. Holding Hannah’s shoulders, she looked her up and down. “You’re gorgeous. But where’s the little girl? This one’s so grown-up!”

  “It’s me,” Hannah said with a shy smile. Her eyes went to her mother.

  “How was the party?” Rose asked, and for a minute the night’s silence was broken only by the chirp of a cricket that the day’s sun had revived.

  Maida glanced at Rose.

  “It was neat,” Hannah told her mother; then she told her sisters, “I got presents,” and they ran forward to see.

  Fearing she would say something ugly to Rose, Lily went into the house. She settled in behind the baby grand, lifted the lid, and stroked the keys. It didn’t take long for her anger to fizzle. Simple arpeggios did that. She moved on to something classical and slow. As she relaxed, she played more current songs. They were smooth and slow, easy, sweet. She sang when the words came, hummed when they didn’t. Increasingly, she was drawn into the music, absorbed by it, so that she didn’t hear Maida arrive. She didn’t realize she was there at all until she ended a song, rolled her head back and around to stretch her neck muscles, and happened to pass the doorway with her
eyes.

  She stopped and righted her head. “Have they left?”

  Maida nodded. She was standing just over the threshold, with her hands in the pockets of a pair of soft, slim pants. Despite the pose, she seemed tense. “Do you miss playing?”

  Lily nodded. She moved her hands over the keys but didn’t know what song to play.

  “They could use you at the academy,” Maida said.

  “Here?”

  “You could do what you did in Boston.”

  “Don’t they have someone?”

  “He isn’t very good. The head of the school is my friend. I could put in a word.”

  Lily didn’t know what to say. It was a high compliment. But she didn’t know how long she was staying—and Maida was suddenly frowning.

  “Is history repeating itself?” Maida blurted out.

  Lily didn’t follow. “What?”

  Maida’s expression deepened. Lily would have said she was angry, but the word “tormented” came to mind first.

  “Rose. Just now,” Maida said. “Is that what I did to you?”

  Lily’s heart began to pound. Not wanting to argue, she looked down at the keys.

  “Tell me, Lily.”

  She raised her head. “Different circumstances—”

  “But the same effect.”

  Lily paused, then nodded.

  Maida folded her arms on her chest. She raised her eyes to the ceiling. Astonishingly, they were lined with tears.

  Lily felt awkward. She didn’t know her mother this way. Putting her hands in her lap, she tried to rein in her heart.

  In time, Maida’s eyes met hers. “I’m sorry,” she said and swallowed. “That was wrong of me.”

  “It’s okay,” Lily rushed out. “You had other things on your mmm-mind. You were busy with Daddy and the clubs and three kids; and anyway, I had Celia.”

  “It was wrong of me.” There was a challenge in it now, a demand—and just enough of an edge in her voice to catapult Lily back in time.

  That quickly, the hurt was brand new. “Then why did you do it?” Tormented. Yes, indeed, that was the look Maida wore, but Lily raced on. “Because of my stutter? I don’t do that on purpose.”

  “I know.”

  “Was I so hard to love?”

  Maida’s eyes went wide. “I loved you. I do.”

  “You never said it. You never showed it. You were glad when I left.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “It seemed the right thing to do after… that incident.”

  “I didn’t steal any car.”

  “I know.”

  “But you wanted me gone.”

  Maida shook her head, then stopped, seeming to realize that she was contradicting herself. She pushed her fists deep in her pockets and pressed her arms to her body.

  “Why?” Lily asked.

  Maida shook her head.

  Lily wanted to ask what that meant, but she suddenly wanted something else more. Maida didn’t have to answer. All she had to do was to cross the room and take Lily in her arms. If she had done that, Lily might have forgiven her anything.

  But she didn’t come forward. She stood at the door wearing that same tormented look. After a bit, she averted her eyes, bowed her head, and left.

  * * *

  “I may skip work tomorrow,” Lily told John that night. They were lying in her bed, face-to-face in the reflected light of a harvest moon. A pair of loons chorused on the lake. It should have calmed her, but there was a thread of fury deep inside that wouldn’t go away.

  “How come?” he asked.

  “My mother takes me for granted.”

  “Did you have a fight?”

  She said a terse “No.”

  “Then a polite difference of opinion?” he teased.

  Grumpy, she tugged his beard. “I’m not telling you. You’ll put it in your book.”

  “Uh-uh. The deal is that I can’t use anything unless you say it when you’re fully clothed.”

  Yes. That was the deal. And she did trust that he would keep it. “She apologized.”

  “For what?”

  “The past.”

  John raised his head. “Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”

  Lily felt another twist of anger. “Yes.”

  “But?”

  “It’s not enough.”

  He stroked her hair. It calmed her some. Gently, he said, “You’re very demanding.”

  “Yes.” A month ago, an apology would have been fine. But a month ago, Lily had been in Boston. She had no interest in a life in Lake Henry. Now, here, suddenly—she needed more. “She was awful to me. She made me fff-feel unwanted and unloved and ugly.”

  “You were never ugly.”

  “Ugly inside. Like there was something wrong with me. Know who finally got me feeling better about myself?”

  “The Cardinal.”

  “He taught me that we all make mistakes. Well, the whole world knows mine. I want to know hers. I want her to talk about what she felt for me and why she felt that way. I need her to say it wasn’t me.”

  Lily did go to work on Wednesday. After venting to John, she slept well. She was mellow and rested by the time morning came.

  Maida wasn’t. She looked tired. For the first time, Lily thought about widowhood and what it meant to a woman like her mother. Maida had lived with George for nearly thirty-three years, overseeing the house while he oversaw the business. Now she did both, and she did it alone. There was no one to turn to at night, no one to give the kind comfort John had given Lily.

  But Maida did have a business. From what Lily could see, aside from one backhoe that needed replacing and two workers with broken bones, she was running it well.

  Lily had to admire her for that—and to feel compassion when Maida took a break from culling apples to rub her lower back. When they broke for lunch, Lily waited for her. They walked down to the house together.

  “Is your back bothering you?” Lily asked.

  “A little. It’s a muscle. Nothing important.”

  “Can you rest it?”

  “In January. Not much to do here in January.”

  “You pull too much weight getting the crates on the lift.”

  “Someone has to do it.”

  “Oralee could.”

  “Oralee’s too old.”

  “I could.”

  “You’re too young.”

  Lily didn’t say anything.

  They were nearly at the house when Maida said a tentative “You could.”

  They changed places that afternoon—just an experiment, both agreed—but it worked well. Maida layered racks and cloths and let Bub do the pulling and pushing. Lily got crates on the lift, dumped apples in the bath, culled out bad ones, adjusted pulleys, and raised and lowered the press. She drove the loader when it was time to bring more apples in from the yard, and shimmied under the press when one of the drainage tubes popped a leak, and she loved it all, because she could do it all. She hadn’t felt such a sense of accomplishment since… since she couldn’t remember when. And contentment. That, too. There was something about putting in a full day’s work at a place with her family name on the sign.

  CHAPTER 25

  Father Neil Sullivan, Terry’s brother, lived in Burlington, Vermont. When he wasn’t at his church, Christ the King, he was counseling college students at a guidance center in town, or teaching at their school. John would have saved himself the trip and simply called on the phone if he had thought the man would talk, but reason said that he wouldn’t. Terry hadn’t betrayed him; he wouldn’t betray Terry.

  John did call the church beforehand to make sure that Father Sullivan was in town and not off somewhere in another part of the country. The secretary at the rectory said that he was at St. Michael’s College, teaching a course. St. Michael’s was in Colchester, the town abutting Burlington. That was all John needed to know.

  Having arranged for one of his correspondents to distribute Lake News, he left Lake Henry as soon as he finished w
iring the paper to the printer. Burlington was a five-hour drive. Assuming, optimistically, that he would spend a few hours with the priest, it would be late when he was done. Barring anything so unpleasant as to put him on the road sooner, he figured he would stay the night.

  John knew Burlington. For five years running, dating back to his days with the Post, he had participated in a journalism seminar at the University of Vermont. He liked the city—liked the way it rose on a hill overlooking Lake Champlain, liked the aura of energy and excitement that came from six colleges, with sixteen thousand students milling about. Though fall had well passed its peak here, the late-afternoon sun more than compensated with color on both lake and sky.

  At Christ the King, John learned that Father Sullivan was at the guidance center, which he drove to in no time. It was located on the second floor of one of the Federal-style buildings that overlooked the waterfront, and consisted of a comfortably furnished, if magazine-and-Styrofoam-coffee-cup-strewn reception area and several offices off a long hall.

  The reception area was empty. The doors of two of the three offices were closed, though the fluorescent lights blazing through glass panels high above suggested they were in use.

  John wandered down the hall to the open door. The office was empty. He was about to return to the reception area to wait when a woman appeared at the far end of the hall, on the threshold of what looked to be a small kitchen. She was of average height and build, with long hair center-parted and wire-rimmed glasses. John figured her to be in her late thirties. Between that and the tailored look of her sweater and slacks, he guessed she wasn’t a counselee.

  “May I help you?” she asked in an authoritative voice.

  “I’m looking for Father Neil Sullivan.”

  She came down the hall, pointing at one of the closed doors as she passed. “He’ll be done shortly. Do you have an appointment?”