Now, as Gen unfolded the bills to count them again, a piece of paper fluttered to the carpet—Fenton’s folded check for five hundred dollars, which he’d asked her to hold in case he needed to make bail. He hadn’t requested it back, probably out of embarrassment. She stared at it for a moment, her fingers leaving sweaty marks on the edges. How easy it would be to write her own name on the blank line, to literally make him pay. But for what? For disappointing her? As friends so often do, she thought.
And that made her reconsider what he’d asked of her, and hatch a plan for what she needed of him now.
When she appeared unannounced at his door, Fenton’s face clocked surprise for a split second before he clutched her hand and drew her into his rooms. At just past 7 p.m., he was already wearing his flannel bathrobe, a Black Watch tartan that looked new. She resisted the urge to test the softness of the sleeve.
“Want a drink?” he asked, nodding toward the table where he’d set down a glass of honey-hued liquid next to a bottle of Jim Beam.
She shook her head and unclasped her pocketbook without speaking. The check lay loosely among the bag’s sparse contents—her Parker pen, comb, hanky, car keys, compact. When she held the slip of folded paper out to him, Fenton’s lips formed a small O.
“I forgot about this,” he said.
“You didn’t for a minute, don’t pretend. I’m the one who forgot.”
He winced at her growling tone. “Well, you’ve had other things on your mind. But you could have dropped it in the mail, you know, or just voided it. I’m probably the last person you wanted to see.”
“No, that would be the provost.”
Fenton smiled at the dark joke. Gen’s eyes drifted back to his table and the glass he’d abandoned there. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take that drink.”
He splashed a generous amount into her glass and topped off his own. Although he invited her to sit with him on the couch, Gen said she preferred to stand.
“You came to me with the check, and that was a big favor to ask,” she began.
He examined his drink before taking a slow, refined sip, the way debonair men drank in old movies. “And I’m guessing you have a favor to ask me?” He paused. “The answer is yes.”
“You haven’t heard it yet.”
“The answer is still yes. I—lately I’ve been so angry at myself for the way I hurt you that . . . well, I can’t even tell you what I’ve been planning.”
A chill ran up her arms. She’d never pictured him as the suicidal type, but she knew some gay people chose that path when they lost hope. Gen assessed him over her own drink, which she had yet to sample. “Nothing stupid, I hope.”
Laughter rippled out of him, and she relaxed. “Oh, not that, hon. I ain’t done with this world yet.” He paused. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about getting another job.”
“Where?”
“New York. For the breathing room.” His head tilted to observe her better. “You might like New York.”
Her laugh was more of a sputter. “Where I’d do . . . what?”
Fenton shrugged. “Last I saw, New York had schools, archives. Places where history people go.” The conversation had reached a bizarre intersection that reminded her of past talks with Carolyn. She needed to end this conversation and show her hand.
“Look, never mind with that. I need your help.” The bourbon burned her throat on its way down. “Susanna Carr is one of your students, isn’t she?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Fenton
“Anyone seen Margaret?”
Fenton scanned the table twice, but Margaret was missing. Her stellar audition had gained her the choice role of Emily Webb.
“She wasn’t in my lit class today either,” one girl offered.
A bug was sweeping across campus, and cast members had clear instructions to stay away if they were ill and to notify Joan, the secretary.
Fenton shuffled his papers, searching for a note from the secretary. Nothing. He’d selected Susanna Carr as the understudy for Emily. Her acting chops didn’t compare to Margaret’s, but he hoped Margaret had simply neglected to send word.
“Susanna, you’ll have to read for both Mrs. Webb and Emily until we can locate our leading lady.”
Susanna straightened in her chair. The girl had not hidden her desire to play Emily, rather than Emily’s mother, and she did a passable job as they progressed through the acts.
After the table read, he asked Susanna if she could stop into his office.
“It’s getting pretty late, Mr. Page,” she said, after a nervous peek at her wristwatch. “I have reading for your class tomorrow.”
“I’ll excuse you from that. We’ll mostly be doing improv anyway. This is important.”
Instead of closing his office door or leaving it cracked a few inches for privacy, he flung it open. The students had departed quickly, and the only person left in the building was the janitor, who was tidying the stage upstairs and unlikely to overhear.
“I hope my reading was okay.” The girl’s voice wobbled.
Fenton searched for an adjective that would respect her effort. “It was solid, Susanna. I’m grateful to you for pinch hitting. Hopefully, you won’t have to do it again.” Her pleased expression faded, and he added, “Only because I hope Margaret’s okay. Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh, I can’t stage manage again,” she said before he could explain. “That was more work than I thought.”
“It looks like we’re all set with that, as long as no one else takes sick. No, this is actually about one of your friends.”
Susanna’s face clouded. “You mean Lee-Anne?”
Word had spread that Lee-Anne had withdrawn from Baines. Fenton’s thoughts shot back to Margaret, who’d also been interviewed. Had her parents taken her out of school, too?
“I do.” He leaned forward in his chair, mustering his concerned professor affect. “I’m worried about her. And you.”
“How do you know Lee-Anne?” Her eyes narrowed.
He didn’t. The Blakeney girl had never enrolled in one of his classes or auditioned for anything. When he ran into Susanna on the quad or the library, she was often accompanied by a blond girl, but he couldn’t summon up a clear visual.
“I’m worried in general,” he hurried to say, “about all you girls.”
Susanna stared with her mouth slightly open, but she didn’t speak.
He delved further, as gently as he could. “Is there anything, well, going on that you wish you could tell someone?”
Her forehead creased. “You know what’s going on, Mr. Page. Nobody likes it.”
“The interviews?”
Susanna nodded, her gaze falling to her lap. “Thank God they haven’t called me. Seems like it’s just history majors. I don’t know what I’d say.”
After a pause, he pressed on, “You mean about Dr. Rider?”
The girl fidgeted. “I’ve only had her for the one class,” she said. “I was amazed I got an A. She’s tough.”
He leaned in closer. “Did Lee-Anne tell you her concerns about Dr. Rider?”
Susanna blinked rapidly. “It was news to me. And we used to tell each other everything.” She cast her glance toward the open door. Her voice turned soft and urgent. “Promise you won’t say anything to anyone?”
Fenton zipped his lips.
“It’s just—well, she’s been my best friend forever, and now she won’t even talk to me. When I call her house, her mother says she’s ‘indisposed.’ Like she’s sick or something, but she isn’t. It’s weird.”
He’d been hoping for a more substantial revelation. “Is she angry with you, maybe?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, no. The interviews got her all worked up. And Dr.—” Susanna bit her top lip. “Let’s just say I’m not sure this is about Dr. Rider.”
Fenton scratched his cheek. “What’s the ‘this’?”
“Her going through whatever it is she’s g
oing through . . . like a nervous breakdown or something. My aunt had one of those, but she’s at least fifty.” The girl jerked at a noise in the hallway.
“It’s fine. Old buildings creak,” Fenton reassured her. “Susanna, nerves can hit you at any age. Maybe it’s schoolwork, or pressure to do something you don’t want to. Or having to keep a secret.”
Susanna stood abruptly. “I should go.”
“Of course.” Fenton’s mind raced to keep her in place. She had crumpled on the verge of divulging something.
“Susanna, I just want to say, if you have a secret that’s weighing you down, you can tell me. I might be able to help.”
Susanna grabbed her bag from the floor and was gone before he had even stood up.
Fenton sank back into his chair and propped his chin in his hands. He despaired about telling Gen he hadn’t gleaned any information from Susanna—the one request she’d made of him, and he’d failed. He postponed calling her.
And then, after class the following morning, Susanna tapped on the glass of his office door.
“I do sort of have a secret,” she said slowly.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Margaret
Margaret ignored the knocking until it grew more insistent and rhythmic, like a woodpecker’s drumming. She dragged herself to the door and undid the lock her parents had agreed to with reluctance when she was fifteen. In the frame, Margaret’s mother swept a long, critical look from her fuzzy slippers to her uncombed hair.
“You can’t stay in there forever.” She crossed her arms in front of her.
“I won’t.”
“It’s been almost two days, Margie. Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”
“I told you.”
“But you said the professor they’re investigating is gone.”
“There could be more.” Margaret bit at a ragged fingernail until her mother lightly pushed her hand away from her mouth.
“I thought you broke that habit.”
“This whole terrible thing has brought it back!” Margaret said. “I’m a nervous wreck, Mama.” Tears stung her eyes, remembering the humiliation of her interview by the attorney, how he’d implied she was a lesbian.
The tears made her mother’s face soften, and she wrapped an arm around her. Margaret let her head fall to her mother’s shoulder, trying to ignore the sharpness of the bone.
After a silence, Margaret ventured, “I’d like to transfer.”
Her mother’s posture stiffened, and she dropped her comforting arm. “Baines is a prestigious school and connected to Davis and Lee. You could meet a nice boy—”
“But this changes everything,” Margaret insisted. “I heard other girls are leaving, too. The place is tainted, Mama.”
Her mother raised her eyebrows. “Maybe there are a few rotten apples,” she said. “It’s not the entire college.”
Margaret erupted in sobs. She had thought even a whiff of scandal would be enough to sway her parents to let her leave. The idea that her mother might drive her back so soon, that she might have to face Dean Rolfe and the horrible Mr. Burnside once more made her gulp for air.
“Now what is all this?” Her mother slipped her arm around her shoulders again, and the gesture soothed her. Margaret blew her nose into a clean hanky her mother offered.
“Don’t make me go back!” She turned the lace-trimmed square over and over in her hands. Her tears were real, but her mama didn’t need to know what caused them.
“You’ll lose the credits for this semester if you drop out now,” her mother said. “We already paid—”
“I’ll get a job. I’ll pay you back! I know Daddy will be mad, but you can talk him into it, Mama, I know you can. He didn’t even want me to go to college until you convinced him.”
She remembered the closed-door arguments between her parents, her mother’s measured tone, her father’s bellowing. Her mother had married two years out of high school, when Margaret’s father finished college, but neither Margaret nor her sister showed prospects of an early wedding. While at Baines, their mother had reasoned, the girls would have their pick of boys at Davis and Lee. “Damned expensive way to find a husband,” her father had complained before giving in.
In desperation now, Margaret suggested, “I could transfer to a state school. That would be so much cheaper.” Her mind skipped through the possibilities. “How about William and Mary?”
Her mother didn’t reject the idea out of hand, even though Williamsburg was clear across the state. William and Mary could compete with the best of private schools, and it was her father’s alma mater. Nearly thirty years after his graduation, he still made the trip to Williamsburg most Octobers for Homecoming.
Mrs. Sutter patted her leg and rose to leave. “We’ll talk about this more when your father gets home,” she said—a good sign that she was weighing the plan’s merits. “Nobody wants you scared to go to school.”
“Thank you, Mama!”
“Nothing’s settled. Your father’s still the head of this family, and don’t you forget it.”
Her mother clicked the door closed behind her. Margaret collapsed back onto her bed, hope recharging her body.
✥ ✥ ✥
At an early hour when she knew Polly would be in biology lab, Margaret drove her mother’s station wagon to campus to pick up her belongings. She avoided the front door of Freeman Hall, opting for the back entrance and stairwell that led almost directly to Room 314. Aside from one girl heading to the showers, she sneaked in without seeing anyone she knew.
When she unlocked the door, her room was uncharacteristically dark, with blinds drawn like on Saturday mornings when she and Polly both slept in. She switched on the overhead, and Polly whimpered from her narrow bed.
Margaret flipped the light off. “Polly, you slept through lab!” A sliver of light peeked through a cracked slat in one of the blinds, and she inched cautiously toward her own half of the room. Polly was somewhere under a lump of scratchy-looking army blankets.
“Until you woke me up.” Polly groaned. “I’m sick. Bet it’s that awful bug going around.”
Polly sat up in bed and turned on her nightstand lamp, also army issue. When Margaret had first seen Polly’s furnishings at the beginning of the school year, she had asked if her father was in the service because so much of what the girl owned was olive green. Polly had admitted to buying everything cheap and last minute at the Army-Navy store in her hometown. With Margaret’s bright quilt, framed Monet prints, and brass desk lamp, an invisible curtain of color and taste separated the two sides of their room.
“Where have you been the past three days anyway?” Polly asked as Margaret shoved notebooks and pens into a box.
“Home,” Margaret said. She hoped that would shut the questions down; she didn’t want to get into anything with Polly.
Polly was upright now and watching her closely. She had lifted the blind on her window to admit more light. “So . . . what? You’re moving out?”
Margaret couldn’t face her roommate. Her lashes felt wet, and crying would only slow her down. “Damn,” she said under her breath when a box’s lid wouldn’t close.
The honk of Polly blowing her nose filled the room. “You got way too much stuff. There’s an empty box at the bottom of my closet you can have. I’d get it for you, but with germs and all . . .”
Margaret fetched the box from Polly’s closet with trepidation. She had never looked inside the closet and expected lab equipment to fall out on top of her. The inside, however, was as orderly as an army private’s. An empty box was folded up, like it was waiting for her.
“Don’t tell me you’re dropping out.” Polly’s voice was hoarse. When Margaret didn’t reply, her roommate added, “Good God, you’re dropping out.”
“Transferring.”
“At the beginning of the semester?”
Margaret sighed. “You sure have gotten nosy.”
“Nobody transfers in February, Sutter.” Only Polly called her
by her last name, as if they were prep school boys.
“So I’ll be the first.”
“Christ, you’re stubborn.” Polly pulled her blankets up around her chin.
Margaret had lugged her mother’s biggest suitcase with her, the one purchased for an anniversary trip to London, and now she proceeded to fold and stack her clothes neatly onto the creamy satin lining. She had intended to be quick with her packing, but now some part of her wanted to linger and hear her roommate’s voice one last time.
A long silence followed, punctuated only by a raspy cough from Polly’s side of the room. “You know, it doesn’t matter to me,” Polly said.
Margaret lifted her eyes. “That I’m leaving?”
Polly coughed again, but this time it sounded forced. “What people say about you.”
Margaret’s cheeks burned with shame. She didn’t want to know what anyone said about her.
“They’re not worth your time.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Margaret’s eyes were filling again, and she turned away. She busied herself with removing Monet’s water lilies from the wall and wrapping the framed print in a pillowcase.
“You’re a smart girl. You shouldn’t let them ruin your life.”
She could have hugged Polly. “They haven’t, don’t worry,” Margaret said. “I’m going to William and Mary.” It wasn’t a sure thing, she had to be admitted, but her father had approved the planned transfer.
Polly nodded. “Oh, wow. Good place for history, I bet.”
Margaret snapped the suitcase closed. “You should go back to sleep,” she said. “I’ll be out of your hair in no time, and then you’ll have a single for the rest of the year.”
Her roommate continued to watch her until she lifted the last box and said she was leaving. Polly gave her a little wave from her bed, almost a salute, and then Margaret closed the door behind her and was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ruby
When Amanda Blakeney answered Ruby’s knock, she didn’t have her face on. Her hands flew to her cheeks as if she could powder and rouge them by sheer will.
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