Redemption

by Nancy Geary

  She would never forget the look in her husband’s eyes, his rage that Saturday night almost a month ago. Their son wasn’t even supposed to be home for dinner. He was taking Hope into Boston for a birthday dinner at the trendy restaurant Biba; they were to spend the night at the Four Seasons Hotel, but for reasons Jack never offered, they’d canceled that same day. So he’d stayed home for a family dinner, the first in a long time.

  Perhaps alcohol consumption at the Caswells’ cocktail party had fueled Jim’s rage. He rarely ate hors d’oeuvres, couldn’t stand canapés, miniature quiche or bacon-wrapped scallops, and consumed gin and tonics on an empty stomach. Plus, he and Elliot Caswell had gotten into a lengthy discussion of whether the old Mercy House on Main Street had historical significance. If so, was it proper for the new owners to tear it down or should the town intervene? As a lifelong Manchester resident who’d watched the town grow and change, Jim considered himself an architectural historian and was vociferous in his defense of preservation. Elliot opposed government interference of any kind, especially interference by a local historic commission filled with self-important retirees. “Private property means he can damn well do what he pleases,” she remembered him saying. “He bought the place, for God’s sake.”

  Fiona had listened intently, trying to follow the conversation but distracted by the seven-thirty P.M. supper she’d planned at home, a special occasion given the rarity of Jack’s presence.

  The Cabots finally settled down to overcooked salmon and limp asparagus, a result of their tardiness. Fortunately, Jim didn’t appear to notice the culinary imperfections, and Fiona was able to relax, pleased to have a moment alone with her family, her handsome son to her right, her husband at the opposite end of the long cherrywood table. Jim recapped his discussion with Elliot with renewed vigor.

  “Typical Elliot. I’d like a buck for every hedge fund manager who’s moving up here,” Jim said, pouring himself another glass of Merlot. “And you know why they’re coming? Because people like me keep this town desirable. We’re the ones who have preserved its integrity, its beauty. Christ, if it weren’t for us, we’d have a bunch of condos at the entrance to the harbor.”

  She was surprised Jim noticed when Jack mentioned Hope’s therapist in a brief remark, a passing reference the context of which Fiona couldn’t even remember. How many nights had Jim sat at the dinner table studying the label on the wine bottle, swirling sour cream into his broccoli soup or appearing to count the prongs on his sterling fork? Most dinners he was lost in thoughts of business or his sailboat or, as he was that evening, engaged in a monologue to explain and re-explain his views on any given subject. But that Saturday, he seemed to have an extra degree of attention, an uncanny hearing. As soon as Molly had passed the pound cake with raspberry sauce and returned to the kitchen, his eyes turned hard. “She’s seeing a what?”

  “Dad, it’s not a big deal. Just some doctor she talks to when she’s upset or anxious.”

  “Who talks to a stranger about their problems?”

  “A lot of people do,” Fiona volunteered.

  “Stay out of this,” he snapped. Although Fiona had endured more than her fair share of his temper, his tone that night was particularly menacing.

  “Do you know anything about him?” he asked Jack.

  “No. I don’t even know his name. And I’m not about to ask.”

  “Well, you should. You’ll be footing the bill soon enough.”

  “Forget I said anything.”

  “Forget!” Jim bellowed. “It seems like I’m supposed to forget everything about the woman you’re planning to marry. You may have your head up your ass, but I don’t.”

  Jack got up from the table, balled his napkin, threw it on his plate, and walked out. Fiona remembered her own feeling of panic, the knot in her stomach and sudden dryness at the back of her throat, as she watched her son stride away, defiant. She desperately wanted to remedy the situation but feared her husband’s further wrath if she tried to placate their son. As she sat alone with Jim in the dining room, she could think of no words to soothe his temper.

  “I can’t believe of all the girls in this area, Jack picked her. There’ve got to be women who would kill to marry into this family. Instead, she shuns our boy for that Portuguese lowlife.”

  “She didn’t choose Carl—” Fiona began.

  “Don’t even try to justify her conduct. Jack should never have taken her back, never proposed. Where was his pride?” Jim said, rising from the table. “And now that this event is actually transpiring, we learn she’s a Looney Tune. She’ll ruin us, mark my words.”

  He went to bed without even saying good night.

  Fiona sat in silence for what must have been an hour after he left the room. She stared at the cake in front of her, now soggy with sauce. Several times Molly came into the dining room with a tray to clear the table, but with a brush of her hand Fiona indicated for her to leave. She needed to think.

  Born and raised in Springfield, Massachusetts, a working-class city in the westernmost part of the state, she’d been nineteen when she met Jim Cabot. Her father had been a dentist until his retirement last year at the age of seventy-four, and she was the prettiest of his five daughters, with strawberry blond hair and a figure that fluctuated between sizes zero and two. The family was comfortable in a center-entrance Colonial on a quarter-acre lot and a two-week rental every August in Yarmouth on Cape Cod, but she’d resented its decidedly middle-class nature: her overweight mother, who got an updo once a week at the local barbershop, gave herself pedicures, and thought dinner out was a meal at Howard Johnson’s; and her good-natured father, who delighted in talking with whatever boys came around the house, played poker once a month with his hygienist’s husband, his receptionist’s uncle, and the guard at the parking lot, and insisted his girls spend at least part of every Sunday on a brisk, lengthy walk with him. “A constitutional’s good for circulation,” he always said.

  Fiona’s aspirations far exceeded those of her siblings, for whom she felt almost nothing but disdain. Eloise, the eldest, joined a convent at the age of seventeen. She’d moved to Rome several years before to work in the Vatican. Her two younger sisters had worked as au pairs for years until they eventually married—one to a contractor and the other to a state representative. They were still in Springfield in modest homes with aboveground pools, Corian countertops, and bedroom sets from Ethan Allen. The fourth sister, just ten months older than Fiona, had actually died in childbirth from an unforeseen complication. She’d insisted on giving birth at the local community hospital and ended up the tragic heroine of a melodramatic Victorian novel. Only Fiona had soared beyond her roots, and it was all because of Jim.

  Her life had been transformed that night she’d gone into Cambridge with her cousin. A party sponsored by the exclusive Porcellian Club, an invitation extended through a friend of a friend. Standing against the bar with a paper cup of beer in his hand, John James Cabot II had regaled the crowd with stories. His humor and cleverness were second to none. She’d had no idea at the time that he was third-generation Harvard, with all it implied. Although they’d eloped to avoid the shame of a middle-class wedding that her family would throw and the awkwardness of inviting members of North Shore society to a function at the VFW, her marriage meant a listing in the Social Register, an invitation to join the Daughters of the Mayflower, and a position on the board of the New England Horticultural Society. The Cabot lineage had been her escape. In exchange, she did everything in her power to keep Jim happy.

  And so her mission to preserve the Cabots began. Her work was crucial to prevent Jim’s further rage, to preserve their assets and, most important, their bloodline. She hadn’t come this far to be ruined by her son’s choice of mate.

  Information was power and she needed more of it, so she’d scheduled a visit with Adelaide, nothing unusual given the impending nuptials. They’d been friends for many years and were about to be in-laws. “Hope’s such a wonderful girl, but she seem
s sad at times, withdrawn a bit. Is there anything I can do to help? She feels like family already. I’d do anything for her, you know,” Fiona repeated. She’d probed Adelaide on the nature of Hope’s problems. Despite her slight pang of guilt at her duplicity, she’d coaxed normally reticent Adelaide until she’d opened up.

  Sitting on a love seat together with a pot of Earl Grey tea and a plate of shortbread carefully arranged on a decoupage tray, Fiona had shared what had to be some of Adelaide’s most closely guarded secrets: the details of her younger daughter’s mental health, her lengthy hospitalization for an eating disorder, its recent resurgence, a diagnosis in something called the DSM-IV, with which Fiona pretended to be familiar. As Adelaide spoke, she’d taken Fiona’s hands in hers and thanked her friend for listening, for caring. “I’m so relieved to have someone to talk to. This has been terribly hard for Bill and me. But knowing how much you and Jim love Hope makes things easier,” Adelaide had said as she’d wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with an embroidered handkerchief.

  Patting her palm, Fiona had tried to sound comforting. “It’s not your fault. You’re a wonderful mother, and Hope is a beautiful girl. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, it’s nobody else’s business.” Even as she’d said the words, Fiona knew she was lying.

  Fiona had imagined herself in Adelaide’s shoes, facing the table full of ladies who made up their weekly bridge group, sixteen women who prided themselves on having raised accomplished, uncomplicated children. Anyone could manage a household staff or volunteer for a charity, but these women all had perfect families, sons who went to Groton and daughters who went to Miss Porter’s. The North Shore children weren’t supposed to have issues. Look at Jack. Life had been easy, the way it was supposed to be. He’d never had a problem in his life. Weren’t Hope’s efforts to starve herself evidence of Adelaide’s bad parenting?

  Dr. Frank seemed to be waving the letter at her. “I’m not quite sure how you found out that I am Hope’s therapist,” he said.

  She wanted to respond but needed to choose her words carefully. She didn’t need to be a medical ethicist to know there were issues of patient confidentiality, but she was prepared. Although she’d never be thankful for a friend’s divorce, Betsy Witherspoon’s unfortunate circumstances put her in a position to recommend a very good private investigator. The plump Irishman who worked out of his home in Revere had been as successful in probing Dr. Frank’s background as he had been in uncovering Jay Witherspoon’s Swiss assets, his rented apartment in the North End, and his twenty-three-year-old girlfriend, a ten-dollar-a-cut hairdresser at that. Fiona had paid handsomely to learn that Dr. Frank had almost lost his medical license. Although most of the details of the hearing before the Massachusetts Board of Registration in Medicine couldn’t be disclosed—the records were under seal except as to the parties involved—she had learned that his defense had cost him financially and professionally. But more than the external damage it had done, she hoped it had bred in him an urge for revenge, a need to extract blood. If he was like most people, he’d stop at nothing to make sure that Bill Lawrence was adequately punished for his stream of baseless accusations.

  “Adelaide Lawrence is a dear friend,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t notice the deliberate vagueness of her response.

  “Any opinions I may have formed about Hope are confidential. She’s my patient. I have duties to her.”

  She’d anticipated resistance. “I just want to be able to advise my son about his future, his family. He has a right to know.”

  “That’s a conversation you should have with Hope.”

  “Peter, I don’t know quite how to say this.” She clasped her hands, wishing Jim were having the conversation instead of her. He’d know how to handle this situation gracefully. “I can help you, too. Jim and I are prepared to pay handsomely for your consulting services.”

  She liked the sound of that sentence, liked the idea that she had something to offer this pedigreed doctor. For all his WASP heritage and credentials, she had more money than he’d ever see. Her husband’s reputation wasn’t marred. It gave her a feeling of power.

  She’d never forget the conversation she’d overheard, so many years before, between him and Jim, when she’d arrived at their dormitory a half hour earlier than expected. “I own her,” Jim had said, laughing. “She’s lucky to have me, and she knows it. You’d get a woody just listening to what she does for me. I’ll take a Springfield girl any day.” Peter had laughed, although she hadn’t cared. She’d gotten what she wanted. But it did feel good that now, sitting across from him, he treated her with respect.

  Dr. Frank stood and walked to the window. She couldn’t see his face, but she wondered whether he was thinking about the numerous late payments he’d made on his mortgage or whether he was adding up the tuition bills for his two youngest children, who had yet to enter college. The investigator’s report had been comprehensive.

  “The information is only for us. For our family,” she coaxed.

  “This conversation is inappropriate,” he remarked, although the tone of his voice made clear he was trying to convince himself more than her.

  Silence fell between them as Fiona tried to think of a different approach. “It’s actually in Hope’s best interest, too. Having Jack know and understand the extent of her problems will certainly help her. He loves her and wants her to be happy. He’s a very compassionate boy. And Jim’s a kind man, much more so than Bill Lawrence, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Even if I agreed with you, what you’re suggesting violates every canon of ethics. It’s also against the law.”

  “Isn’t the Hippocratic oath first and foremost about helping patients?”

  “And you think Hope would benefit by my disclosure?” Was his tone sarcastic or suspicious? She couldn’t tell.

  “I do. As I said, I think she needs people to understand her. With your help, we will.” She stared at him. His resistance seemed to be crumbling, but she couldn’t be certain.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t be of more assistance. I could lose my job.”

  “As you almost did?” She knew she was out on a limb, but it didn’t stop her. He had information to disclose, information that might finally make her son realize he was marrying into a disaster, and her radar had locked. She would get what she’d come for, as always.

  He looked around, as if nervous the conversation penetrated the walls. The color had drained from his face. “Who’s to know?” she said, leaning toward him. “It could be our little secret. Don’t duties ever get excused, even for psychiatrists?” She reached into her handbag, removed a calling card nestled between the pages of her alligator skin Filofax, and rested it on the edge of his desk. “Why don’t you think it over? Here’s my number.”

  Standing up, she straightened her skirt. “I look forward to hearing from you,” she said, knowing she would. The only question was whether the information would come in time to convince Jack to stop the wedding. “I can’t imagine that after all Bill’s put you through, you owe him anything. Why protect him?”

  7

  Her father had demanded she be home at two o’clock so they could “have a chat.” It was just the sort of paternal mandate that she hated, one issued as if she actually had a choice. Even though they hadn’t had a confrontation in years, she tended to avoid being alone with him, and she felt increasingly apprehensive as the hour approached.

  She’d changed her clothes three times, standing in front of her full-length mirror, trying to imagine how he perceived her. The first blouse was too babyish, the second too seductive. She settled on a pale yellow golf shirt, a blue sweater, and khakis, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Anonymously preppy, perfectly aloof. She would certainly need to change before her bridal shower that afternoon.

  As the grandfather clock in the dining room chimed, she made her way into the library. Bill was already seated comfortably on the sofa, the business section of the Boston Globe spread in fr
ont of his face.

  “I’m here,” she said softly. “As you requested.”

  He folded the newspaper and placed it on the cushion beside him. She sat in the chair opposite and crossed her legs to try to keep her left foot from jiggling. “There’s no reason to be nervous,” he said. “I’m your father after all.”

  Hope forced a smile. He liked to remind her, as if reaffirming his paternity could keep her in her place. “What did you want to talk about?”

  Bill laughed. “I’ve certainly raised you to be direct.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Are you pleased with the plans?”

  “Yes.” She knew this small talk was a warm-up. He hadn’t paid the slightest bit of attention to the wedding preparations that had consumed hours of her mother’s time. After setting a strict budget for the party, he’d stayed away.

  “Good. Your mother’s been working very hard.”

  “I know.”

  He reached across for her hand, but she kept it in her lap. “My baby’s getting married. I knew one day this moment would come, but I still feel unprepared. It seems like yesterday that you walked around in diapers and red slippers and I could bounce you on my knee.”

  His words made her cringe. He could hold on to that image of her childhood, but she had other memories.

  He sat back. “You deserve everything to be beautiful. This is going to be your special day.”

  Special day. The words haunted her. She knew why she was allowing this to happen—it was her way out of a life of hell—but she didn’t want the celebration, couldn’t bear her future. All she could envision was the finality.

  Bill pulled a small pouch out of his pocket and filled his pipe with tobacco. He lit it, puffed several times on the end, and then watched the thin curl of smoke waft upward. He’d smoked the same tobacco since before she could remember, infusing the house with its sweet scent, indicating to her that he was relaxed and otherwise occupied. Its familiarity comforted her. Once, when she mentioned to Jack how she actually liked the odor, he’d laughed. “Now I know why I love you. You’re the only woman I know who like pipes.”