Family Tree

by Barbara Delinsky

  “He didn’t say his name?”

  “I told you he didn’t. What if he comes back? What do I do?”

  “You stay calm and keep your door locked. If he shows up again, call the police. In the meantime, I’ll call the senator’s lawyer.”

  It took him five minutes to connect with Dan Drummond—five minutes of Drummond’s secretary “looking for him,” though Hugh suspected the man was right there all the time. When he finally came on the line, he was genial. “Hey, Hugh. You’re early. I thought I had till Wednesday.”

  “It’s the senator who has till Wednesday, Dan, but something else has come up. My client is being harassed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She’s been visited by a threatening-looking guy who knows more than he should. Tell Hutch to call him off.”

  “What does Hutch have to do with this?”

  Hugh sighed. “Ah, come on, Dan. Let’s not play games.”

  “No games. What does Hutch have to do with some man visiting your client?”

  “Maybe nothing. I expected that he would hire a detective to talk with the people she knows, but a good PI would never confront the woman directly. She’s a represented party. That makes it an ethical violation. If this happens again, I’ll hold a press conference outlining my case. Hutch may have nothing to do with the guy who was banging on my client’s door, but the media won’t think that way. They love this kind of thing. Tell him to call off his man, unless he wants us to go public. And while you’re at it, remind him that I need a commitment by Wednesday—either an acknowledgment of paternity or an agreement to take a DNA test.”

  “Wednesday’s calling it close,” Drummond murmured, as if he were consulting his calendar to arrange a lunch date. “The senator has a bill pending—”

  “I know about the bill,” Hugh interrupted. “It has to do with early education intervention in underprivileged areas. He’s getting big exposure as one of its co-sponsors. I’d hate to see his image tarnished because he refuses to take care of his own.”

  “The senator has a bill pending,” Drummond repeated as if Hugh hadn’t spoken, “and it’ll be close, because the plan costs money. There are those in Congress who don’t want to spend for the poor. Hutch is not one of them. He’s working his damnedest to line up the votes. I’d say this takes precedence over a trumped-up charge by a woman he doesn’t know.”

  “Wednesday, or I go public.”

  Minutes after hanging up the phone, Hugh went down the hall to his partner’s office. Julian Kohn knew all about the Kostas case. Hugh had kept him in the loop. Now Hugh described the latest twist. “Do you think I’m wrong?” he asked. “She swears there’s no reason anyone else would threaten her, and from the digging Lakey did, I’d agree. The woman doesn’t gamble, she doesn’t do drugs. She pays her rent on time. She juggles three credit cards, but she always pays the minimum balance, and her credit report is otherwise good. Everyone at work likes her.”

  Julian tossed his glasses aside, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his feet on the desk. “You’re not wrong. I’d trust her, too. And, yeah, I’d guess that the senator hired someone. Didn’t he do that once before with an aide who quit his staff and went to work for an opponent?”

  “Something like that,” Hugh said, wandering around the room. Everything was new here—beautifully placed by Dana, who had done most of the offices in the suite. But this office was different from Hugh’s. Julian’s father had been a butcher, his mother a homemaker. There had been no money to pay for leather-bound books and bronze bookends, much less education. By the time Julian finished law school, he carried nearly a hundred thousand dollars in loans. He’d made a lot of money since then, but he never forgot his roots. The simplicity of the office décor reflected that.

  Hugh never forgot his roots, either. Unfortunately, they were bogus. “Want to hear something bizarre?” he said, and told Julian about his grandfather.

  Halfway through, Julian dropped his feet to the floor. “That’s amazing,” he said when Hugh finished. “Your father lived with this?”

  “He convinced himself it wasn’t so.”

  “This was his mother, Hugh. His mother. Given who your family is, I can understand why he didn’t want those rumors to be true. His silence may not have been a result of bigotry as much as family loyalty.”

  “You’re a forgiving person.”

  “Not always. I had a great-aunt who grew up in Eastern Europe. She and her husband denied they were Jewish to escape the Holocaust. Even after they immigrated to New York, they denied it. Their children denied it. My cousins still deny it. I can understand their guilt. The Jews in their town were rounded up and killed.”

  “They lied to save their lives. I’m not sure I’d condemn them,” Hugh said.

  “I don’t, not for lying. For failing to appreciate life. They complain all the time. To hear them speak, they’re always being robbed of something—a job, a house, the golf championship—and all because someone else has a little more money or status. They always come up short. They’re never quite good enough. It’s guilt. Guilt erodes confidence. But your dad—well, he’s lived with the doubt and still made something of his life.” He smiled. “African American? That’s cool.”

  His eyes brightened. Swiveling, he opened a cabinet in the credenza behind the desk and took out his camera. “You gotta see this.” He began scrolling through shots. “Hold on. Almost there.” Another few seconds passed. “Here.” He turned the camera for Hugh to see.

  Hugh got up for a better look. The picture was one that Julian had taken two weekends before. Hugh remembered the moment. He had felt like a hypocrite, smiling at the camera as the happy new dad, though he and Dana were barely speaking.

  But they weren’t smiling in this shot. Hugh scrolled back to the picture with the smiles.

  “I didn’t like that one,” Julian said. “The one I showed you is more real.”

  Hugh looked at it again. The pose was the same—Dana holding Lizzie, Hugh at her side with an arm around them both. But the smiles had faded, and rather than looking at the camera, they were looking at Lizzie.

  Yes, it was more real, and quite beautiful.

  “E-mail me this?” he asked.

  The next day, Hutchinson’s bill made headlines. Hutchinson-Loy Heads to Vote with Surprise Support. The article detailed the defection of a major member of the opposition in what was assumed would be a party-line vote. The defection promised to swing the vote in favor of the bill’s passage.

  Dana, who was reading the article as Hugh did, turned to its continuation on an inner page.

  “Listen to these sound bites,” he said from over her shoulder. “‘The culmination of Senator Hutchinson’s lifelong commitment to the poor.’ ‘No senator has fought harder for the underprivileged than Stan Hutchinson.’ ‘Perpetuates the legacy of compassion for the senior senator from Connecticut.’” Hugh snickered. “If this bill passes, it’ll be because it’s an election year, and the senators who are up for reelection are running scared.”

  “But the bill is a good one, isn’t it?” Dana asked.

  “Definitely. I can’t fault Hutchinson here. I can’t fault him for much of anything he’s done in his twenty years in the Senate. I do fault him for leaving his morals on Capitol Hill. What he does on the Senate floor is very different from what he does in his private life. Has he ever given a penny more to charity than he thinks his constituents expect? Has he ever not bedded a woman who is attractive and willing? Has he ever not used strong-arm tactics if he felt someone might thwart him?”

  Dana didn’t answer. She was reading a small piece tucked just under the fold. Local Art Dealer Charged with Fraud. It was only one paragraph, not much information given, but the name of the art dealer shocked her.

  She pointed to it in astonishment. “Do you know who this is?”

  Hugh skimmed the piece. “Oliver James?”

  “His wife is at the yarn shop all the time, or used to be.” Dana wa
s stunned. “Lately, she’s hardly come in. She must have known this was coming. What do you think he did?”

  “Art fraud usually involves passing fakes off as original art.” Hugh looked down at Dana. “Have I met the wife?”

  “Her name is Corinne. You’d remember her if you had. This is amazing,” Dana said, but couldn’t quite gloat. She remembered thinking Corinne seemed fragile. “Her husband, indicted? She must be dying.”

  “Will you call her?”

  “I don’t even know her number. They live over on Greendale.”

  “Big mansions there,” Hugh remarked.

  “Uh-huh.” Big mansions, big lawns, big cars, which went to show that big money didn’t always buy peace of mind. Dana was trying to imagine what Corinne was feeling when there was a knock on the door. Susan Johnson, David’s ex-wife, was there.

  Susan looked harder than she was. Her hair was long and straight, and she was dressed in black—yoga pants, tank top, cropped hoodie, espadrilles. Back at David’s, there would be a large black pouch filled with necessities. By contrast, her smile was lighthearted and bright. She was definitely Ali’s mom.

  “Susan,” Dana said, opening the screen. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “Well, David kept saying Ali didn’t want to go back to New York, and the situation wasn’t getting better. John and I figured we’d drive up to defuse things. I mean, she’s supposed to return this week.”

  “Is she still balking?”

  “Not since we figured out the problem.”

  Hugh had joined them. “The school?”

  “Totally. I mean, it’s a fabulous school, the absolute best, which is why I was thrilled when John was able to pull strings and get her in. Then David called, and we decided to get some stats on the place. And, yeah, they’re not as heavy on minorities as I’d like. Ali must have felt it when we visited this spring, like, out of place. Someone has to break the color barrier, but maybe my daughter isn’t ready. The school she’s been at is a good one, too, and she loves it.” Susan smiled. “So she’s going back there, and is very excited about seeing her friends.”

  “I’m glad,” Dana said.

  “Me, too. I should have realized there might be a problem. It just didn’t occur to me,” she said. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you both. You’ve been good for Ali.”

  “She’s been good for us,” Hugh said.

  Susan began walking backward, eyes now on Dana. “I need the name of a yarn store in the city. She already told me that.”

  “I’ll get you one.” Dana waved. When Susan jogged back toward David’s, she turned to Hugh. “That’s a little scary.”

  “Susan not anticipating the problem? Very scary. She’s smart and she’s aware, like we pride ourselves on being, but who’s to say we wouldn’t make a similar mistake?”

  “I guess there are ways to prevent it—do our homework, get all the facts before passing judgment.”

  “You sound like a lawyer,” Hugh remarked, but he wasn’t smiling. “It kills me to think of Lizzie on the outside looking in, but it’s bound to happen. Some circles are still very closed.”

  “All kids experience that, Hugh. It’s part of growing up.”

  “But race makes it different. And it involves my child.”

  “We can’t protect her all the time. She’ll have to learn that prejudice exists.”

  “Maybe things will be different by the time she’s grown up.”

  If it was a question, Dana didn’t know the answer. She did know that she shared Hugh’s fear. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she pressed her face to his neck.

  Hugh definitely loved Lizzie. This was one good thing.

  Eaton was sitting in front of a blank screen when Dorothy appeared at the library door.

  “I’m going out,” she announced.

  “Where to?” he asked, trying to be casual in his curiosity. Lately, she was a loose cannon.

  “I don’t know. I’ll decide when I get there.”

  Let it go, he told himself. But he couldn’t. “That doesn’t make sense, you know.”

  She drew in her chin. “Does it have to?”

  “It always did. You’re an organized woman.”

  “That was when I filled my day doing chores for my husband. I don’t have to be organized when I’m doing things for myself.”

  “Which you are now, after finding that your husband has feet of clay.”

  “If that’s a reference to race, I reject it flat out. I’m doing things for me because I’m tired of putting you first. You don’t deserve it—and if you think that’s a reference to color, you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “Dorothy,” he said with some pique. She had become an independent-minded woman at a time when he needed his old, familiar wife.

  “What?”

  He didn’t know where to begin. “My book’s coming out in a week. And did you know that my brother called earlier?”

  That gave her visible pause. “No.”

  “He told me to keep my mouth shut about what I learned.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “Do you think I should?”

  She opened her mouth to give a quick retort, then closed it again. “Are you asking my opinion?”

  “Yes.”

  She thought for a minute. “Would you please repeat the question?”

  He knew enough not to smile, though he came close. His wife was so deep into rebellion that her concentration was shot. It was endearing. “I asked what you thought I ought to do about what I learned about my father.”

  She considered it. “You have to do what your conscience dictates.”

  “That tells me nothing.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Well, I’m just not very smart. If I was, you might have asked my opinion about other things in the last forty years, starting with whether I was worried that those rumors you heard growing up might be true. Honestly, Eaton, you are insufferable. Know what your problem is?”

  Eaton could think of a couple, but he said, “No.”

  “You don’t know the difference between docility and stupidity. I may have been docile over the years, because that’s what married women my age were expected to be—well, actually not all women, only the women in our social circle, which is something that is starting to really bother me. But I have been docile. That doesn’t mean I don’t have opinions, and it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

  “I just asked for your opinion, and you couldn’t give it,” he pointed out.

  “Couldn’t?” she asked, raising a brow. “I certainly could, if I wanted.”

  He sighed in frustration. “Then please. What am I supposed to do about my less-than-illustrious past?”

  Her eyes went wide. “Stop thinking about it as less than illustrious.”

  “Dot.”

  “I’m serious, Eaton. Why is this a tragedy? Isn’t it an opportunity to learn about yourself? It’s not like someone’s coming along to call you an impostor and take away your money.”

  “I’m not worried about my money.”

  She smiled. “Good. That’s progress.”

  He wanted—needed—to get to the other. “But don’t you think it’s a little shocking that my father isn’t who I thought he was?”

  “Of course. But is it worth all this brooding? I think not,” she said. “Do you want the truth, Eaton? You’re interesting because you write about interesting people. Accept who you are, learn a little about your past, maybe alter a little of your future, and you could actually be an interesting person all on your own.”

  With that, she left.

  Chapter 28

  Hutchinson-Loy passed by a three-vote margin. This pleased Hugh. If Hutch was feeling victorious, he might be more generous dealing with Crystal Kostas and her son.

  Or so his theory went.

  Dan Drummond poked a hole in it Wednesday morning, calling soon after Hugh arrived at work. “The senator will fight the allegation,” the lawyer said. “He doesn’t remember
this woman and doesn’t believe her son is his.”

  Hugh was disappointed. He had hoped for a quiet settlement. “Does he deny he was at Mac’s Bar and Grille on the night in question?”

  “No.”

  “Will he deny having relationships with the women from whom we have signed affidavits?”

  “No. But he’ll present the names of other women who have made claims which were subsequently proven frivolous, like this one is.”

  Hugh ignored that. “He’ll ‘present’? You’re talking about a hearing. Hearings are public.”

  “Given the senator’s status,” Drummond advised, “I think we can get an exception.”

  “You do that,” Hugh said, swiveling to open a file cabinet behind him, “and I hold a press conference.”

  “We’ll get a gag order.”

  “I’ll hold a press conference to denounce the gag order,” Hugh countered. He hadn’t wanted it this way. But he could play hardball for the sake of the boy.

  He pulled out the folder containing the complaint. “I’m ready to go, Dan. I’ll be at Probate Court in Lowell at two this afternoon to file an emergency motion for an adjudication of paternity and immediate support, based on the medical needs of a four-year-old child. Good guy that I am, I’ll ask for a quick ruling so that the test can be done to accommodate the senator while he’s in town Friday.”

  “You won’t get the ruling,” Drummond stated.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re dealing with a United States senator.”

  When the call ended, Hugh was uneasy. Dan Drummond was known for being cocky, but there had been a smugness in this interchange that didn’t sit right with Hugh. It suggested Drummond knew something Hugh didn’t. Someone at the Probate Court must be pulling strings for the senator.

  He was wondering if he should call his contact there when the man actually called him.

  “Sean Manley is on the line,” said his secretary.

  Sean Manley was an assistant clerk at the court. Hugh had come to know him several years earlier while representing his father on a vehicular homicide charge. Picking up the phone, he said, “This is mental telepathy, Sean. I was about to call you.”