Lake News

by Barbara Delinsky

  She didn’t have to go past the home page. It was right there in big, bold letters—the lead story.

  CARDINAL LINKED TO CABARET SINGER

  Beside it was a picture, apparently taken the night before, of the two of them, arm to arm, hip to hip on the piano bench, smiling at each other, in vivid, crystal-clear color.

  Horrified, Lily began to read.

  Less than a week ago, Archbishop Francis P. Rossetti was elevated to Cardinal amid an outpouring of praise for his humanitarian achievements and religious devotion. With the celebration barely over, the Post has learned that Cardinal Rossetti has led a double life. In an exclusive story, the Headline Team reveals a long-term relationship between the Cardinal and Lily Blake, 34, a cabaret singer at the posh Essex Club on Commonwealth Avenue.

  Bewildered, she clicked on to the rest of the story.

  Blake and the Cardinal met eight years ago at a party in New York City. They were introduced by then Mayor William Dean, who had first spotted Blake on the Broadway stage. As soon as the mayor and his wife separated, Blake became a regular guest at Gracie Mansion. It was there that she met the Cardinal.

  Lily was incredulous. She read now with a kind of morbid fascination.

  Two years later, when the mayor was elected governor of New York and moved to Albany, Blake went with him. Between twice-weekly visits to the Governor’s Mansion, she sang at a nightclub not far from the State House. In addition, the governor set her up entertaining at private parties.

  “No, he didn’t,” she cried. “Those bookings came from my work at the club!”

  Francis Rossetti, then Bishop of Albany, often attended those parties. He began inviting Blake to play at similar events at the Bishop’s residence. Within months, she became a frequent visitor. One employee of the diocese, who asked to remain anonymous, said it was obvious that Rossetti and Blake cared for each other. She was often seen leaving the residence in the early morning hours.

  “With other people!” she told the screen in outrage. “The two times we might have been alone were when we were playing the piano after a party and lost track of the time!”

  Three years ago, when the Bishop was named to lead the Archdiocese of Boston, he secured a job for Blake at the Essex Club, which is owned and managed by his nephew Daniel Curry.

  Scrolling farther, she cried out in disbelief when three more pictures appeared. One was of the Cardinal hugging her in the Essex Club lobby. The other, taken with a night lens, showed her as a lone figure running up the steps of the Cardinal’s residence. The third, taken through a window at the residence, showed the Cardinal with an arm around her shoulder.

  She was sick to her stomach, but she couldn’t stop reading.

  Blake teaches part-time at the Winchester School on Beacon Hill. She entertains at private parties and political fund-raisers, and is a regular pianist at archdiocese events. She is often seen arriving at those events in the Cardinal’s company. Phone records show a pattern of late-night phone calls between the Cardinal’s residence and Blake’s apartment.

  A native of Lake Henry, New Hampshire, Blake studied at NYU and the Juilliard School. Though she repeatedly auditioned for leading roles on Broadway and occasionally served as an understudy, she never made it out of the chorus line. She was twenty-eight when she left Broadway and moved to Albany.

  Blake’s relationship with the Cardinal has been a well-kept secret. Vatican sources have told the Headline Team that the Pope did not know of this relationship before elevating Rossetti to the position of Cardinal. When contacted by the Post, a spokesman for Cardinal Rossetti denied the allegations.

  Blake was more forthcoming. “The Cardinal and I are having an affair,” she confirmed.

  Lily gasped.

  “I love him. We have a history.” She described the Cardinal as a warm, vibrant man, and admitted that she followed him to Boston.

  The article closed by saying,

  Governor Dean of New York has denied having a sexual relationship with Blake.

  Incredulous, she returned to the start of the piece, but there was the headline—CARDINAL LINKED TO CABARET SINGER—larger and bolder than ever. This time, though, she read the byline. The article had been written by Terrence Sullivan.

  She felt totally and utterly betrayed. And furious. Disconnecting the laptop, she grabbed the phone book from a closet shelf, found the number of the Post, and called it. After several menu choices, she reached the newsroom. Terry Sullivan wasn’t there. He would be in later, they said, though they didn’t know when.

  Frustrated, she pressed the disconnect button. With her hand hovering over the keypad, she shut her eyes and tried to remember the Cardinal’s number, but even if she called it often—which she didn’t—her mind was in too much of a muddle. Scrabbling through the phone book again, she located the Boston Archdiocese and ran a finger down the list of numbers until she found a familiar one. It went to the Cardinal’s secretary. Father McDonough was the one Lily dealt with when she played at church events.

  His line was busy. She tried it again but couldn’t get through this time either. Feeling stymied, she went to the window. There was a van parked right in front of her building, with sun glinting off the satellite dish on top and the markings of a local television station on its side.

  It was insane. Insane. Surely a mistake. And easily corrected, once she reached the right people. In the meantime, she had lessons to give and classes to teach.

  After showering, she put on a soft, soothing Schumann while she dressed, but she was too dismayed to feel any comfort. She tried the Cardinal again; the line was still busy. She tried Terry again; he hadn’t yet arrived. She pushed cereal around in a bowl until she was too late to delay longer, but she knew not to leave the elevator when it reached the ground floor. The brass panels that housed the doors reflected the outer lobby. Even allowing for distortion, there looked to be a whole handful of reporters out there now.

  Appalled, she took the elevator down to the garage and slipped out the back unnoticed. Hurrying down Newbury Street, she cut through the Public Garden and reached school in record time. The teachers’ lounge was empty when she arrived, but she had barely poured a cup of coffee when a bell rang to mark the end of the first period. Within minutes, several faculty members wandered in. Since they weren’t ones she knew well, the murmuring among themselves was normal. Reasoning that if they hadn’t seen the Post, they might never be the wiser, she ignored their glances.

  Peter Oliver was something else. She was stirring powdered cream into her coffee when he walked in and stopped short. “Whoa. The lady of the hour.” Sidling up until they were shoulder to shoulder, he reached for a cup and spoke under his breath. “You had me worried there. I was starting to think I’d lost my touch when you kept refusing me. Now it makes sense.”

  Lily felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach. Her tongue tightened up.

  “The Post story?” he prompted. “Is it true?”

  She shook her head.

  A different voice said a low “Lily.”

  Her eyes flew to the door. Michael Eddy, headmaster of the school, was short, with a gentle paunch and a normally round, friendly face. The friendly part was strained now. He motioned her to follow.

  Leaving her coffee where it stood, she crossed through the reception area to the headmaster’s office. Michael had barely closed the door when he said, “Is it true?”

  She shook her head, shook it fast and hard.

  “Any of it?”

  She swallowed and forced her throat to relax. “No.”

  “You’re quoted there.”

  “Out of context.”

  “Did you say those things?”

  “Not like that. And not on the record.” When Michael closed his eyes in a gesture of defeat, Lily’s anger reared up. “I’ve ttttt…” She took a breath, focused on untying her tongue, said more smoothly, “I’ve tried calling the man who wrote it. He’ll have to retract it. It isn’t true.”

  Michael
raised his head and sighed. “Well. As long as you’ve denied it, I’ll be able to answer the parents who call. Several already have. I wish you hadn’t given the paper the name of the school.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Then how did they get it?”

  “I don’t knnn-know.” Another breath, and the return of control. “I guess the same way they learned that I went to NYU. I graduated with honors. They didn’t sss-say that. Or that I got a degree from Juilliard. Or that the only reason I went to the Governor’s Mansion twice a week was to give piano lessons to his kids. Or that the governor was never there when I was.” She pushed a hand into her hair. It stopped midway and hung on. The reality she had been trying to ignore was finally taking root. “This is all over Boston. All over the state.” She was feeling the horror of it when her eyes met Michael’s. “I have to reach the Cardinal.”

  He gestured toward the desk, offering her the phone.

  She punched out the number she had called earlier. It was still busy. “Oh God,” she breathed, frightened. “This could ruin him.” She looked at Michael. “What do I do?”

  “Hire a lawyer.”

  “But this is just a mistake.” She didn’t want to think it was malicious—couldn’t believe that Terry Sullivan would go to this kind of extreme just because she had refused to be interviewed—couldn’t believe that he would deliberately slander the Cardinal this way.

  “Hire a lawyer,” Michael repeated.

  “I can’t. I don’t have money. Besides, why do I need a lawyer? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You need a spokesperson. Someone to issue a denial. Someone to challenge the Post.”

  She took a breath and tried to remain calm. “Governor Dean denied it. So did the Cardinal. He’ll do it again. It’ll be over and done.” Lifting the phone again, she tried the Post. This time when she reached the newsroom, she lucked out.

  “Sullivan here,” she heard, and something about his cold voice, something about the image she conjured of a slick, mustached man who appeared to have wooed her with lies, made her snap.

  Fury alone kept her tongue fluid. “This is Lily Blake. Your story is wrong.”

  His voice stayed cold. “Wrong? No, it isn’t. I check out my facts.”

  “There’s nothing going on between the Cardinal and me.”

  “It sure looks that way.”

  “You made it look that way,” she charged. “You were the one who kept talking about the Cardinal being appealing to women. You led me into a hypothetical discussion, then took my words out of context. That’s really… ssss-scummy! You also said our conversation was off the record.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You did.”

  “I said ‘off the cuff.’ That’s different from ‘off the record.’ ”

  “You knew what I meant!” Looking straight at Michael Eddy, she said,

  “You also knew my phone number was unlisted, so you got it from Mitch Rellejik, who had no right to give it to you in the first place. Now two other nnn-newspaper people have it. That’s a violation of my privacy!”

  “Look, Lily,” he said with a sigh, “I’m sorry if this upsets you, but the truth sometimes does. I saw the way you looked at the guy last night at the club. And then you gave me quotes on a silver platter.”

  She was livid. “You twwwwisted what I said! That is the most shoddy thing! And you lied to me. Over and over, you lied. Now you’ve lied in the paper, and people all over are reading it. I want a retraction.”

  He laughed. “Are you kidding? This is the hottest story in town.”

  She didn’t understand his complacence. “Why are you doing this?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “To smear people? You said you loved the Cardinal.”

  “No. You said that.”

  “You talked about eternal damnation.”

  He laughed again. “Honey, I was eternally damned long before this story.”

  There had to be a method to his madness. “Do you have something against the Cardinal?”

  He was suddenly impatient. “Look, in my business, you get wind of a good story, you run with it. If you hit a wall, you back off. If not, you keep going. I’m going, baby. I’m going right to the end.”

  “But this is a lie!”

  “Tell it to the Pope. Hey, there’s my other line. Take care.”

  The phone went dead. Lily stared at the receiver. Floored, she looked at Michael.

  He held up his hands. “I’ve already given you my advice. I don’t know what more to say. My concern is this school.”

  Lily tried the Cardinal’s number again. It was still busy. Carefully, she replaced the receiver.

  “This is unreal,” she said, more to herself than her boss. “But it’s all right. The Cardinal has power in this city. He’ll clear everything up. That’s probably why his line is busy.” She glanced at the clock. “I have a class.”

  If any of the fifteen students taking music appreciation were aware of the Post article, none mentioned it. They were as blasé as ever. By the time fifty minutes had passed and the bell rang to end the period, Lily had convinced herself that, Terry Sullivan’s treachery notwithstanding, the article was nothing more than a bad judgment call on the part of the Post, that the Cardinal would raise Cain and get a retraction printed, that the whole matter would be quickly forgotten.

  She tried to call him again, but the line was still busy.

  With five minutes to spare before a piano lesson, she went to the cafeteria for a cold drink. The first lunch period was under way. One step into the large, high-ceilinged room and she heard the sudden drop of conversation, felt the force of dozens of pairs of eyes.

  It isn’t true, she wanted to say, but her tongue was tight. So she simply shook her head and gestured no, got her drink, and left. By the time her student arrived at the practice room, she had recomposed herself, but she knew what his curious look meant.

  “The Post article,” she told him, “is wrong. The Cardinal is a friend, nothing more.”

  “I believe you,” the boy said. He was sixteen, a lacrosse player struggling to fulfill an art requirement by taking piano lessons that he hated, but he did sound sincere.

  So she set the Post story aside and tried to focus on his lesson and two others that followed, but she kept expecting an office assistant to cut in with a message from the Cardinal saying that everything was fine, that he would handle it, that she shouldn’t worry.

  The door remained shut for everything but the departure of one student and the arrival of the next, and when the three lessons were done, she tried the Cardinal again, still with no luck.

  Fortunately, she wasn’t hungry. She didn’t want to face a cafeteria full of stares until a retraction appeared, an apology was issued, and the Post had egg on its face. She might laugh along with the rest then, but not now—nor at two-thirty, when her girls’ a cappella chorus met. Each of the twelve was sober and staring. Clearly they knew about the article.

  She stood before them, aware that her shoulders were drooping but unable to help it. She was starting to feel the strain. Quietly, she said, “Questions?” When the girls were silent, she said, “I’ll answer the one you won’t ask. The Cardinal is a man of the Church. He would no more have an affair with me than I would have one with him.” She looked from one face to the next until she saw a modicum of acceptance, then she reached for printouts of a new song and handed each trio of voices its part.

  The practice went well. At other times Lily coached a larger mixed chorus, of freshmen and sophomores, but the small, upper-class groups, one male and one female, were her favorites. Some of the students had wonderful voices. The idea that she could train them was a gratifying one.

  By the time the hour ended, she was starting to feel like herself again. Then she got through to the Cardinal’s secretary.

  Father McDonough was a young priest who had landed the plum assignment in Brighton as a result of his attention to detail and his e
ndless good nature. The Cardinal relied on him heavily. As for Lily, she knew the man only by name and voice.

  After identifying herself, she said with relief, “Thank goodness. Your line’s been tied up. What’s going on?”

  “I take it you saw the story.”

  “Yes. The reporter was at the club last night. He told me he was a fan of the Cardinal. We got to talking. He took words here and there and fabricated a story.”

  “Well, it’s made an awful mess.”

  “But it’s all false.” And nonsensical. “Does the Cardinal know Terry Sullivan?” Maybe their paths had crossed. Maybe there was some personal enmity.

  “He knows him now. We’ve had calls from everywhere.”

  “Has he demanded a retraction?”

  “Our lawyers have,” came the reply, and for the first time Lily realized that the voice was cooler than usual.

  “Oh. Shhh-ould I hire a lawyer?” She wanted him to say, in his normally good-natured way, that there was no need, that the Cardinal’s team would resolve the matter, that it was already nearly done.

  Instead, he sounded distant. “I can’t advise you on that. Our concern is protecting the Church. We’re trying our best to do that. But it might be better if you didn’t call here again until everything is straightened out.”

  Lily felt as though she’d been slapped—as though she had sinned and in so doing had single-handedly caused a deep embarrassment for the Church.

  Stunned, she said, “I see. Uh. Thank you.” Quietly, she hung up the phone.

  Things went downhill from there. After suffering through one more private lesson, she packed up her briefcase and headed home. She had no sooner breathed a sigh of relief that the front steps of the school were clear than she hit the sidewalk and, seemingly from nowhere, a woman with a microphone appeared.

  “Ms. Blake, would you comment on the Post story?” Lily shook her head and hurried on, but the reporter kept pace. “The archdiocese has issued an official denial. Doesn’t that contradict your quotes in the Post?”