Maida looked taken aback, but Lily couldn’t stop. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but long-pent-up thoughts kept the words pouring out. “My stutter embarrassed you. It said that I wasn’t perfect, one of your children wasn’t perfect. But did I ask to ss-stutter? Do you think I like doing it? I made one mm-mistake—one mistake, with Donny Kipling. Have I burdened you since then? Have I asked anything of you? No. But now I’m asking for understanding. Is that so much? Do you think I wanted any of this to happen? I wake up nights shaking with fury”—she shook with it now—“because I worked so hard to build a good ll-life, and they’ve taken it away, and I don’t know why! I don’t know ww-why Terry Sullivan did this to me, or why the Post went along with it, and I don’t know why my own mother can’t ff-feel for me for a change!”
Whirling around, she stormed from the house.
Lily cried all the way home, alternately furious at Maida’s insensitivity and ashamed of her own outburst. She parked the car without bothering to turn it around, half wishing she would find a media person skulking in the woods. She would take him on. She was in a fighting mood. But no one jumped out as she stalked down to the lake. Anger carried her right out onto the old wood dock, where she sat herself down, daring Lake Henry to see.
No one was about to. The night was dark, the water idle. She fumed for a while, then simmered. But the setting was too peaceful to sustain ill will, and in time she calmed. When the call of the loon came, she thought of Celia—dear Celia, who had loved her the way a mother was supposed to love a child. Had it not been for Celia, Lily might have gone on believing that she was unlovable.
That was what Maida had taught her. At least, that was what Lily had taken from Maida’s frustration with her. Father Fran had said it wasn’t so. He had said that mothers always loved their children but circumstance sometimes prevented its expression. All Lily knew was that the frustration was constant. Lily couldn’t do anything right. George had been more supportive, but he picked and chose his fights. He insisted that Maida let Lily sing at the general store because he saw that as a larger issue. Typically male, he didn’t see the smaller emotional needs that a growing girl had, needs that were going unfulfilled.
Celia had filled the void. She had given Lily the self-confidence that not even the applause of the most appreciative audience could give. She had taught Lily to go after her dreams.
What were Lily’s dreams now, sitting out in the dark of the lake, with the air chilled, the water barely moving against the rocky shore, and the primal call of a loon echoing through the night?
She wanted her life back—work, freedom, privacy.
The dream was more vivid than ever when Lily awoke Sunday morning. Tamping down the urgency she felt, she waited until nine, then did the unthinkable and called John Kipling. He knew she was there, knew the situation, knew the media. He had also invited her to call, she reasoned. Besides, given how extensively she had been used by the media, she saw no harm using John in this very small way.
“It’s Lily. I was wondering if you’ve seen the morning paper.”
“Just picked it up.”
“Is there anything?”
“A small blurb on the front page,” he said. “Hold on. I’ll check inside.”
While the rustle of newsprint came over the line, she stood at the lake window with Celia’s shawl wrapped around her and a tight grip on the phone. It seemed forever before his voice came again. It was preceded by a sigh.
“Okay. Not too bad. The front page has a quick recap of the week’s events. Most of what’s inside has to do with other people.”
“What other people?”
“History.”
“History?”
“Sex scandals.”
Her stomach turned. “What do you mmm-ean?”
“They’re talking about prominent people who’ve had highly publicized affairs, but this is good, I think. If they’re moving away from you, it means they’ve run out of things to say.”
Lily didn’t see it quite so benignly. “But they’re grouping me with those people!”
“Yeah, but anyone with half a brain knows the situations aren’t the same. There’s no comparison between Cardinal Rossetti and a philandering president caught with his hand in the cookie jar, or a high-level diplomat caught in bed with a spy, or a Hollywood icon who can’t keep his fly zipped.”
“Maybe the people reading that don’t hh-have half a brain.”
“People are usually smarter than we give them credit for,” John said in a calmer voice. It might even have been reassuring, if he hadn’t been part of the media. Media knew how to manipulate. Lily had learned that firsthand. “Yes, it’s offensive digging into the past for cases like this. And yes, there’s the implication that those cases are like this one. But the comparison will backfire. People will read this and see that the allegations against you and the Cardinal are flimsy, compared to these.”
“The problem,” Lily argued, catching in a shallow breath, “is that comparisons have an effect if they’re mmm-ade often enough. People will forget the details of the allegations against me. They’ll forget they’re flimsy. The thing will take on greater weight.”
“Then you need to fight back.”
“How?” she cried.
After a pause, he said, “One way is through the courts. The newspapers will hear that.”
She bowed her head, shut her eyes, pressed a fist to her temple. “So will the rest of the world. I hh-have to go,” she whispered and ended the call.
CHAPTER 10
Lily spent much of Sunday detesting the helplessness she felt. She reconsidered taking legal action, even envisioned a triumphant scene outside a courtroom after a jury had ruled in her favor. The vision included total vindication, with the kind of megasettlement that would make the media think twice before again recklessly ruining people’s lives. She pictured a victorious return to Boston that included the Winchester School headmaster being fired for caving in to the media frenzy and the owner of the Essex Club begging, just begging her to return to work. She imagined Terry Sullivan losing his job, Paul Rizzo crashing his motorcycle, and Justin Barr being run out of town.
Inevitably, reality returned the minute she thought of the emotional price of taking the case to court. Things would get worse before they got better. She wasn’t ready to sign on for that.
What else to do? Saturday morning, John had said he had ammo. He hadn’t mentioned it again on Sunday, but she may have hung up too soon. She wondered what his ammo was, whether she could trust him to share it, whether he would turn right around and use her the way Terry Sullivan had.
Issues of trust notwithstanding, she knew that John saw the papers each morning. In the absence of television and radio at the cottage, fearful of calling Boston and risking having the call traced to Poppy’s number, and loath to call Maida, she bit the bullet and phoned John again first thing Monday morning.
“You’re my link to the outside world,” she said in an attempt at levity. “What’s out there today?”
“Nothing on the front page,” John replied. “The story is on page five. The Vatican cleared the Cardinal of suspicion and condemned the irresponsibility of the paper. The Post countered by issuing an apology to the Cardinal.”
Hope came so quickly that Lily could hardly breathe. “They admitted the story was wrong?”
“No. But they apologized to the Cardinal.” His statement hung in the air.
“Yes?” Lily asked. There had to be more.
“That’s it. It was a small piece.”
Her hopes wavered. “Was I mentioned?”
“Only at the very beginning.”
Uneasy now, she swallowed. “Would you read it to mm-me, please?”
In a level voice, John read: “ ‘After conducting its own inquiry, the Vatican has announced that newly named Cardinal Francis Rossetti has been cleared of all allegations that he had an improper relationship with nightclub singer Lily Blake. The Vatican inquiry involved extensive
interviews with personnel closest to the Cardinal, as well as with the Cardinal himself. A statement issued from Rome last night cited a “total absence of evidence to suggest that any of the allegations made in the past week contain even an iota of truth.” The statement went on to condemn the atmosphere of “carnival journalism” that exists in this country today and that threatens “irreparable harm even to men of the impeccable character of Cardinal Rossetti.” ’ ”
Lily held her breath, waiting.
“More?” John asked.
“Please.”
“ ‘A spokesman for the Archdiocese of Boston praised the speed and thoroughness of the Vatican investigation. “This timely action clears the way for Cardinal Rossetti to immediately resume his work with the poor, the troubled, and the needy of the archdiocese,” he said.’ ”
John paused.
Lily waited.
“ ‘When reached by the Post,’ ” he read on, “ ‘the Cardinal reiterated that thought. “There is precious work to be done,” he said. “It would have been unfortunate for that work to suffer because of spurious charges and irresponsible reporting.” ’ ”
Again John paused.
“Is that it?” Lily asked.
“One more sentence. ‘The Post has issued a formal apology to the Cardinal and to the archdiocese.’ ”
Lily waited for him to tack on a final phrase. When the silence dragged on, her dismay grew. “That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“No apology to me?”
“No.”
She was dumbfounded, then irate. “But I’m the one who’s suffered most. I’m the one who’s out of work. I’m the one whh-who who can’t walk around in public without being followed like a cat in heat. I deserve an apology, too. What about exonerating mmm-me?” Her jaw was clenched, her heart pounding. She was as angry as she had ever been. “Who wrote that piece?”
“Not Terry,” John answered. “David Hendricks. He’s a longtime staff reporter.”
“Terry Sullivan is a coward,” Lily seethed. “What about the other papers?”
“Same thing. Small piece. That’s it.”
“Will this be the end?”
“Possibly.”
Through her fury, Lily managed only a quick “Thank you” before disconnecting the call. Then she called Poppy and asked to be put through to Cassie Byrnes.
Like many of its neighbors, Lake Henry had a town-meeting form of government. For two nights every March, the church was filled with residents gathered to vote on issues pertinent to town life in the coming year. Every other year, a moderator was elected. He determined the meeting’s agenda and should have been the most powerful person in town.
It wasn’t so in Lake Henry, where a town meeting was more a social experience easing the monotony of mud season than a policy-making body. In reality, as they arose, the everyday details of town life were handled by the police chief, the postmaster, and the town clerk. The more weighty matters at millennium’s end, though, had to do with ecological interests. These were handled by the Lake Henry Committee.
The committee had first formed in the 1920s, when the growing influx of summer residents made the year-rounders edgy. Committee members focused on preserving the beauty of the lake and its land. Over the years, as ecological interests gained prominence, the committee’s power grew.
It had no size limit. Anyone could belong. The only qualification was that attendance at monthly meetings was mandatory. When an emergency meeting was called, usually in reaction to a move by the state legislature that locals considered intrusive to their rights, members were expected to attend unless they had good reason not to. At any given time there were thirty members, give or take. Each January they celebrated the new year by electing a leader from their ranks.
Cassie Byrnes was in her fourth year as chairman of the Lake Henry Committee. She was the first woman to hold that position and, thirty-five now, still the youngest person ever, but her selection had been unanimous. A lifelong resident of Lake Henry, she had left town only to attend college and law school. The ink was barely dry on her degree when she returned to town to hang out a shingle. In the ten years since, she had become something of a local activist.
Lily waited for her on the porch. The lake was foggy today, but peaceful. It helped keep her nervousness in check. When she heard the sound of a motor, she walked around to the front of the cottage. She was waiting there when Cassie pulled up in a compact car that was every bit as worn as the old borrowed wagon. Crammed into the back along with what looked to be heavy jackets, a hockey stick, and a fast food bag were two child seats.
Cassie was a working mother, but the only frazzle about her was her curly blond hair. Slipping the strap of a leather pouch on her shoulder as she climbed from the car, she looked fully composed. Her long legs were encased in jeans, her slender upper half in white silk. She wore a blazer, a flowered scarf, and boots.
“Thanks for coming,” Lily said.
Cassie smiled. “We were wondering if you’d come back. Speculation is second nature to Lake Henryites. No one knows I’m here, though. Your secret is safe with me as long as you want it kept.” She extended a hand. “It’s been a long time.”
Lily took her hand. Cassie had been a year ahead of her in school, and light-years more popular. Her handshake now was confident and firm. Lily hoped she had the legal ability to match it.
They might have talked on the porch with the fog assuring confidentiality, but it was too cool and damp to stay outside long. So Lily led her into the cottage and offered her coffee. They sat in the living room, Lily in the armchair, Cassie on the sofa.
“You’ve followed the story?” Lily began.
“Oh, yes. Hard not to, what with a local involved.”
“Have you seen today’s papers?”
“I have. The Vatican cleared the Cardinal, and the Post apologized to him but not to you,” Cassie said with a quickness that encouraged Lily. “It doesn’t surprise me. The press has legal eagles on retainer. They tell editors what the law requires, and those editors don’t go one drop beyond that. The Post issued an apology but not a retraction. It could be that unless the Cardinal demands one, it won’t be offered. Or it could appear later in the week. There are statutes covering retractions, where they should be, how big. I’d have to look at the Massachusetts statutes to know how things work there.”
Lily didn’t care about statutes. She was talking sheer common sense. “But how could I not have been included in an apology? If I was half party to an alleged sexual affair, and the other half has been exonerated and given a public apology, how can I be ignored? How can charges be made on the front page, and apologies issued somewhere back inside?”
“That’s how it works,” Cassie said on a note of disgust.
Angry, Lily hung her head. She swallowed, trying to organize her thoughts. When she was ready, she looked up. “What’s been done to me is morally wrong. That won’t change. But laws have been broken, too. That’s what I need to talk with you about.”
“You’re not working with Maxwell Funder?”
“No. He wanted the case for the publicity, and for the money.” She told Cassie the figure Funder had tossed out.
Cassie rolled her eyes. “No surprise there, either. He’s with a fancy firm. There are people who will pay his fees. So he may be giving you a cut rate on those hourly fees, but they’re still out of sight. Did he give you the spiel about out-of-pocket costs?” Lily had barely nodded when Cassie said, “Court costs aren’t much in a case like this. At least, not up here.”
That was a new thought. “Can I use the New Hampshire courts?” Lily asked.
“Why not? The papers in question are all sold here. That means you’ve been libeled in New Hampshire as much as in Massachusetts or New York.”
Lily took heart. “Libel is what it is. They’ve said things about me that are lies, and what they didn’t say, they implied.”
Cassie held up a cautionary hand. “W
hat they implied will be harder to prove.” She took a pad of paper and a pen from her bag. “Let’s start with what they said.”
“They said I was having an affair with the Cardinal. That is not true.”
Cassie made notes. “Okay. That’s point one. What else?”
“They said I was having an affair with the governor of New York.”
“Said, or implied?”
“Implied, but strongly.”
Cassie rocked a hand. “That’s a maybe. What other direct accusations were made?”
“That I said I was having an affair with the Cardinal. That I was in love with him. That I followed him to Boston.”
“Didn’t you say those things?”
“Not the way he implied,” Lily said, angry and embarrassed at the same time. “We were talking about a hypothetical woman saying she was having an affair with the Cardinal. So Terry reported it like it was me. I said I loved the Cardinal like many other people love the Cardinal. It was generic. And I did follow him to Boston chronologically, but not for the purpose of following him there.”
Cassie was frowning. “Those are all maybes. You said those words. He took them out of context. He’s apt to claim it was an innocent misunderstanding on his part. The case won’t make it to court unless we can prove malice. Do you know him?”
“No,” Lily answered, frustrated now. “He had been approaching me for a piece he was doing on performers, but I kept turning him down. The first time we did any real talking was at the club the night before he broke the story. He led me into those statements, Cassie. But then there’s the rest of what they printed.” She raced on, because it was all so wrong, so infuriating, so humiliating. “I didn’t tell them where I shop or where I go on vacation, and I didn’t tell them about the incident here when I was sixteen. Those charges were dropped. The file was supposed to be sealed.”
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