Soberly Lily said, “So you stole a car and didn’t get caught, and I didn’t steal a car and got caught.”
“Yes,” John said. “That gives you something to tell Willie Jake.”
“The statute of limitations will have expired.”
“But it would hurt my credibility if that comes out. So if I tell anyone about your marriage, you can toss that out as evidence that I can’t be believed.”
“What about Terry? Will he tell?”
“Not so soon after the apology. He’ll lie low for a while.”
“Then what?”
“That depends. If we have dirt on him, he’ll be neutralized.”
“That sounds like blackmail.”
“Oh, no. He’ll be able to say whatever he wants. No one will listen. That’s all.”
It sounded good to John. Lily looked as though she was considering it. When the coffee began to perk, she lowered the flame and stayed at the stove with her arms around her middle and her head bowed in thought.
John didn’t rush to fill the silence, what with the percolating pot doing it so well. Within minutes, the smell of coffee began filling the room. He had a modern coffee machine that he filled with beans ground fresh before each use, but his coffee never smelled like this.
It didn’t taste like it either, he decided five minutes later when she poured him a cup.
Five minutes after that, he had a refill. By the time he left the cottage to head into town, he was feeling wide awake but mellow. Celia’s spirit was a peaceful one, indeed.
It wasn’t until he was in the truck again, driving the rest of the way around the lake, that guilt set in. Lily’s early marriage spoke of a craving for love and affection—possibly the same need that made her friendship with Cardinal Rossetti so strong, certainly the same need that had her back in Lake Henry trying to patch things up with her mother. That early marriage helped flesh out the picture of who she was.
But if he included it in a book about the invasion of privacy, he would be invading Lily’s privacy even more.
CHAPTER 17
Lily didn’t trust John. She had made too many errors in judgment where men were concerned to do that. She liked the way he looked and liked the way he talked. She liked the fact that he told her things about himself that no one else knew. She liked his knowledge of loons and his appreciation of her appreciation of them, but she wasn’t taking chances. When she called him thirty minutes after he left the cottage, it was just for the news.
“Nothing,” he said with what might have been frustration.
She was relieved that there was nothing about her marriage in the paper. She wouldn’t have wanted to explain that to Maida, who would be angry and hurt. They had spent the whole of yesterday together without disagreement. It was a record. Granted, what little talk there had been was about work, but it was something, and Lily hated to rock the boat now.
Unfortunately, no news meant that there was no apology or retraction either. “Nowhere?” she asked John.
“Nowhere.”
“They’re just dropping the story cold, leaving me as the bad guy.” After three days, it was no longer a question.
“They’re trying. There were actually two letters to the editor accusing them of doing just that, so you have fans out there. The papers print letters to ease their guilt—you know, show what fair guys they are.”
Lily didn’t think they were fair at all. After thanking John and saying good-bye, she considered calling Cassie. But Cassie couldn’t do anything more for another few days. Besides, Lily had to get to Maida’s.
So she put it aside, drove around the lake to the cider house, and let the smell of fresh apple mash, the demand of the work, and the rhythm of the machines keep it stashed in that distant mental compartment. It came to the fore with a rush, though, when Maida called a late-morning break. This time, when Lily returned to the main house, she called Dan Curry.
“Lily,” he said, sounding pleased to hear her voice, “we were just talking about you, George and I. How are you?”
She felt a wave of nostalgia. Many a time she had stopped at the club to pick up a check and had sat over coffee and scones with George and Dan. “I’m fine. How are you both?”
“We’re fine,” he said brightly. “Booked every night, even with the spectacle of the scandal gone. When I see members looking wistfully at the piano, I know they’re missing you. Your replacement didn’t work out. We had to let him go after two nights. He just didn’t know the songs. You’re a hard act to follow, Lily Blake.”
That was good news. But the not-so-good lingered. “It doesn’t look like the papers are going to apologize to me like they did to the Cardinal. Is he—are his people still working on that?” The Cardinal had said they would. Lord knew, they’d gotten an apology for him quickly enough.
“Gee,” Dan said, “I don’t know.”
“Until they do, I look bad.”
“Nah,” he said in a jovial way. “Anyone who knows you never thought you looked bad.”
“Maybe not musically or physically, but what about mentally? Do all those people think I caused the scandal by saying those things?”
“I really don’t talk about that with them. They know how I feel.”
They did indeed. Dan was on her side, which meant that the general membership of the club might blame him for hiring her in the first place.
Testing the waters, she said, “Each day that passes without more in the paper, I think about coming back. Will people forget?”
“The people who matter already have. Past tense. Over and out.”
Lily had always liked Dan, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew that one of the reasons he was good at running the club was that he could tell members what they wanted to hear. She had a feeling he was doing that to her now. Patronizing her.
So she made the question more specific. “When do you think I’ll be able to come back to work?”
“Here?” He asked with such surprise—as though the thought had never occurred to him—that her heart sank. “Oh, it’s still premature. You’ve only been gone a week.”
“But if the allegations are wrong.”
“It’s not only those allegations. It’s the others, too.”
“But they’re lies.”
“We need to let it die down, Lily. It won’t do any good to rush things.”
Quietly, she said, “This is mm-my job, Dan. The money pays my rent.”
Dan sighed. His voice was suddenly bare. “I know. But the truth is that, if you return here, it’ll revive the whole thing. I can’t do that to the membership. I’ve hired another replacement. This one’s really quite good.”
Lily felt the blow. His words held a finality that said arguing would be wasting her breath. He owned the club. His mind was made up. “I see.”
“I sent a check to your apartment for what I owe you, but if you’re not there—”
“I’ll get it. Thanks.”
“I’m really sorry, Lily. This was a purely business decision. I feel bad. You didn’t intend for any of this to come from those comments.”
His statement hit her the wrong way. She was suddenly furious. Enunciating each word in a way that had less to do with controlling her stutter than with educating someone she had hoped would have been more loyal, she said, “For the record, I didn’t make those comments as they were reported. I have never been infatuated with the Cardinal. We would never have even been friends if he hadn’t set out to save my soul. For the record,” she said, letting loose, “he was the force behind the friendship. I’m not Catholic! I’m not religious! I’d never have thought to approach him if he hadn’t approached me first!”
She ended the call before Dan could apologize and, heart pounding, punched out Elizabeth Davis’s number. She assumed that her neighbor would still be home, sleeping in after a late night. Sure enough, the hello on the other end of the line was groggy.
“Hi, Elizabeth. It’s Lily.”
The grogginess vanished,
giving way to what sounded like genuine excitement. “Lily. Wow, it’s good to hear from you. Are you okay?”
“I’m furious,” she said, needing to vent. “The papers have left me high and dry, my job at the Essex Club is now permanently gone, and I want my own car!” She exhaled and said a quieter “How are things there?”
“You’ve got mail!” Elizabeth chirped. The tone was mocking, the message not.
“Much?”
“One large supermarket bag worth. It’s mostly junk mail—ads and catalogues. A bunch of bills. There’s something from Justin Barr. Should I open it?”
“Yes.” She heard the sound of paper tearing, then a moment’s silence.
“Whoa. He’s offering you money to go on his show.”
“That hypocrite! He always says he doesn’t pay!”
“Yeah, well, what else is new?” Elizabeth murmured. “You have letters here, Lily.” She started reading off return addresses. Some were from friends, others from strangers. “Want to hear?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Sara Markowitz had written a heartwarming thinking-of-you letter. Likewise her college roommate, several teachers and students from the Winchester School, and friends in New York. Lily was feeling buoyed by them, until the negative ones came. They stung.
Elizabeth had just finished reading a particularly mean one when she said, “While we’re on bad, you might as well hear this. The condo association met last night. The media is still calling around trying to find out where you are and what you’re like. Granted, it’s not the mainstream media, just little local pests, and there aren’t any of them stationed outside round the clock, only during rush hour, when they think you may be coming or going. Unfortunately, that’s when most of the owners are coming and going, too. They hate the notoriety.”
“Tony Cohn.”
“Most vocally, but there are others. Me, I’m of the belief that all publicity is good publicity, but I’m in the minority. That group—whew. Pretty conservative. They’ve taken the bad press to heart, and they’re up in arms. They don’t think it’s right that a renter—a mere renter—should be causing them trouble.”
“This mere renter probably pays more each month for the right to be there than some of them do!”
“I know that. I’m on your side, Lily. I didn’t say they were right. I’m just telling you what they’re saying. They want to know what’s true and what isn’t, where the case stands, whether you’re planning to fight. They know you’re not here and want to know when you’ll be back.”
“Are they asking you?”
“I’m afraid they are,” Elizabeth admitted. “I made the mistake of speaking up a little too forcefully on your behalf, so they think I know something. Well, I do and I don’t, if you know what I mean.”
Lily did, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was the sense she had, when she hung up the phone, that she wouldn’t be welcomed back. Granted, she didn’t see her neighbors often—and she no longer cared what Tony Cohn thought—but did she want to be stared at? Glared at? Talked about behind her back? Resented? If she sued the papers and won, things might change. But a verdict would be years away and would involve negative publicity that those neighbors would hate. She wondered if a more immediate public retraction would make the difference—or if all the allegations that Dan Curry had mentioned would be a permanent stain.
Maida entered the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. She busied herself with the box of tea bags, kept her back to Lily, and gave every indication of ignoring the dilemma.
But Lily needed help. Heartsick, she pushed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “The Essex Club hired someone else. I can’t go back there.”
Maida unlatched the dishwasher. When she opened it, a stream of warm air rushed out. She began juggling the hot plates into a pile on the counter. “God works in mysterious ways.”
“Why do you say that?” Lily cried, hurt by the barb. She knew exactly what Maida meant and wondered why for once she couldn’t be understanding.
“Because it wasn’t a good place to work,” Maida said around the chink of flatwear being put away, “so it’s good the job is gone. I don’t care what you say, a club is a club. The newspapers called you a cabaret singer, for goodness sake! That’s not a pretty image.”
“The newspapers also called me the Cardinal’s woman, but I’m not.” She didn’t know how to make Maida understand. “I had a good life, Mom. I spent my days teaching kids and my evenings doing what I love, which is playing the piano and singing. It wasn’t cheap. It wasn’t sleazy. I didn’t do annn-ything wrong.”
Maida barked out a laugh. “Famous last words. How many of us have ever said that in our lives?” She dropped the empty flatwear rack into the dishwasher and began removing hot mugs.
“When have you said it?” Lily asked.
Maida stood for a minute. Then, tightly, she said, “I wallowed in self-pity when your father died.” She finally turned and stared at Lily. “I didn’t know what to do with the business. It was our livelihood. But the choice was either to learn how to work, or to sell. I chose to learn. What are your choices?”
Lily hadn’t outlined her choices, not with this newest twist. She had left Boston assuming she would return. Yes, she still had a lease. She could stay in her apartment until the end of June, regardless of what anyone in the building said. But without a job?
Terry Sullivan had a job. His byline was right there in today’s paper, attached to a story about the Back Bay murder that had conveniently captured the public’s heart. He had screwed up far worse than she ever had, but he hadn’t been fired. That wasn’t fair.
The kettle began to whistle. Lily might have turned and left the room if Maida hadn’t made a show of putting two cups, two spoons, two muffins on the table—and even then, she was almost angry enough to walk right out. She needed sympathy. She needed encouragement. Maida had a history of denying her those things.
A cup of tea and a muffin weren’t sympathy and encouragement. But they were better than nothing. So she stayed.
Lily did love work at the cider house. Though rote, it demanded attention, which meant that the remaining morning hours passed quickly enough. Come lunchtime, though, she was in the tan wagon, heading for town. She didn’t bother with a hat, scarf, and dark glasses this time. There was no need for a disguise. The town knew she was back. Indeed, she turned heads as she drove down Main Street. Angry enough, defiant enough, she smiled and waved.
Passing Charlie’s, she turned in at the post office and drove right back to the yellow Victorian. She had barely set the brake when John came out of the house. Head down, he was sifting through keys. He looked up, startled to see her, and quickly glanced toward the road.
She rolled down her window and called, “They know.” When he came closer, she said more quietly, “I need help. Can we talk?”
He rounded the wagon, slid into the passenger’s seat, and shut the door. Then he faced her, stretching an arm over the back of the seat. “I’m all yours.”
She might have smiled if she hadn’t felt so driven. “I want to fight. How do I do it?”
He rubbed the spot under his lip where his beard was a short line. “Fight Terry? Dirty?”
“Well, Cassie’s doing it clean, but that’ll take time. I need to do something now, or at least feel like I am. I’m tired of sitting and waiting. What are my options?”
He thought about it a minute, studying her with eyes that were surprisingly warm. “That depends. Are you talking about revenge?”
“Let’s call it justice.”
He smiled crookedly. “They’re pretty much the same thing.”
“Justice sounds nicer.”
“How bad do you want it?”
“Bad.”
He was pensive for another minute, but she didn’t mind the delay. She felt good with him here, like she was finally doing something.
“Here’s the thing,” he said. “Whether you call it justice or revenge, th
ere’s still a right and a wrong way to do it. You want instant gratification? I’ll give you a list of questionable articles Terry’s written for the paper, you call a press conference, lay them out, and, bingo, public embarrassment.”
“Is that what you’d do?”
He shook his head. “I think fabricating stories is the tip of the iceberg. There were four separate instances of alleged plagiarism in college. They were investigated but never proved. My source has reports stating that fact. Other sources may produce other instances. Clearly, the more we dig up, the stronger our case. But the digging takes time. You have to decide how instant the gratification has to be.”
“Not instant. But not long. This is… humiliating.” Humiliating was the least of it, all told, but it was what she felt right then. “Terry conned me into trusting him. I can’t be the only one who fell for that.”
“No. I’d lay money on there being others. I’d also lay money on there being something wrong with his personal life. He moves from apartment to apartment more times than anyone I know. So maybe he doesn’t pay rent and gets evicted. Maybe he trashes the place and loses his lease. Maybe he fucks his neighbors—excuse my French—and goes while the going is good. I want to know why he moves so much.”
“I want to know why he went after me,” Lily said.
“I want to know why he went after the Cardinal,” John added, and Lily knew then that they were thinking alike. Yes, her goal was to discredit Terry as he had discredited her, but the idea of understanding the why of it felt like the right way to go, too.
Lake News Page 24