Lake News

by Barbara Delinsky

  “I miss Celia,” Maida surprised her by saying.

  “Me too.”

  “She was a good person.”

  “Yes.”

  “Had a big heart.”

  “Had big ears,” Lily mused. “I could talk to her about most anything.”

  That brought Maida back. She sat straighter. “You could. But your generation is different that way. My generation was never given permission to talk about certain things.”

  “You don’t need permission. You just speak your thoughts.”

  Maida sputtered out a laugh. “It’s not that easy.”

  “It is.”

  She looked at Lily, challenging now. “What would you have me say?”

  Lily backed down. She and her mother had shared so few companionable times that she didn’t want to spoil things. “I was being hypothetical.”

  “I’m serious. What would you have me say?”

  Lily felt the old tightness at the back of her tongue. She focused on easing it, then said, “What your childhood was like. I haven’t a clue.”

  “Why does it matter? What difference does it make? My life began when I married your father. And you’re a fine one to say I should talk. What about your thoughts? You told them to Celia, but never to me.”

  Lily refused to look away. “I was afraid of stuttering.”

  “I don’t hear you stuttering now.”

  No. She was thinking clearly. She was in control of herself.

  From the other end of the house came a hollered “Mom?”

  “In here,” Maida called back. “It’s Rose.”

  Lily knew that. Rose’s voice was distinct from Poppy’s, and no one else called Maida Mom.

  Rose appeared in the archway and gave a startled look at the silver tray, the sandwiches, teapot, and cups. “This is nice,” she said. “Elegance in the middle of a workday.”

  “We had to eat,” Maida explained, extending the sandwich plate. Half a sandwich remained. “It’s yours if you want.”

  Rose shook her head. “No time. I put a turkey breast in the fridge. It’s cooked. All you have to do is heat it up. School got out early today. I have the girls in the car.”

  “Only Emma and Ruthie,” said Hannah, slipping past her. “Hi, Gram. Hi, Aunt Lily.”

  “I asked you to wait in the car,” Rose said.

  “They were pinching me.” She leaned against the sofa arm nearest Lily. Lily gave her shoulder a welcoming rub and was rewarded by a glowing smile. “They can come. All four of them.”

  “Super!” Lily said.

  The deal was a movie and supper. Hannah had asked if she could invite three friends. When Lily readily agreed, she had cautiously asked if she could invite a fourth. “In case they don’t come. They might not want to.”

  “They’ll want to,” Lily had said, praying it was so.

  She and Hannah had written invitations up on Maida’s pretty paisley stationery. Hannah had made her father drive her to the post office to mail them Friday night. Lily learned this from Poppy, who learned it from Rose, who had apparently been slightly put out.

  “Pure guilt,” Poppy had told Lily. “She knows she should be doing the party herself, but having said she was against it, she won’t lift a finger to help.”

  “She’s driving me crazy about this party,” Rose said now.

  “I’m not,” Hannah told her, but her glow had faded. Nervous now, she murmured to Lily, “I just don’t know what to wear.”

  “She has a closet full of clothes,” Rose put in. “It’s not my fault if they don’t fit.”

  “You bought them too small.”

  “You outgrew them too fast.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Oh-ho, yes, you can.”

  The words were different, but the tone just the same. Lily remembered too many such arguments from her own childhood to bear listening. “I think,” she said quickly, “that I have to go shopping. I don’t have many clothes here. I didn’t knnn-know how long I was staying. I don’t have the right kind of thing for this party.”

  “It’s only a movie,” Rose said. “What you’re wearing is fine.”

  “It’s a birthday party,” Lily said right back. The moment of stuttering was past. She knew where she was headed. “Hannah can come shopping with me. We’ll both get something. My treat.”

  “When?” Hannah said, glowing again, and suddenly Lily was as excited as she was.

  They went the following afternoon. Lily had barely finished at the cider house and cleaned up when Hannah ran up the road. Her big T-shirt and baggy jeans were as unflattering as ever, and her hair was in a ponytail that exaggerated the roundness of her cheeks, but those cheeks were rosy and her eyes were alive. The part of Lily that identified so closely with Hannah was pleased—the promise was definitely there.

  They drove south to Concord. Poppy had given Lily a list of stores in order of preference, but they didn’t have to go far. At the very first store on the list, Hannah fell in love with a dress. It was a Black Watch plaid, cut in an Empire style, of a fabric that was soft enough to fall gently and smoothly. Hannah couldn’t take her eyes off her reflection in the mirror, and Lily knew why. The dress made her look grown-up—and remarkably slim.

  They bought a matching hair ribbon, a pair of dark green tights to match the green in the plaid, and a pair of shoes with the smallest wedge of a heel.

  Setting those things aside, they moved to the part of the store that had clothes for Lily, and again, Hannah fell in love. Moments after she touched it, Lily was trying on a long skirt, vest, and blouse. The skirt and blouse were a soft heather blue rayon; the vest was woven of a dozen compatible colors. Lily could have looked for days and not found a better choice.

  “Shoes, too?” Hannah asked, into it big-time by now.

  “Thank you,” Lily chided, “but I have shoes.”

  “Earrings, then,” Hannah said, pointing to a rack.

  “Thank you,” Lily said in the same chiding tone, “but I have earrings.” She reached for her wallet. “My credit card can only take so much.” She slipped it out and handed it to the salesgirl, who went to work writing up the sale.

  She didn’t realize what she had done until the salesgirl went still. An adorably mod young woman, early twenties perhaps, she looked at the credit card, looked at Lily, looked at the credit card again. Her eyes grew wider.

  “You’re Lily Blake?” she finally asked in a tone of awe. “The Lily Blake?”

  Lily’s heart started to pound. Deny it, the little voice inside said. There are other Lily Blakes in the world.

  “I knew you looked familiar,” the girl cried with an excited smile. “We don’t get many famous people in here.” Her mouth went from wide to round. “Omigod. Wait’ll I tell my boss. She’ll be wild that she wasn’t here when you came.”

  Lily felt her tongue tensing up. She held up a hand and shook her head while she made it relax. As soon as she could, she said, “Don’t do that. I’m in hiding.”

  “Only my boss,” the girl promised. “She’ll die.”

  Hannah was suddenly at Lily’s side. Standing straight and tall, sounding like an imperious brat, she said, “If you tell anyone, you’ll ruin my birthday. If you tell anyone, we won’t ever come into this store again. Not me, not my mother, not anyone in our family, not anyone in our town.”

  Imperious brat? She sounded just like Rose! At that moment Lily didn’t even mind. All she could think of as she quickly signed the sales slip and they hurried out of the store with their bundles was that she should have paid in cash.

  Poppy’s phone rang early Wednesday morning. It wasn’t the first call, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was the one that interested her most.

  “Hey, Poppy,” said Griffin Hughes. “How’s my girl?”

  She loved his voice, oh, she did. “Fine. But… where’s Willie Jake?” The call had come through the police department line; only, Willie Jake hadn’t told Poppy he was out.

  “H
e’s at his desk. I asked him to switch me to you when he wouldn’t talk. He said you wouldn’t either, but I had to give it a try.”

  “I always talk to you.”

  “Not about Lily.”

  Poppy let out a breath. “Ahh. And here I was starting to think that you were interested in me.”

  “I am.”

  “But you keep asking about Lily! Everyone keeps asking about Lily! I have gotten four other calls this morning from press people asking about Lily!”

  “That’s because word’s out that she’s back. This time it’s more than rumor. She was seen. So. What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “Her being back.”

  Poppy sighed. “Griffin, Griffin, Griffin. The press has been cruel to my sister. What kind of person would I be if I talked?”

  “I’m not the press. I’m a writer. There’s a difference. A press person works for someone else. Anything he writes is subject to editing. He works on a deadline, has to consider sales potential and managerial politics.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “No. I’m my own boss. I write an article the way I want to, then put it up for sale. I’ve done other things for Vanity Fair. They like me. They like my writing.”

  “They aren’t interested in sales?” Poppy asked. “I don’t believe that.”

  “They are. But what I write is what their target audience wants to read. It’s a good fit, so to speak.”

  “And they don’t want this article yesterday?”

  “They do. A good part’s done. I started writing it long before this happened to Lily. But her experience adds something. Come on, Poppy,” he coaxed. “Tell me a little.”

  She was sorely tempted. His voice was that strong. “Why do you keep calling me? Why don’t you call someone else?”

  “I’ve tried. I called, uh”—she heard the rustle of paper—“a realtor named Allison Quimby, an old guy named Alf Buzzell, and the guy who runs the general store.”

  “Did they say Lily was here?”

  “Didn’t say yes, didn’t say no. I have never met people more skilled at evasion.”

  Poppy smiled. “Evasiveness isn’t a crime. We protect our own, that’s all. Have I ever told you the story of the sacred gourd?”

  There was a pause, then an amused “I don’t believe you have.”

  “Well, y’see, there was a gourd once. A gourd is a hard-shelled fruit?”

  He cleared his throat. “I did learn that once.”

  “Well, there was this gourd that grew one summer on a farm just off the south end of the lake, and it was a beauty, all rich greens and purples, regal almost. There was something unusual about it, something uplifting. You could stand out there in the field and look at it, and after a little while you felt better than you had when you came. If you had a headache, it was eased. If you had a dilemma, you had solutions.”

  “What did it do for you?”

  Poppy caught her breath. “What do you mean?”

  “What problems did the gourd help you with?”

  An innocent question. She released the breath. “This all happened in the early fifties. I wasn’t born then.”

  “Oh. Okay. Go on.”

  “So,” she said, relaxing, “people felt something after they visited this gourd. They’d go home and tell friends in neighboring towns, and pretty soon those people were coming to see it. Word spread to the city, and once it got there, well, you know how word spreads there. One little bitty article in the paper, and people were coming from cities all over New England to see it.”

  “Must have been one crowded yard.”

  Poppy said, “Never underestimate a Yankee. They’re orderly and they’re shrewd. They managed the crowd by setting up stands selling local goods on the perimeter of the field. That way, people coming to visit had a diversion while they were waiting to see the gourd.”

  “That way,” Griffin put in, “the locals cashed in.”

  “That, too,” she admitted, “but could you blame them? It was harvest time. They had bushels of sweet corn and apples, and gallons of cider, right on hand.”

  “So, if I visited there, saw that gourd, and bought that cider and went home feeling better, I’d never know whether it was because of the gourd, the cider, or a day in the country.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t the gourd,” she assured him. “It was an old ordinary gourd that just happened to have unusual coloring. The locals ruled out anything miraculous from that gourd early on.”

  “Then the whole thing was a marketing ploy?”

  “Brilliant, wouldn’t you say?”

  Griffin didn’t say anything during the short pause that followed, but she could hear a grin in that deep voice of his when he asked, “What happened to the gourd?”

  “A pig ate it at the end of the season. Weud was,” she laid on the accent, “that paw-kuh made soo-puh bacon.”

  He chuckled. “The moral of this story being that Lake Henryites are wily when it comes to looking out for their own interests.”

  “Right-o,” she said.

  “Sounds like a place I’d like. I really should come take a look.”

  But the fantasy was that he was her prince, and she could walk right into his arms. If he came to visit, the fantasy would be shot. “You wouldn’t be welcome here,” she warned. “Not with things the way they are.”

  “With Lily there, you mean?”

  “No,” she said with care. “I didn’t mean that. I never said Lily was here. But I’m not the only one tired of getting calls asking if she is.”

  “Tell me for fact that she isn’t, and I won’t call again.”

  For an instant, Poppy was trapped. But one of the things about losing the use of her legs was that her mind had grown sharper to compensate. Her voice grew gentler. The fantasy revived. “But I want you to call again. I like talking to you. So call again, Griffin Hughes. Anytime.”

  CHAPTER 21

  John felt pressured Wednesday morning. He was scrambling to put the week’s Lake News to bed, but Jenny was home with a cold and the phone kept ringing. The calls from outside media were handled fast; he said that he didn’t know where Lily was, which was technically the truth at any given time. The call from Richard Jacobi was more demanding.

  Richard had heard that Lily was back in town and was worried that if John didn’t get something together fast, someone else would beat him to it. John pointed out that there were no other Lake Henry insiders on the scene. Richard reminded him that the deal was for an exclusive story to be published in book form in time for summer reading. John said that he understood, but countered that he knew for a fact that publishers could execute a one-month turnaround from manuscript to bound book if they chose. Richard argued that a turnaround like that made things harder—especially with a book so legally sensitive, written, he might point out, by someone with no track record—and that he had already gone out on a limb offering John the deal he had. John reminded him that he didn’t have a contract yet. Richard said it was in the works.

  They ended on an amiable note, but John hung up the phone feeling a churning in his stomach the likes of which he hadn’t felt since he was the stressed-out journalist seen in the mug shot on the wall. Part of the problem was time; good books weren’t dashed off in a handful of days. And of course, part had to do with Lily; he liked her too much to push for information she wasn’t ready to give. He even felt guilty when he thought about nosing into Maida’s history in that little logging town in rural Maine.

  Part of the problem, though, was Lake News. This was still his real job. It might only be a small-town weekly, but there was much work and great responsibility—and he took pride in it. Since his name was prominent on the masthead, he wanted each issue to be good.

  So he wiped all the rest from his mind and focused on inserting post-deadline community service ads, rereading his major stories one last time, rewriting a poorly done piece from Center Sayfield, and finalizing the placement of photos with regard to loca
l town and sports news. He sent the last page off to the printer just before one, then sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ease the feeling of pressure in his head.

  His stomach was slow in settling, and he sat there remembering that he had returned to Lake Henry to escape this feeling. He was thinking that maybe he wasn’t cut out to be writing books after all, when Terry Sullivan called.

  So John wasn’t starting off in the best of humor. It didn’t help when Terry said a smug “Your girl was seen with her niece in a store in Concord yesterday. Are you still playing dumb about where she is?”

  Irritated, he sat forward. “Why are you calling me? Why are you even thinking about Lily Blake? The story’s done. I told you that last time you called, and it’s still done.” He was disgusted. “It was a lot of hot air that amounted to nothing. You blew it, Terry.”

  “Not me. My story stands.”

  “Because of that tape?” John charged. “She didn’t know about any tape. That’s illegal.”

  “Ahh. So you did talk with her. That means she’s back.”

  “Illegal, Terry. I’d be worrying about that, not about whether she’s here. What is it to you, anyway?”

  “I’m doing a follow-up story.”

  John was incredulous—and it had nothing to do with his competitive streak. “For what paper? In case you haven’t noticed, the Post dropped the story. Besides, what in the hell would you do a follow-up on? Journalists who create bogus scandals?”

  “Try nightclub singers who get carried away and confuse the lines between fantasy and reality.”

  “Yeah. Right. You gonna prove that with an illegal tape?” He had a sudden thought. “How about a tape that’s been edited?”

  There was a pause, then a cold “You have nerve.”

  “Not me, pal,” John said. He could feel the tiny pulse throb under his eye. “It takes nerve to pursue something that’s already been discredited. But here you are, calling me again. I’m just letting you know there’s another side to this story. Last time we talked, you said I’d lost it. Don’t you wish. For starters, I know who called the wife of the chief of police here under false pretenses and tricked an innocent old lady into mentioning a case whose file was sealed eighteen years ago. Know how I know? There’s a tape. Funny, isn’t it? What goes around comes around, pal. Only this tape’s legit, because it’s an official police line, and it has your voice on it. If you don’t trust my recognizing it, we’ll take it to an expert. I also have a growing collection of articles you may have plagiarized during college.”