“No. I thought I might catch him at the end of the day.”
“For…?”
“Just to talk.”
“About…?”
John debated lying. If this woman was as controlling as she sounded—and if she knew anything about the priest’s personal life—she might send him packing. But the priest was nearby. John could wait either inside the center or out on the street. He wasn’t leaving until he talked with the man.
Evasion seemed pointless. “About his brother.”
The change in her expression was subtle, but John was looking for it. Oh yes. She knew about Terry.
Slipping her hands into the pockets of her slacks, she leaned against the wall. “Why?”
He shrugged, held up his hands, then extended one to shake. “John Kipling.”
She removed a hand only long enough to meet his. “Anita Monroe. I’m the director here.” The hand returned to her pocket. She was keeping her distance. “Are you with a newspaper?”
“A small one in New Hampshire. I used to work with Terry in Boston.”
“Lucky you,” she said with another subtle change of expression, but before John could explore it, a door opened behind her. A young man came out first. His age and worn backpack said he was a student. Eyes lowered, he slipped past them and hurried out.
John looked at the man in the clerical collar who was watching from the office door. There was a family resemblance, though John couldn’t quite pin it down. Neil was clearly older than Terry, with graying hair and creases in his forehead and cheeks. He wasn’t as tall or as lean, though he held himself as straight. The mouth might have been the same. But Neil’s was bare and gentler. Same with the eyes. Neil looked far more friendly and warm than Terry ever had. He was approachable. Smiling now, he was even inviting. John could easily believe all the good things he’d heard about the man.
Anita cut right to the quick. “Father Neil, meet John Kipling. He wants to talk with you about Terry.”
Father Neil inhaled sharply and tipped his head back as if to say, I’m found out. His smile was wavering by the time he righted his head, but the handshake he offered was warm. “Lots of Sullivans in the world. I was wondering when someone would make the connection. How’d you do it?”
“An old neighbor in Meadville said you were in Vermont. The local diocese did the rest. I’ve known Terry for years. We went to college together.”
“And worked together,” Anita put in.
The priest smiled sadly. “I’m afraid you know him better than I do, then. There were seven years between us growing up. We were never close.”
“Aren’t you in touch with him at all now?”
“No. We’ve taken different roads. So I’m not sure what you’re looking for, and if you’ve come a distance, I’m sorry. But I really have nothing to say.”
John might have been sly. He might have gotten the priest talking about other things and slipped into his confidence that way. But—totally aside from Anita standing guard—that didn’t feel right. So he explained his quest by telling of his friendship with Lily and of the losses she had suffered since being implicated in the scandal. “She’s trying to fight her way back. I want to help her. We’re trying to understand why Terry hated Fran Rossetti enough to go after him and ruin an innocent woman in the process. I know that your mother and Rossetti were sweethearts, that your father was jealous of that, and that Terry was physically abused. I know that you were immune from much of it.”
There was pain. John could see it in Neil’s eyes. Quietly, the priest said, “If you know all that, why do you need me?”
“You’re the only one who can pull it all together. We can speculate on his motives, but we need to have someone confirm it.”
“For publication.” With that same sad smile, the priest shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that. He’s my brother.”
“He slandered a Cardinal. He ruined an innocent woman.”
“He’s still my brother. You’ll get your information one way or another, but not from me.”
“I want the information to be correct. You’re the only one who was there.”
“But I wasn’t really. As I said, I was seven years older. That’s a world away when you’re a kid.”
“Was Rossetti at the root of the family problems?”
Neil took another one of those breaths with his head tipped back. It seemed enough to shore up his resolve. “You’d have to ask my parents that.”
“They’re dead.”
“Yes.” He went silent.
The silence lengthened.
John tried, “Were you surprised that it was Terry who broke the Rossetti-Blake story?”
There was another sad smile, but patience. “I won’t answer that.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that Terry has caused so much harm?”
The priest thought about that one. Still patient, still sad, he said, “It bothers me that the press has the power to cause so much harm.”
“It has to stop somewhere,” John said, thinking of Terry.
Neil was clearly thinking of John. “You’re right. That’s one of the reasons why I won’t talk to you.”
It was a point well taken. John felt a stab of guilt. It quickly turned to envy. Neil was very sure of himself, but without arrogance. There was calm and the kind of confidence that came with believing in something very much.
Realizing that, John doubted he would be moved. But he made a final stab at it. “What if I promise complete confidentiality.” He was willing to do that. It felt right.
“No matter,” Father Sullivan said in the same quiet voice. “He’s my younger brother. It’s not my place to betray him.”
“Even knowing the harm he has done?”
“It isn’t my job to judge. God does that.” Again, he grew silent. Again, the silence lengthened.
John sought Anita’s help. “Can’t you see this from Lily’s point of view?”
Anita surprised him by saying, “I can. If I were her, I’d want to learn everything I could. But I’m not the one whose brother it is.”
“Can you convince him?” John asked, tipping his chin toward Neil.
“No,” Neil said with finality. “She can’t.”
John knew when to quit. “Okay,” he said. “That’s honest enough. Tell you what. I’m taking off now, but I’ll be spending the night at the Inn on Maple. If you change your mind, will you call me there? By tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be back in Lake Henry.” He took a business card from his wallet. “Here’s my home number.”
The priest tucked the card in his pocket without a glance.
John was discouraged. He had known that getting the priest to talk was a long shot, but after meeting the man, he wanted it more than ever—actually, wanted it on a personal level that had nothing to do with Lily. Neil Sullivan was insightful. He had to be, given his line of work. John wanted to know how he lived with the knowledge that he hadn’t been there for his younger brother.
But Neil hadn’t shown a moment of doubt. He wouldn’t talk. John was so sure of it that he debated returning to Lake Henry that night. But the drive was long, he was exhausted, and—even if hoping was futile—he had told the priest he would be at the Inn.
So he ate dinner on the waterfront and wandered through lively downtown blocks wishing Lily were with him. Convinced that the priest wouldn’t call, he stayed out late walking, and returned to the Inn tired enough to fall quickly asleep. He slept soundly and late, and woke up with barely enough time to make breakfast. There was neither a call nor a message.
As he entered the mansion’s dining room, he was thinking that he could live without the priest’s help and that he missed Lily and just wanted to be home—when he spotted Anita Monroe. She sat with a cup of coffee at the most privately situated of three small tables. Her eyes held his.
John helped himself to coffee from an urn on the sideboard, filled a small plate with pastries, and joined her. He kept the coffee on his side and put the pa
stry dish between them.
“You’re not the one whose brother it is,” he reminded her.
Her voice was softer than yesterday, but just as sure. “No. But I’m the one who has watched the one whose brother it is suffer the guilt and regret.”
Guilt and regret. Strong words. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Yes. We talked it out last night.”
“He sent you?”
“Not explicitly. But he knew I would come, and he didn’t ask me not to. I took Lily’s side in the discussion.” She smiled. “You pushed the right button. If this can help her, then he needs to do it. The thing is, though, I need a guarantee of confidentiality. Neil thrives on anonymity. He doesn’t want the press rushing here. And he won’t have Terry hurt by his hand.”
“It’d be yours,” John reminded her, then quickly reached out and caught her wrist when, stung by either his bluntness or what she thought might be smugness, she started to rise. “Please,” he said humbly, desperate in his way. “Nothing you say is for public consumption. None of it will appear in print. I need my conclusions supported, that’s all.”
“For Lily.”
“Yes.”
Slowly she sat down. She studied him, looking torn.
“And for me,” John added honestly. “I need to understand.”
Her eyes fell to her cup and stayed there another minute. Finally, she raised them. “Neil was the privileged child. He wasn’t lying when he said he and Terry weren’t close. He was only marginally aware of what was going on in that house.”
“How could he not see?” John’s own excuse was distance. He had been physically gone when Donny had acted up.
Anita became the therapist, perceptive and patient. “Neil saw what he could bear to take in. The rest went past him. He’s seen more in hindsight in recent years, and even more since the Rossetti scandal broke.”
“Was Rossetti the problem in the Sullivan marriage?”
“Yes. Jean—Neil’s mother—knew that Rossetti planned to enter the seminary, but she thought she could change his mind. Obviously, she couldn’t. They were together for more than eight years, and then he was gone. It was like she was widowed, or jilted. Lots of conflicting emotions. Very unsettling. She turned around and married the first guy who came along.”
“On the rebound.”
“Apparently. There was little love there. James had a drinking problem and, yes, a jealousy problem. Worse, he was a devout Catholic.”
“Why worse? Wouldn’t that have helped? Given them something in common?”
Anita shook her head. “It made him more conflicted. He hated Rossetti for all he was worth, but he couldn’t lift a hand against Neil. Neil was going to be a priest. That made him untouchable. So James had huge amounts of negative energy that had nowhere to go, and every blessed time he looked at Neil, he thought of Rossetti.”
“Because of the priest thing?”
“And the timing. Neil was born nine months into the marriage. James was convinced he was Rossetti’s son.”
Whoa! John thought. An interesting twist. “Is he?”
“No. Absolutely not. Rossetti was out of her life two months before Jean married Neil’s father. Neil was barely seven pounds at birth. No eleven-month baby, that one.”
“Why the problem then?”
“Jealousy isn’t always rational. James convinced himself that the baby was Rossetti’s. He even went so far as to report it to Church authorities. Fifty years ago, people didn’t do DNA testing, but the math spoke for itself. The Church dismissed it, but James didn’t. And Jean? She would alternately admit it and deny it.”
“Admit it? Why would she do that?”
“Wishful thinking. From what I gather, from what Neil said, she grew delusionary as the reality of her life and her marriage set in. Part of her wanted to think Neil was Rossetti’s son—wanted to believe she had a little bit of him with her forever. So there you have Neil, whose presence aggravated his father, and you have the father, who wouldn’t take it out on him but took it out on Jean.”
“And on Terry.”
“And on Terry,” Anita admitted, sounding resigned. “Neil coped by focusing on life outside the home. He was forever doing things at school or spending time with friends. When he left for college, he left for good.”
That sounded familiar. John left for good, too—or so he had thought. “Didn’t he try to help Terry? Or his mother? Couldn’t he get someone else to help? Report it to someone at school? Demand that his father lay off them? Physically put his body between the father and them?”
“He was a kid,” she said with conviction. “He wasn’t God or a saint, much as Jean wanted to think it. He was a kid whose own life at home wasn’t as perfect as the story sounds.”
John let out a breath. He could identify with that. He felt soothed hearing Anita say it.
But she wasn’t done. “You’re a guy. Imagine having a mother who made you the substitute for a lost love. Imagine the responsibility of that. Imagine the hovering and the doting. Imagine the smothering. There wasn’t anything sexual in it, but it was oppressive. She fawned over him. And what could he do? He knew it was sick. He wanted to rebel. But she had so little pleasure in life, and she took that belt for him. She was his mother and he loved her. So he tried to please her. Tried to be perfect. Tried to emulate Rossetti.” She took a breath and straightened. “If you don’t think he resents Rossetti even a little himself, think again.”
When it was explained that way, John figured he would. “Then it didn’t bother him when Terry broke the scandal.”
“Not at first. He could easily buy into the idea of Rossetti having a woman. It infuriated him that Rossetti would take up with another woman after he had broken Jean’s heart, but he believed it was possible. So here’s a priest doubting a Cardinal, and he felt guilty for that. Then came the official apology, and hours of soul searching and prayer for Neil. Gradually he felt sorrow, then shame.”
“Not enough to speak up when the papers kept going after Lily,” John charged, because his compassion for the man had limits. Neil led a sheltered life.
But Anita was suddenly fired up. “Wait a minute. What about the Cardinal? Did he speak up? No, he didn’t. He didn’t want to open himself up to speculation about lovers and illegitimate children, and with good cause. Can you imagine the field day the press would have had with that? Can you imagine the havoc? It would have been disproven, but the stench would have lingered, and Neil would have been right in the middle.”
John couldn’t argue with that. As angry as he was at Rossetti for abandoning Lily, Anita had a point.
She grew beseeching. “So now you know. That gives you power over us. You can turn around and use what I’ve told you”—she held up a hand—“even though you promised not to, or you can respect Neil’s privacy and the privacy of his family. He’s a good man. He may not have been there for Terry, and he’ll carry the guilt of that to his grave, but he’s helped countless other kids who’ve gone through nightmares of their own.”
She sat back and lifted her coffee cup.
That gives you power over us. John kept hearing that sentence. It made him feel dirty. Not that he was sorry she had told him what she had. Here was motive reinforced. He couldn’t wait to tell Lily. And he wouldn’t put this into print. That would be dirty. It would be against everything he was trying to do with his life. But Anita didn’t know that.
“Why have you told me all this?” he asked.
She set down the coffee cup and took a deep breath. The therapist was gone. There was a naked look in her eyes now. “Because I’ve watched him suffer. I’ve watched the secret swell up in his throat until he comes close to choking on it. I like him—okay, love him. If he weren’t a priest, I might do something about that. Since he is, I’ll sleep alone. But I want him happy. If this gives Lily Blake a better understanding of why Terry did what he did, some of the burden will be lifted from Neil’s shoulders. That’s it. That’s all. That’s what I
want.”
CHAPTER 26
Lily’s muscles had ached the night before, but after one hot bath then and another in the morning, she was ready to go again. Maida was amenable. Oralee didn’t blink at the change. Bub readily deferred to her. The apple pickers coming from the orchards gave her their tallies, since she was the one in the yard.
When Maida drove off that afternoon to bid at auction for a backhoe, Lily was in charge. She handled things in the cider house and, when they finished for the day, used the phone in Maida’s office to track down a late shipment of plastic bottle caps.
All in all, it was a grand, proud, Sousa afternoon. No matter that the foliage color had crested and was starting to fade; the lowering sun set off sparks on the tips of diehard maples and birches. She drove home with the radio blaring and a sense of satisfaction in her bones. Her pleasure doubled when she saw John’s truck parked at the cottage. She had missed him.
He was sitting on the tailgate and jumped off when she pulled up. “You’re late,” he said, but he was smiling.
She smiled back. “Lots to do at the old homestead. So?” She had to know. “How’d it go?”
“It went… great.” As they walked toward the porch, he told her about Father Neil Sullivan, the therapist Anita Monroe, and more than she had ever thought to know about Francis Rossetti.
“They thought Neil was his son?” she asked.
“Terry’s father did. His mother sometimes did. No one else seriously believed it, but Anita was right. There’d have been hell to pay if the press had gotten wind of it. So even if he wasn’t being fair to you, I can almost understand why Rossetti stayed in the background once the Post issued its apology. He didn’t want more attention drawn to himself.”
More attention, Lily mused. It was remarkable, really. “He was covered in such depth after his elevation. How could they not have found this?”
“Easy. Who knows about it? James and Jean Sullivan are dead. Neil wasn’t talking. Terry wasn’t talking. Church officials James might have talked to once are either dead or not talking.”
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