“Well I’m grateful.” A playful frown. “Even though I told you not to follow me. How did you find me?”
“A transmitter in your car.” He neglected to mention that Turian, his deputy, was the one who had planted it, while Julia and Bruce sat in the bagel shop. He had recommended Gwen as his successor, but Lombard Hall was moving at its usual glacial pace. “I’m pretty sure I broke the law,” he added.
For a moment they were joined in silence, as dishes clanked and doors banged and the easy hum of human communication rose and washed over them. It seemed to Julia, from what she had seen and what Mary had told her, that Bruce rarely let the law get in his way. A few months ago Julia would have said her husband was just the opposite.
Bruce said, “So—how is Vanessa doing?”
“Sara says she’ll be fine. It’ll take some work, but she’ll be fine.”
“It’s a resilient age.”
“Oh, Bruce, Grace was right about you.” Teasing, but meaning it. On her plate, shifting patterns of morning sunlight played their distracting game of tag. “You’re really hopeless when it comes to kids, aren’t you? No, Bruce, the late teens are not a resilient age. They’re an age of impressionability, and an age when every poor grade or pimple or romance gone bad means the universe is about to collapse on itself. You know what Lemaster says? That the West invented adolescence when we had enough wealth that we didn’t need teens in the workforce, but we invented it badly. We’re like on model 1.2 or something. That’s what Lemmie says,” Julia repeated, her husband’s name strangely awkward on her lips. She hurried on. “The truth is, Bruce, she’s going through a terrible time. Vanessa is. She doesn’t cry or have nightmares, that’s not who she is. She dances to funeral dirges. She studies war. She laughs, she seems ebullient. But on the inside she’s suffering. I know she is. I don’t blame her. I don’t know how I would have survived what she’s been through.”
“I see your point,” he said in that slow, absorbing manner. The eyes refused to release her, and her frantic command to her own to drop was ignored. She felt itchy and uncertain. “Maybe she needs a change of scene.”
“I thought I might take her to France for a while after graduation,” she gabbled desperately. “She and Mona get along so—”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know it isn’t, Bruce.” The first thread of panic, weaving itself through her aplomb. “It’s what I meant, though. Right now, it’s the only change I can offer her.”
She remembered another Lemasterism. “The world is the way it is. It’s not some other way, it’s this way. You know what my Granny Vee used to say? If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. But they’re not. Wishes aren’t real. They’re not related to…to…” She hesitated, confused by the brave pain in his eyes, and began to founder, to lose her place in a stream that was, just seconds ago, flowing smoothly in the right direction. “We’re real people, Bruce. There are people who live inside the mirror, doing what they want, as if their lives are mere reflections, not real at all. And there are other people who live on this side of the mirror, who have to ignore those reflections, no matter how much they might glitter. That’s being an adult, Bruce.”
Julia waited. It was Bruce’s turn now. She wanted him to declare his feelings so she could tell him that she had come to agree with Lemaster that duty mattered most. Wanted him to talk about how wonderful life could be so that she could talk about how she had already lived the life of one who is unreliable, and half killed herself doing it. Wanted him to talk about the future so she could talk about the future she planned with the husband who had saved her when she needed him, and who needed her now.
Bruce spoke gently. “All I meant was, maybe the move to Elm Harbor will be good for her.” Julia stared. He still loved his Grace. She felt silly, and young, and romantic.
Bruce Vallely obviously did not.
“Actually,” he said, “I came to talk about something else.”
“About what?”
“About the night Kellen Zant died.”
Julia braced herself, wondering what shocks were left. “Frank killed him. Frank Carrington. He didn’t want the diary to come out. Then he decided he needed it to protect himself…”
She trailed off.
Bruce nodded. “Yes, I do think Frank killed him. And I think you have correctly stated his motive. But there is one piece of evidence that does not fit the pattern, and I think I need you to tell me what I should do about it.” He pulled out the envelope Trevor Land had given him. “University telephone records,” he explained, drawing a page from within. “To a particular cell number the night Zant was killed.”
“I don’t want to see this.”
“I don’t want to show it to you.”
But he did anyway. The phone number was Lemaster’s. A call was circled on the night in question, about an hour before they left the dinner in Lombard Hall.
Anthony Tice had called her husband.
Out on the street they awkwardly hugged. Both knew the meeting would be their last.
“May I ask one question?” she said.
“Sure.”
She hefted the envelope. “Why didn’t you give this to the police?”
He smiled that tired smile. “The investigation,” he said, “is closed.”
Well, that was true enough. Julia felt the New England winter slipping up from the ground and down from the sky, grabbing hold of her limbs with its familiar chilly tendrils, determined to restrain her from any foolishness. And it dawned on her, first faintly, then with growing forceful certainty, that she would never live anywhere else; that she was as firmly married to New England as she was to Lemaster; that her roots ran too deep in the soil, past the frosty surface and down into the soft, brown warmth that was turned up with spring plantings.
She said, or maybe blurted, “I’ll miss you.”
That warming smile teased the corners of his lips, he dipped his heavy head, and then, good soldier that he had always tried to be, without a further word of objection or farewell, Bruce Vallely followed his orders and marched off into his overdue retirement.
CHAPTER 67
THE ILLUSIVE CALM
(I)
JUNE. Everything calm again, everything except Julia, who had simmered and percolated through three months of pretending that life was once more perfection. The renovations to the old mansion on Town Street, just where Hobby Road begins, had been completed, and the results, the architectural critics agreed, were breathtaking: Norm Wyatt’s finest work, the sublime and subtle merger of traditional and modern, the hidden technological marvels, the attention to the smallest curlicue of carpenter’s Gothic on the rebuilt veranda in the back, and the sweeping lines that made the house seem to rise from the landscape, proclaiming itself to matter, even if, in truth, it was no larger than any of the other aging great houses along this stretch of campus. Lemaster had moved almost full-time into the house in April, excepting only weekends and the odd weeknight, and the joke among the Sister Ladies, that the perfect Carlyles were testing what life would be like if they went their separate ways, was no more than half funny, because no more than half false.
By that time, Mary Mallard had moved to a rehabilitation center in Maine, nearer her mother, but Julia spent the spring driving up at least once a week to visit, for each was trying still to inch toward the truth. On one of these visits, Mary pointed out that Kellen must have had a source inside the conspiracy in order to begin his investigations in the first place; and Julia, although she had carefully screened from her partner the knowledge that the “conspiracy” had been undertaken by a bankrupt Harlem men’s club, suspected that Mary knew anyway. And then, one bright spring afternoon as they walked the grounds, Mary showed Julia a printout from the Internet Anagram Server. One was circled. Julia stopped and grew ashen.
“I’m sorry,” said Mary.
“I don’t believe it.”
“I’m not sure that’s the issue.”
Mary w
as, in this instance, correct, but her correctness tautened their relationship, and the fresh tension turned out to be more than their partnership could bear.
So they became distant correspondents instead of the close friends they had perhaps hoped to be.
As soon as school ended, Julia and the children packed up the grand house on Hunter’s Meadow and left the heart of whiteness to return to the city. Beth Stonington assured them, and everyone else who would listen, but mostly her competitors, that the selling price would be well north of two million, possibly close to three, given what was going on with property in the Landing these days. Why anyone would give up this idyllic existence to raise children in a dying city like Elm Harbor, neither Beth nor her friends and cronies could guess.
“It’s Lemaster’s job, honey, not yours,” Beth had explained to Julia, but only after she was persuaded that under no circumstances would her client change her mind; for there was no point in queering the sale for the sake of idle curiosity.
“It’s my job, too,” Julia assured her solemnly, but Beth told everybody that the gray eyes were lidded and puffy, as if she had spent a lot of time weeping. “Probably just allergies,” said the feistier among them, meaning it as a joke, although, as it happened, it was true.
So the family settled in. In the fall, Aaron would be returning to Exeter, where he was thriving. Perfect Jeans had been accepted into the fourth grade at Ogden, the principal feeder for Hilltop, the most exclusive private high school in town, and so, in the way such things seem to be decided these days, the brightness of her future was assured.
As to Vanessa, she had been admitted to some colleges, turned down at others, and left her deposit at one of the Seven Sisters, much to the relief of her parents. Then, without quite asking for permission, or even informing her mother and father until the deed was done, she arranged to defer admission, and announced that, upon turning eighteen in October, she was going to join Smith for a tour of the country, by car.
“You’re not allowed to drive,” said Lemaster.
“Excuse me, Daddy, but that won’t really be your call,” she answered with a firm politeness learned at her father’s feet, and proceeded to quote at length a relevant passage from George Orwell on the Spanish Civil War, trying to prove that meaning is dynamic, categories changing as the facts do their daily dance: “The soldier who was running away wasn’t a fascist, so Orwell couldn’t shoot him. And the girl who’s eighteen isn’t a child, so you can’t tell her what to do.”
“I’m not talking about the law,” he said testily.
“I am. At eighteen I’ll reach my majority. I’m not a danger to myself or others. I can go where I want, do what I want, right? You guys raised me. Now you’ll just have to trust that you raised me right.”
“You’re still my child—” Lemaster began.
“But not in the hierarchical sense. I have to honor you, the Bible says. But not obey. Not once I’m grown.” She raised her hands, palms outward. “I’m not defying you, Daddy. I’m doing what I have to do. The same way you did when you decided to go to divinity school instead of biz school like your parents wanted.”
“What does Dr. Jacobstein say?”
“To be sure and take my cell phone.”
Lemaster, to his wife’s surprise, retreated from abstract rules to the world of the practical: “Even if we do let you go, Smith doesn’t strike me as the most reliable companion.”
“Then we’re a perfect match, because I’m not terribly reliable either.”
She added that if they liked L.A. they might settle down there and look for work, in which case the deferment might be…extended.
“They won’t wait forever,” said her father, quite cross, and quite defenseless.
“They will for the right person. That’s what you always tell me.”
“Vanessa—”
“It’s time to grow up,” she said, and left, not specifying who among them needed the growth.
Later, Julia sat on Vanessa’s bed as the teen lay on her stomach programming her portable DVD player. Rainbow Coalition perched contentedly on the windowsill, licking her paws. “You don’t dance any more.”
“I’m bored with dirges.” She pointed. “I still have my war books, though. They’re making the trip. So don’t worry, Moms. I promise not to get completely cured without checking with you first.” Before Julia could come up with a bright answer, Vanessa kissed her. “I’m joking. But seriously. Some of the books will also be going.” She glanced at the cat. “I wish RC could go.”
“Is Gina going, too?” Julia asked, timidly. As her daughter seemed disinclined to answer, she tried again: “Or was the trip her idea in the first place?”
Daughter turned to look at mother, face obscured by the swaying braids, but Julia was fairly certain she saw a smile. Then Vanessa returned to her work.
(II)
A FEW AFTERNOONS LATER, having postponed as long as she decently could, Julia drove out to the Landing. She took a quick look at the house, to be sure the grass was being watered and cut and the real-estate agents and clients traipsing through had not yet ruined anything, then drove down to Main Street. She parked her new Escalade near the Town Green, where Vanessa had burned her father’s car, waved hello to a handful of surprised acquaintances, and crossed the street. At Cookie’s, Vera Brightwood professed herself delighted to see her and began making up an order of cappuccino truffles without waiting to hear exactly what Julia wanted, and Julia let her measure and wrap and cheat the scales, while going on and on about what the university people, present company excepted, were doing to the town.
Julia said, “I wanted to talk about what happened that night at your house.”
“What night was that?”
“The night they arrested Tice. That lawyer.”
Vera smiled her greedy porcelain smile. She had been angry that night, after Julia accused her of being Kellen’s “Black Lady,” the secret source who had managed his search for the diary. But no source would have been better. Vera knew the byways of the town’s history better than anybody. “I sued him,” said Vera. “Did you hear about that? For what he did that night. I’m going to take him to the cleaners.”
“I think he’ll be in prison for a while first.”
“Probably,” Vera agreed.
“I just had a question.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.” Adding, also unasked, some Jelly Bellys for the jar on Lemaster’s desk at Lombard Hall.
“How did Tony Tice know I’d be at your house that night? I’m sure he didn’t follow me. The man who was, ah, protecting me would have seen to that. And Tice didn’t live in the Landing. So how did he happen to show up?”
“I wouldn’t know, dear.”
“I was thinking you might. I was thinking that maybe the whole group of you had set out to avenge Gina. People everybody has down as—excuse me—shameless right-wingers, but you still didn’t like that innocent black boy suffering for what some rich white frat boy did. I think everyone in your group encouraged Kellen Zant, once you found out what he was working on. Maybe some people helped him indirectly, but everybody helped. Then I think he double-crossed you. Instead of going after justice, he went after money.”
“I have some wonderful cranberry-chocolate fudge.”
“I don’t think you’re violent people. I think you were shocked when Kellen got shot. Shocked and scared. I think Frank Carrington was a member of your group, and I bet he acted as shocked as anybody.” Julia pulled out the cash for her purchase, but Vera said it was on the house. “The night Kellen died, Frank had to know that he was about to close a deal to sell the diary. Well, how else could he have known except from somebody in your group? Senator Whisted’s aide, right? Grew up in the Landing, wanted to get revenge for Gina the same way the rest of you did, and maybe heard from Astrid what was up, and told the rest of you, including Frank.”
“We didn’t want to hurt anybody,” said Vera after a long think. “Gina was a good girl, Julia. Not like the
girls who run around today. A good girl. Whoever did it deserves what he gets.” She eyed her best customer, who was probably making her last visit to the shop. Her uneasy half-smile reminded Julia of Latisha, her former assistant, who had finally gained protected status under the collective bargaining agreement after Minnie Foxon, without explanation, requested a transfer to another department. “What Kellen was going to do to him. What you’re going to do to him. Maybe what your husband is going to do to him.” She turned away, began to measure out peanut brittle. “But you’re wrong, Julia. We didn’t know about the diary. Who would have told us? Yes, I suppose you’re right, Mal Whisted’s man would have known. Maybe he told Frank. He certainly didn’t tell the rest of us.”
Julia popped a couple of Jelly Bellys into her mouth. In the mirror behind the counter, a rose-tinted Julia pondered with her. What exactly was Senator Whisted’s connection to the group? Helping them out or monitoring their progress? She had thought she had the sequence right: Frank kills Kellen to keep the diary secret, then kills Boris Gibbs when, after stealing the Vanessa File, Boris gets too close to duplicating Kellen’s research. The story was perfectly consistent. But was it true? she asked her reflection, as Vera sliced and wrapped. Why wouldn’t Frank have preferred to jolly Kellen along—or, if not Kellen, at least Boris—and then, when the diary came out of hiding, swipe it and destroy it?
The aide, Julia decided. Only Whisted’s aide would have known that Kellen had the diary. If he did tell Frank, it would only have been in the hope that the former deputy would act—but how could the aide have known that Frank was implicated? Was it possible that the phone conversation overheard by Tony Tice the night Kellen died might have been not with Frank Carrington, but with an aide to a United States Senator, perhaps threatening a double cross that made Kellen rush to meet him—
But behind the mirror’s surface was only a silvery reflection, and beyond that nobody could see.
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