The Test

by Patricia Gussin

  What a lie, Frank knew, but beautifully delivered. Meredith despised Carl, and, although the old man was too much of a gentleman to admit it, the feeling was mutual. He had stayed on the board to look over her shoulder. He was already giving her a hard time about her revised portfolio of contributions, which leaned heavily toward those causes that would enhance Frank’s political future. For crying out loud, Frank thought, the foundation owed its very existence to Dad’s money, so why not use it to his advantage? Control of annual distributions of half a billion dollars could only help with his constituents.

  “Today I am proud to announce four new Parnell family board members. Paul’s daughters, Dr. Ashley Parnell, Mrs. Rory Stevens, and Ms. Monica Monroe, and his grandson, Mr. Terrence Parnell.”

  There was a rumble of voices before Meredith called for a dramatic moment of silence in memory of Carla. The buzz hushed as the reporters respectfully bowed their heads until Meredith uttered a throaty “Thank you,” dabbed at her eyes, and continued. “Now, I’d like to introduce my husband, Senator Frank Parnell.”

  Frank walked out to the second podium. “I want to tell you a story of a courageous man,” he began as he laid out the story of his father’s affair with a young woman and the story of Monica, as the videocams began to whir, the cameras to flash, and furious scribbling to appear on notebooks. When he finished, he thanked the media and was about to introduce Monica, when, to his surprise, the audience started to applaud. That was a first at any press conference he had ever participated in, and Frank could imagine Matt backstage, patting himself on the shoulder or more likely, sneaking a kiss from Frank’s pretty niece.

  “Now,” he announced as the applause dwindled and the throng settled back to think up questions. “Here’s Monica Monroe with an announcement of her own.”

  Cameras jockeyed for position and flashes went off from every direction. Soon Frank thought they’d start chanting, “Monica! Monica!” like her concert fans.

  Monica approached the third podium with a flourish. After signifi-cant discussion had been held, she wore what she called her working clothes. Her manager had out argued Matt, who still remained appalled. Skintight black pants, a formfitting top that scooped almost to her navel, stiletto heels, long black hair flowing wild and reckless. Hardly the symbol of a philanthropic board of directors. “Image is all in this business,” her manager had preached. “Every appearance has to enhance the image of the glamorous entertainer. Business is business and she’s a brand. Just like Tide or Tylenol. That’s why she pays me. I gotta constantly promote her persona.”

  Privately Monica might be a sweet, serene lady. Beautiful, ravishingly so, but unimposing in her personal demeanor. Publicly, she had to be a sensation—a star performer. Frank had seen her dynamite videos. But he’d never seen her do a live performance until now. The girl had real presence. Knew how to work a crowd. Well, why not? She’d been center stage at concert productions throughout the world. He could only salivate at the prospect of her at political rallies.

  There was a new gush of applause and a few whistles.

  “This is a very important moment for me,” Monica began and cameras flashed. “I’d like to tell you my story.”

  In her crystal voice, Monica recounted her perfect life with her “real” parents, the Monroes. She directed the cameras to where her father sat in the front row, beaming with pride. Monica explained how she’d been adopted. How she had four older brothers. How her mom had died when Monica was fifteen of breast cancer. How she’d only recently discovered that Paul Parnell was her biological father. How he’d protected her life. She ended with a touching prayer she’d composed for her adopted mother, Denise Monroe, for Paul Parnell, and for her deceased biological mother, Abby Ames. There was not a sound in the room, other than the whir of camcorders.

  A moment of silence. Then Monica switched to pure professional as she extolled the virtues of the Parnell Foundation, ticking off her favorite charities—breast cancer research, access to health care, shelters for abused women, teen mothers, hospice care for end of life. To these causes she vowed her personal attention. She appealed for volunteerism, financial support, altruism in general.

  The media pack didn’t know how to react. Was Monica going to walk out among them and pass the hat or circulate a sign-up sheet? Then a dramatic shift of gears as Monica flipped back her raven hair, pivoted to face backstage, and flung out her arm.

  “And now that I’ve shared my past,” she announced. “I want to tell you about my future.”

  There was a rustle and jousting for position.

  Patrick strolled out like a guest on Larry King Live. Tanned, fit, brown hair trimmed to a longish crew cut, the familiar sports personality joined Monica at the podium. They embraced, and once more Frank was reminded of how perfect they looked together. What these two could do for his campaign!

  “Everybody’s been wondering why I’ve become such a sports fanatic. Now you know! My new husband, Patrick Nelson!”

  Questions were shouted from every angle, but Matt stepped up to the fourth podium. Frank breathed a sigh of relief. His aide had pulled off quite a coup. This whole production had been his idea. So far so good.

  Matt fielded the questions. All directed to Monica. Funny scene, hard-core business reporters begging for juicy tidbits about Monica’s secret wedding.

  After the press conference broke up, Frank and Meredith and Monica and Patrick were all high-fiving each other when Carl approached Ashley.

  “Went well, didn’t it?” Carl said.

  “Yes.” Ashley planted an affectionate kiss on the old man’s cheek. “Now for the board meeting. How long do they usually go?”

  “Meredith runs a tight ship. Two and a half hours, I’d say. When I was chairman, they went longer, but Meredith sticks to her agenda, then moves for adjournment. She’s not big on board input.”

  “So you think we’ll be out of here by three o’clock?”

  Carl nodded. “I think so. Board members have flights to catch. But, Ashley, I need to talk to you. Can you stay for a while afterward? It’s important.”

  “Not today, Uncle Carl, I have an appointment in the city. Then I’m going home.”

  “It’s important. How about dinner tonight? Just the two of us? You can get a room here and leave first thing in the morning.”

  Ashley remembered that she’d made no arrangement to get back to Pennsylvania and that Conrad would be home before midnight. But it would be so wonderful to spend time with Uncle Carl. Of all the people in the whole world, she trusted him the most. Perhaps he could give her some guidance. She’d taken the week off from the hospital. And if she was successful later this afternoon, she’d be better off staying in New York. With a queasy feeling, she decided to leave a message for Conrad that she’d stayed overnight in Manhattan. He’d be angry, but she’d worry about that later. “Okay, Uncle Carl, that would be nice. I’ll get a room here at the Waldorf and meet you for dinner. When and where?”

  “I’ll make the arrangements. Do what you have to do in the city. I already have a restaurant in mind, and I’ll leave a message about time and place.”

  Later, she considered that room service at the hotel would have been a better dining choice.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Dr. Parnell, I’ve consulted with your sister’s oncologist, and spoken directly to Dr. Stevens, your brother-in-law.” The tall, balding hematologist sounded miffed. “I don’t know why this is such a rush job, but as you are a Parnell, we’ll make a policy exception.”

  “Thank you,” Ashley said. Doctors could be so rude. She’d never talk to a patient like that.

  “We’ll need routine blood and urine tests. Then we’ll take you to the procedure room.”

  Ashley, having rushed out of the board meeting, gladly accepted the plastic specimen cup, headed for the rest room, then returned for the technician to draw her blood. As she rolled up her sleeve, she wondered why she hadn’t arranged this sooner. Why had Conrad been so i
nsistent that she not do this? She was a healthy twenty-five-year-old woman. The procedure might not be pleasant, but it was not difficult or dangerous. Even though she and Rory were only half sisters, they had an unusually close match for a bone marrow transplant. Why had Conrad tried to prevent her from doing whatever she could to save Rory’s life?

  She felt as if she’d regained some sense of direction, some clarity of self, as if a layer of fog had lifted inside her head. She couldn’t explain why she had drifted so far from Rory and Chan and the kids. They used to be so close. What kind of sister was she to let that happen?

  “Will you come with me?” The rude doctor jerked his head for her to follow him down a corridor to a small alcove. Without inviting her to sit, he announced, “Your pregnancy test is positive. That complicates things.”

  “What?” Complicates things? Pregnant? She struggled to assess the implications. Grasping the edge of the square conference table she squeezed her eyes shut, forcing a prioritization. First, she must have the bone marrow procedure. Second, she’d have to absorb the shock of her pregnancy. And that meant telling Conrad.

  The doctor just stood there, hand on hips. “You are pregnant.”

  “But I want to go through with it,” she said.

  “Go through with it?” the doctor echoed. “The pregnancy?”

  “No. The bone marrow, I meant. Today.”

  “Oh no, we won’t be doing that bone marrow today.”

  “But my sister needs it. Certainly a bone marrow under a local will not—”

  “Dr. Parnell, we can’t move forward without an obstetrical consult. Maybe after you have seen your obstetrician—they don’t like any procedures done in the first trimester.”

  “Obstetrician?” Ashley slumped forward, leaning heavily on the table. “How can this be?” But she had let Conrad convince her not to take birth control pills.

  The doctor shrugged off her stupid question.

  “Can I see an OB here? Now?”

  “I know how anxious you are to help your sister. But now that you’re pregnant, it’ll be up to you and your—”

  “I have to do it today,” Ashley interrupted. This doctor had no idea that she’d had to sneak off from Conrad to do this, the second explicit act of defiance that she’d risked that day.

  “Can I get you something?” The doctor inched out the door. “If not, I do have to get back to other patients.”

  When Ashley got back to the Waldorf, she had just enough time to check into her suite, freshen up, and check her voicemail. There had been one from Carl with details on dinner and four from Conrad. All the same. Call him immediately to let him know she’d gotten home from wherever she had gone. She’d turned off her cell phone, disconnected the phone in the room. She was not ready to share her stunning news. Not even with Conrad. She needed time alone to think. A baby would change everything, but how, she didn’t know. She thought of her mother. What would her mother do? But she couldn’t imagine her mother in a circumstance like this.

  Ashley found Carl seated at a table near the center of Le Bernadin, a magnificent seafood restaurant, her dad’s favorite. As he rose to greet her, she couldn’t help but notice that his tremors were more pronounced and that he looked even more frail than at Carla’s funeral. Would it be fair to add to his burdens by sharing her problems with him?

  “How about a Kir Royale?” he asked as soon as she was settled. “I still remember when I brought you your first.”

  “That would be nice,” Ashley said before catching herself. Then, “No. I mean, I think I’ll have Perrier.”

  “Okay, mind if I have a martini?”

  “Of course not. Or will it interfere with your medication?”

  “One drink’s okay, but I thought you might have something against alcoholic beverages judging from your reaction to the Kir.”

  “I’m pregnant, Uncle Carl.” The words flew out, unintended. “I just found out. Today when I went to Sloan-Kettering for Rory’s bone marrow.”

  “Pregnant?” Carl looked stunned. “Bone marrow? Does Conrad know?”

  “He didn’t want me to do the bone marrow, and no, I haven’t told him about either,” she said, her voice trembling now.

  They were both silent as the waiter solicited drink orders.

  “Naturally, I need to figure out what to do,” she said when the server left. “Conrad does want a child. At least he says he does, but I don’t think he really likes kids. What he wants is hard for me to understand.”

  Carl frowned. “Ashley, I realize this is not a propitious time, but there are things I have to tell you about Conrad. I don’t know how much you know.”

  “Uncle Carl, I know some things. I know he was married before. Is that what you mean?”

  Carl reached across the table for her hand. “But do you know any of the details?”

  “That she was mentally ill and she left him. They were divorced, and then she died. He feels terrible to this day. Guilty that he wasn’t able to help her.”

  “Anything more?”

  “No, he seemed so broken up when he talked about it. I didn’t want to pry. Maybe after we’re married, he’ll open up.”

  “Promise me you’ll not marry him right away,” Carl said.

  “We have the license, Uncle Carl.” Ashley could feel his hand tremble as he held hers. “Saturday. That’s five days away. At City Hall.”

  “That would be a big mistake. Let me tell you the story of Crissy Moore. Her name was Cristina, but everybody called her Crissy.”

  “Crissy,” Ashley echoed.

  “I’ll tell you what I know. Maybe that’ll put your feelings in perspective.”

  Ashley took a sip of her sparkling water.

  “Conrad married Crissy in nineteen eighty-three.”

  Ashley calculated: eighteen years earlier.

  “He was thirty-three; she nineteen. She—”

  “How do you know all this?” Ashley interrupted.

  “Dan and Frank asked me to engage a private investigator.”

  Why would they do that? she wondered. Frank’s obsession to protect the Parnell name, synonymous with his political career. And Dan? When did Dan ever care about her?

  The waiter stepped in to check on their drinks, but Carl pressed on. “Crissy was the sole heir to her father’s estate. He died in nineteen eighty-two, leaving her close to a billion dollars.”

  Ashley’s jaw dropped.

  “The money was held in trust until she reached twenty-three. Her cousin, a psychiatrist in her forties, was trustee.”

  “Conrad didn’t tell me that,” Ashley whispered. “Just that she was insane.”

  “There is no evidence that Crissy had any sort of mental illness, but once they married, she withdrew from her friends. Hardly ever went out.”

  Ashley’s mind immediately fixed on her own situation. How Conrad had insisted that she stop seeing her friends. Especially Ruthie. And to her shame, she had.

  “Then Crissy left him. Quite suddenly. Not only did she leave him, but she left the country. For a time she lived in Paris with her trustee cousin who took a leave of absence from the Menninger Clinic where, by the way, her cousin and Welton were both staff psychiatrists.”

  “Yes, I knew that he was at Menninger before U of Penn.” Ashley started to chew the cuticle of her thumb, remembered how Conrad despised that habit, then placed both hands on her lap and stared at the ruby in her ring.

  “Crissy’s lawyers arranged the divorce, which became final just months before she came into her inheritance.”

  Ashley tried to reconcile Conrad’s story with this. Conrad had told the truth that he’d been married and divorced. But had Crissy been mentally ill? If she were that rich, maybe there’d be no records. Anything unpleasant in wealthy families could simply be covered up. How well she knew about that.

  “The divorce had stipulations,” Carl continued. “For an undisclosed sum of money, Welton agreed never to contact her. To walk away, making no further claims. B
ut still, whenever Crissy came to the United States, she’d get a protective order. That was before her death.”

  “Her death?” Yes, Conrad had said she’d died.

  “Here’s what happened. Veronica Moore, the cousin, stayed with Crissy in Paris for eighteen months before returning to Kansas City. Before she could settle back into her practice, she was killed. Hit and run, not far from the clinic. The driver was never apprehended.”

  “Uncle Carl, certainly you’re not saying that Conrad had anything to do with this?”

  “Crissy came back for the funeral. Protective order in place. Her limousine exploded as she climbed in to leave the cemetery. She and her driver were killed outright. That’s it. The police made inquires.”

  “Conrad?” Ashley whispered.

  “In Philadelphia applying for a psychiatry position. They never found her killer. They never found the hit-and-run driver.”

  “That’s just too bizarre. Crazy, really.”

  “Ashley, I’ve told you this so that you would take care, not rush into anything,” Carl said, gently taking back her hand. “But now with the baby—”

  Ashley was white faced and shivering. “Do Frank and Dan know this?”

  “Yes. They’re concerned. They want to find out more.” Then why hadn’t Frank said anything to her today? But, of course, Frank had much more important things to do than worry about her.

  Carl said no more until the menus were presented. “What has Conrad told you about his past?”

  “His parents are dead. No brothers or sisters. He grew up in Cincinnati. Went to Ohio State. University of Cincinnati for med school. Cleveland Clinic residency and fellowship. I’ve seen all the diplomas. Then Menninger Clinic. Then University of Pennsylvania.” She searched her memory for more.

  Uncle Carl’s frown deepened. “He does have a brother. Stanley Welton. Lives in Cincinnati. Wife, two teenage sons. Second wife.”

  “He does?” Ashley hoped she wouldn’t faint.

  “The brothers are estranged. Did Welton ever mention that he was sent to a military school when he was twelve?”