Confucius Jane (31 page)

The man looked unconcerned. “While we're waiting for them to show, why don't you tell me how you feel about the allegations from the other women who have stepped forward?”

“Other women?” Priscilla sounded dazed.

Sutton struggled not to betray a hint of surprise or distress. She refused to give this reporter anything—not even a meaningful facial expression. Over the pounding of her heart in her ears, she wanted to tell her mother not to pay attention to a word he said. But at that moment, the call went through. Never in her life had she been so thankful that her father kept a twenty-four-hour security staff to watch over the estate.

“How can I help you, Dr. St. James?”

“Someone just climbed over our wall and jumped into the garden. Please hurry!”

“Stay on the line. We'll be there right away.”

She tightened her grip on the phone and stared down the reporter. “I don't think you want to be here when our security arrives.”

But he ignored her. “Don't you watch the news, Mrs. St. James?” The man took a step closer. “Four more women, all former patients of your husband, have admitted to sexual liaisons with him.”

“Lies.”

The ragged whisper broke Sutton's heart. She wrapped one arm around her mother's shoulder and glared at him. “Stay back. We have nothing to say to you. This is a private matter, and you're on private property.”

“There's no such thing as privacy anymore.” His eyes narrowed. “You really didn't know about the other affairs. Are you not on speaking terms with your husband right now, Mrs. St. James?”

Sutton glared. “I told you: we have nothing to say.”

“You've said plenty. And others will say more. When you want to tell your side of the story, find me.” He dropped a business card into the grass and then turned back toward the wall. Only then did Sutton notice the rope he had tied to a tree branch high above, which he deftly climbed even as faint crunch of gravel beneath speeding tires sounded from the front of the house. Moments later, two men in dark suits raced toward them across the lawn. At their approach, Priscilla sagged against her in relief.

“He went over the wall by rope,” Sutton said, hugging her mother even closer. “And dropped a card there.”

The older man nodded crisply and gestured for his colleague to take a look. “I'll escort you inside.”

As they walked slowly back toward the house, Sutton felt as though she had vertigo. Her brain was in free fall, unable to settle long enough on any one topic to gain traction. A reporter scaling the walls of the estate just for a quote. New accusations of her father's infidelity. And now her mother seemed near catatonic, clinging to her arm with a death grip as tears streamed down her face. She didn't even make an effort to wipe them away.

“Let's go sit down on the couch,” Sutton murmured as they stepped inside. She glanced at the guard as he closed the door behind them. “You'll stay here with us?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Priscilla was shivering as she sat, and Sutton hurried to the hall closet for an afghan. After propping up a pillow against the armrest, she urged her mother to lie back. “I'm going to make you some more tea. Okay?”

At Priscilla's faint nod, Sutton bent to kiss her forehead and went into the kitchen. But as she watched the water come to a boil, her anger at her father bubbled over. Snatching up her phone, she called him before she could change her mind. But his voice wasn't the one on the other end of the line.

“Hello, Sutton.”

She watched her reflection bristle in the dim mirror formed by the microwave window. “Who is this?”

“Bertram Goetze.”

Her father's personal attorney—a bulbous, bombastic man who got outrageously drunk at their annual Christmas party—was answering Reginald's phone. Wonderful. Biting back an acerbic response, Sutton tried to strip all trace of emotion from her voice. “Bertram, I need to speak with my father.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible, Sutton.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The team feels it's best to control all communication at the moment. Until we have this situation under control, your point person will be your father's secretary, Diane.”

“My point person?” Sutton could hear her own voice growing louder. Her self-control was slipping away. “This is my father we're talking about! What if there's an emergency?”

“Diane will know how to reach him at any moment. What's most important right now is that everyone play by the script. Later today, she'll send you some talking points in case you're approached by the press, and—”

“Approached by the press?” Sutton gripped the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles cracked. “I just had to call security because the press invaded our yard, Bertram!”

“What?”

“That's right. A man climbed over the wall and started asking—”

“What did you tell him?”

Bertram's anxious question was eclipsed by a wordless shout in the living room. It held a note of true terror, and Sutton was moving even before the guard managed to call her name. She rounded the corner to the sight of her mother convulsing on the couch, white foam bubbling at the corners of her mouth. The guard was holding her shoulders down, but her head flopped with each successive seizure as though she were a ragdoll.

A wave of pure terror sluiced down her spine like ice water, but in an instant years of training took over. “Call 9-1-1!” she snapped, darting forward. Bracing one hand between her mother's shoulder blades, she turned her onto her side, then held her firmly and watched for signs of choking.

“I'm right here, Mom,” she murmured. “I'm right here. You're going to be okay. I promise.”

*   *   *

JANE PERCHED ON THE
stool in the corner of Noodle Treasure, tapping her chin with her pen as she watched the wind worry at the crimson awning over Confucius Fortunes. Clouds swirled ominously above the rooftops, and every once in a while the unsettled sky let loose a brief salvo of raindrops. The blustery day matched her mood. She had exchanged a few texts with Sutton early this morning but had heard nothing from her since then.

For about the thousandth time, she wondered whether Sutton's radio silence was related to the breaking news she'd seen on the local news station during one of her deliveries. Apparently, four more women had come forward reporting affairs with Sutton's father while being under his care. All morning, Jane had vacillated over whether to text Sutton with the news. Surely she had known before the press. But if so, why hadn't she said anything? Was she ashamed?

Jane shook her head, then bent to scribble in her notebook.
You don't have to carry your burdens alone.
Maybe, if that made it into a fortune cookie, someone else would think twice before not letting their significant other help them through a difficult time. Then again, maybe Sutton would have allowed a “significant other” to help. Maybe she didn't think of Jane that way. Staring into her empty teacup as though the dregs might hold some clue or comfort, Jane forced herself to admit the truth.

She had fallen in love with Sutton St. James.

Thinking back over the course of the past few months, she saw that it had been inevitable. And if she were really being honest, she'd known that all along. She had never been one to date casually, and Sutton was irresistible. That wasn't exactly a recipe for keeping things light.

Love is a cruel mistress.

A wave of guilt washed over her when she remembered just how much Sutton was dealing with right now. So what if she wasn't letting Jane help? Her father was at the center of a media storm, and her mother was sick. Not to mention the fact that she was still reeling from that blow-out argument with her parents from a few weeks before. Sutton had bigger fish to fry than contemplating this nascent relationship. Her entire world was topsy-turvy.

Things fall apart.

The very least Jane could do was to be patient, and as supportive as Sutton would allow her to be from a distance.
Weather the storm,
she wrote, silently vowing to put aside her own selfish concerns. And then her phone buzzed, and her heart lurched into a gallop.

Text from Sutton St. James:
Sorry for not replying earlier. I'm at the hospital. Mom had a seizure.

Jane felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.
Oh, no. How's she doing?

She's disoriented. They want to observe her overnight.

“Damn it,” Jane whispered. How much more did Sutton have to take?
How can I help? I can be on a train within the hour.

I'm fine. Maria's here with me. But thanks.

Jane stared down at that text for several minutes. When she caught herself grinding her teeth, she forced her jaw muscles to relax. Patient and supportive. This was not about her. This was about Sutton.
Okay,
she typed.
Hoping to hear good news soon.

The sanitized sentence tormented her, and she stabbed at the display button so she wouldn't have to look at it anymore. Propping her elbows on the counter, she buried her face in her hands. Maybe she should go home and try to nap. She hadn't slept well in days. But as her brain continued to rev, all she could picture was Sutton witnessing her mother's seizure. Even for a trained medical professional, that must have been so scary.

Lifting her head, she typed a quick search into her phone. Moments later, she had confirmation that Priscilla's seizures were most likely related to her multiple sclerosis. Apparently they often indicated an acute flare-up—the kind of relapse that might point to a worsening of the patient's condition. That wasn't good at all.

“More tea, Jane?”

Startled, Jane spun on the stool and nearly elbowed the teapot out of Mei's hands. She stammered an apology as she held out her cup, but Mei waved her words aside. “How is Dr. Sutton?” she asked. “Have you heard from her?”

Jane paused, considering her answer. Over the past few days, it felt like the entire neighborhood had been asking after Sutton. She loved that Sutton had become such an important part of the community, but she didn't want to betray any confidences.

“Her mother isn't doing very well,” she said finally. “She had to go to the Emergency Room earlier.”

“Aiyah.” Mei sounded almost exactly like Aunt Jenny when she delivered the traditional Chinese expression for dismay. “Is she going to be all right?”

“I hope so.” Jane cupped her hands around the warm ceramic. “I just wish I could help somehow.”

“She knows you care. That helps.” Mei patted her gently on the shoulder. “This too shall pass.”

As she walked away, the front door opened to admit Min, phone clutched in her right hand. She looked uncharacteristically worried, and Jane half rose from her stool before she realized what she was doing.

“What's wrong? Are you okay?”

Min spared a moment to roll her eyes. “Chill. I'm fine. But you need to see this.”

After quickly thumbing through her phone, she handed it over. Jane found herself looking at an article from one of the New York tabloids, emblazoned with the header “Dr. America's Daughter Consults Psychic
.
” Her stomach twisted as her gaze dropped to the photograph of Sutton sitting next to Sue on the couch in Red Door Apothecary. As she skimmed the article, the sensation of free fall only grew worse. It was a melodramatic piece, of course, spinning Sutton's consultation with Sue as an attempt by the young doctor to seek guidance about her family's plight. The author had twisted everything and everyone. Sutton was made out to be weak and indecisive—a desperate daughter who had sought answers from the stars when reason failed to explain her father's behavior. Sue was portrayed as a shrew businesswoman out to make a quick buck off the fears and insecurities of her clients. The author even suggested that Sue had supplied Sutton with “Eastern medication” to treat her depression. The only saving grace was that the actual footage of the consultation belonged to News 4, so the tabloid couldn't edit it to fit their agenda.

As Jane continued to read, her nausea gave way to a hot, throbbing headache. By the time she returned the phone to Min, streaks of red tinted her vision. How dare they do this? How dare the opportunistic media treat Sutton so callously when her family was collapsing before her eyes? And how dare they misrepresent Sue's apothecary—the business she had built from scratch over decades?

“What do you think?” Min asked anxiously, shifting back and forth on her feet.

“It's bullshit!” Jane didn't care that several heads turned at her vulgarity. “Total bullshit.”

Min was shaking her head. “The guy who wrote that doesn't know anything. I mean, Sue isn't a psychic. She's an astrologer!”

“Does Sue know about this?”

Min shot her a withering glance. “What do you think?”

“We have to tell her.”

“She's not going to be happy.”

“I know that, Minetta, but—” When Min's eyes widened and she took a step backward, Jane realized she was letting her anger get the best of her. “I'm sorry. Look. You know New York. People are going to read this stupid article, and then they'll go looking for Sue's shop. When they find it, they'll have expectations. We need to warn her.”

Min thrust out her chin, suddenly the picture of determination. “I'll go.”

For the first time all day, Jane wanted to smile. For all her snarkiness, Min was fiercely protective of her friends and family. Pushing off her seat, Jane closed and pocketed her notebook, then drained her tea.

“I'll come with you.”

 

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

S
UTTON ARRIVED AT THE
hospital at nine o'clock on Sunday, as she had been doing all week. By now, the nurses knew her not only by association with her father, but by her diligence at her mother's bedside. They had been kind to her, and for that she was grateful.