Lake News (24 page)

“The Sox won,” he said.

Lily had met John face-to-face once and talked on the phone with him twice. In all three instances, he had seemed quick and insightful. So either he had a weird sense of humor or the news wasn't good.

Gut instinct suggested the latter. Her hopes faded. “Oh. No retraction?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“Stupid stuff. It's not worth reading.”

Her hopes faded more. “What stupid stuff?”

“You know what they do, Lily. They got the story wrong from the start, so now they're trying to cover their tails.”

“You're being evasive,” she said. When he didn't respond, she was forceful. “Www-what does it say?”

“There isn't an article, per se.” He paused, sighed, said, “It's an op-ed piece by Douglas Drake. He's a regular columnist.”

“Yes.” She had read Douglas Drake. His columns were always well written and well positioned. She didn't always agree with him—but the
Post
editorial board did, if the unsigned editorial that usually followed by several days was any indication.

“Drake tests the waters,” John explained. “He's sanctioned by the big guys to say what they're thinking but don't quite have the guts to put into print. Based on reader response to his column, they follow up with their own.”

It didn't bode well for Lily. She steeled herself. “What does he say?”

“He attributes the scandal to your infatuation with the Cardinal.”

She was horrified. “They're blaming
me?”

“I told you. They need a scapegoat.”

“But why
me?”
She caught herself. She hated that phrase. “What does New York say?”

“That Boston is attributing the whole thing to your infatuation with the Cardinal. Now, there's courageous reporting for you.”

“And Paul Rizzo?”

John snorted. “Rizzo's still stuck in the gutter, reveling in other sex scandals. He's still trying to connect those with something that's now been disclaimed.”

The energy high Lily had woken with was gone. She bowed her head.

“Lily?” he asked gently.

“Yes?” she whispered.

“Just so you know it all, Justin Barr is taking the
Post
's angle. I listened in a few minutes ago. He's blaming the scandal on your being unbalanced. But there were as many calls in disagreement with that, and sympathy with you, as the other way around.”

That was small solace. Lily hung up the phone feeling defeated. Then two things happened to boost her spirits.

First, Cassie called. Having seen the paper herself, she wasn't as much angry as determined. “Don't let this get you down, Lily. I didn't expect a fast response to our letter. They'll milk what's left of the story for whatever added sales value they can get, but the longer they wait—and the more they print stories like today's—the more the libel stakes rise. And do
not
worry about today's piece being on the op-ed page. That won't exempt it from a suit. Doug Drake is a lackey. It's well known. If need be, we can prove that, too.”

Second, patched through by Poppy, came a call from the Cardinal. Hearing from him for the first time since the scandal's
start, Lily felt a tangle of emotion ranging from relief to affection to—surprisingly—anger.

“How are you, Lily?” he said in that rich voice of his. Yes, indeed, some women thought it sexy. Lily had always thought it…
full,
as in flush with sensitivity and compassion.

Her affection come to the fore. “I'm better. I'm feeling more in control.”

“I can't tell you how sorry I am about this. You were caught in the crossfire of something that wasn't your making.”

“Nor yours.”

“But I was better equipped to fight it. I never fully understood the resources available to the archdiocese until I needed lawyers and spokesmen and lobbyists. Then they came out of the woodwork. And they're still at work, Lily. The paper's apology was supposed to encompass you, too. If I'm innocent of those charges, it stands to reason that you are, too.”

In the space of seconds, Lily recalled every last one of those charges and was mortified all over again. Her words came in a rush. “I never said those things the way he reported them. I didn't want to talk about you at all, but he struck up a conversation and just slipped things in. He kept saying that women found you attractive, and
I
kept saying how
absurd
that was, with you a priest.”

There was understanding, even a bit of humor in the Cardinal's voice. “I know, Lily. I know. You've never been anything but respectful of me that way.”

“How could I
not?
You
are
a priest.”

“Tell that to the little redhead who came on to me at the Governor's
Ball last year.” When Lily gasped, he chuckled. “It happens. And yes”—his humor faded—“I suppose there may be priests who cheat, just as there are husbands who do. I never have and never will. I've always felt you were the same. Unbalanced? Fat chance. I've been counseling you for years. I know how sane you are. Good Lord in heaven, you give
me
strength—though, of course, if I told
them
that, they'd twist it around.”

“Why do they do that?” she cried. “What gives them the right? And why
me?”
She did hate that question, but it poured out with the rest. Fran Rossetti drew it out. Perhaps it was the fullness of his voice that suggested vast knowledge—more, suggested that if there was a God, this man was indeed one of His messengers. Lily wasn't religious, but she responded to him, and she wasn't alone. He had a way of reaching inside people and cleaning the dust from dirty little corners with the gentlest of hands.

So, the Lily who rarely spoke as voluminously asked, “Why this now? Why Donny Kipling then? Why my mother and my stutter? Have I done something wrong, Father Fran? Why do these things
happen
to me?”

“I don't know that for sure,” he said, “but it could be because God knows you can handle them. God knows you can learn from them. Some people can't. Some people aren't strong enough. Jesus was. So are you.”

Lily wanted to say that she wasn't Jesus, that she had no wish for martyrdom, and that she didn't take to being crucified—which was one word for what she felt had been done to her—but that would have been disrespectful. As frank as she had learned to be with Father Fran, there were certain lines she would never cross.

“Ach,” he chided. “There I go again, forgetting that you're not sure about
any
religion, let alone mine. But I did mean what I said. You
are
strong, Lily.”

“And innocent,” she reminded him, feeling the anger that startled her so—startled her because it was directed at him. If he truly had been a
mensch,
to use Sara's word, he would have come out vocally and publicly in her defense. If he had an ounce of chivalry, her sister Poppy would say, he would have put her vindication before his own.

“You're also smart,” he said now. “You know that self-pity accomplishes little.”

With a long breath she let the anger go. Sheepish, she smiled. “I should have known that was coming.”

“You should have. I am predictable. Y'know,” he teased, “I always did want to get you closer to home. I've been inching you along for years. Manhattan, Albany, Boston, Lake Henry. Can't get much closer. Have you seen your mother?”

Lily had to laugh. “Predictable there, too. You don't beat around the bush.” Her smile ebbed. “My mother wasn't thrilled to see me. It seems I'm the bane of her existence.”

“Did you talk?”

“Not about important things.”

“You need to do that.”

“I know. But it's hard.”

“You talk with me.”

“You're not my mother. I talk with friends, but they're not her, either. Why are mothers so tough?”

“God makes them that way,” said the Cardinal. “Who else
can He rely on to shoulder the burdens of the world without cracking under the weight?”

“Seems like I'm the one shouldering them.”

“You may think that now. Wait till you're a mother.”

He said it as though it was only a matter of time—something Lily had once believed. She wasn't sure she did anymore. She was thirty-four. God had designed women to have children by the age of nineteen, at least according to her gynecologist. The Cardinal claimed that God had updated His thinking since her gynecologist had done his training and that He was confident that the female mind could compensate for the minor failings of a slightly older body.

Old-line clerics believed that the purpose of marriage was procreation. Lily didn't, but that was another line she didn't cross.

“Keep at it, Lily,” the Cardinal said.

It was a moment before she realized he was referring to Maida.

“I want you to work things out with her. Will you try?”

“I don't have much choice,” she said quietly. “I think I'm here for a little while still.”

“It must be beautiful there this time of year.”

“Yes.” Through the window she saw the yellow of an alder at the edge of the woods. It was flanked by a crimson maple. Both were surrounded by the rich green of hemlock. All this, even in the fog.

“And you have the house. Is there anything else you need?”

Revenge,
she thought, but she would no more have told the Cardinal that than she would have argued about
the Trinity. The Cardinal was in the business of forgiveness. He would never condone thoughts of revenge.

John Kipling might. Lily thought about that as morning ended. By midafternoon she was restless and bored. She needed something to do. So she changed into jeans and the kind of plaid flannel shirt that half the town wore, tucked her hair under a Red Sox cap, put a loose wool scarf around her neck to hide her chin, and Celia's huge sunglasses on her nose to hide whatever else could be hid, and drove into town.

The fog hung heavy on the lake road and the foliage framing it, as well as the houses that stood closer together as she neared the center of town. The moisture made the air raw, so that few people lingered outside. That gave Lily extra coverage, she realized, driving past Charlie's in broad daylight for the first time since her return. She turned in at the post office, pulled all the way down to the yellow Victorian housing the newspaper office, and parked beside the pickup she assumed belonged to John.

No doubt which door the paper used. It was a beautiful wood thing that was riddled with slots. After ringing the bell, she let herself into the kitchen. Walking silently, leaving the hat, the scarf, and Celia's dark glasses firmly in place, she followed the sound of a voice to the front of the house. A young woman sat at a desk there. She was holding the phone to her ear, frowning, sounding confused as she studied something on the desk. It wasn't until she turned to look at Lily that Lily realized she was more girl than woman, and very pregnant.

Seconds later Lily heard footsteps on the stairs and John appeared at the opposite door. He shot her an uneasy glance, then bent over the desk to see what the girl was trying to do. Taking the phone from her, he finished getting information for what sounded to Lily like a classified ad.

“There,” he told the girl when he hung up. “You did just fine with that.”

The girl sounded even younger than she looked. “You had to finish it.”

“Nah. You had most everything we need.”

“I have to leave,” the girl said. “Buck's coming at three.”

“I thought we agreed you'd work till five on Tuesdays.”

“He said he was coming at three.”

John sighed. He ran a hand around the back of his neck. “Fine. Neaten things up. I'll take it from here.”

With a single sweep of both hands the girl consolidated the papers on the desk. Then she pushed herself out of the chair and with surprising agility, given the bulk of her belly, slipped past Lily. Lily turned to watch her. Footsteps faded, the door slammed, the girl was gone. Lily looked at the desk with its ragtag pile, then at the dismay on John's face.

It was a handsome face, she realized—tanned skin, close-cropped beard, enough weathering to suggest time spent in the great outdoors. There was only a vague resemblance to Donny, though her memory was of a twenty-one-year-old, and this man was mature. She was drawn to his eyes in particular. They were a deep brown, gentle even in frustration.

“I'm trying,” he said in a controlled voice. “The girl's gonna need some kind of skill after that baby's born, unless Buck gets his act together, which I seriously doubt he will.”

Lily hadn't been so long gone from Lake Henry that she didn't remember the cast. “Buck, your cousin?” she asked as she unwrapped the scarf.

John nodded. “Total jerk.”

“Is the baby his?”

Another nod, then a muttered “Poor thing.” He looked her over. The corner of his mouth twitched. “That's a fair disguise. Not that you'd need it with Jenny. She's too young to know you, and when she watches the tube, it ain't for the news.” He glanced at his watch.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Yes.” He reversed himself in the next breath. “No. It is not. I came to Lake Henry because I didn't want rigid deadlines. The paper's supposed to be at the printer at noon tomorrow. If it's a little later, no one'll die.”

The kitchen door sounded, then footsteps. Lily turned fast, fearing that rather than Jenny it would be someone more apt to recognize her, when John came from behind her and touched her arm. “Go on up the front stairs,” he whispered. “All the way to the top. I'll be up in a sec.”

She moved quickly and quietly, turning on the second floor landing, continuing on to the third. The openness of the place struck her first, then the brightness, even under clouds. There were three desks, each with a computer, each showing signs of use. More interesting, though, were the walls. One held time-worn maps of the lake
and aged photos of the town, framed in wood and exuding reverence. Another held newer photos, richer in color, taken on the lake itself, shots largely of loons. A third was black-and-white and busy.