Lake News (5 page)

“Fifteen minutes,” she told her audience, and turned off the mike to scattered applause.

Dan was talking with the maître d' in an alcove just beyond the dining room entrance. He gave her a thumbs-up when she approached. “You did good. He was in seventh heaven.”

“You didn't
tell
me your uncle was coming,” she scolded.

Dan glanced behind her. “I'm telling you now. Here he comes.”

She turned with a wide smile. When the Cardinal gave her a hug, she hugged him back. No matter that the man was a church icon; he came from what he was the first to describe as a large family with an earthy style. It had taken Lily a while to get used to it, but the sheer innocence of his physicality was a delight.

“Thank you,” he said now.

“For what?”

“For playing my song. For playing
all
my songs. For playing last night—and for coming back with that music.” He grasped Dan's shoulder. “Do you know what she did? After playing for three hours straight, she drove home and then all the way back with a book of music I wanted.” He told Lily, “I was up playing until two in the morning. It's a wonderful collection.”

“How's your table?” Dan asked.

“Great. Great food. Not what Mama used to make,”
he hedged, winking at Lily, “but a close second.” He gave her arm a squeeze and returned to the dining room.

Lily climbed the curved staircase to the third-floor ladies' room. She came out just as the
Post
reporter was leaving the men's room. He wore a blazer and slacks, and was tall, slim, and pleasant looking, but the mustache remained his most compelling feature.

“You have a wonderful voice,” he said.

He had told her that before, twice at the club, once when he called her at home. Not that
she
had given him her phone number. It was unlisted. But the school directory had it. Terry had wheedled it out of Mitch Rellejik, a writer friend of his who moonlighted as faculty adviser to the school newspaper. Mitch had phoned her himself to tell her what a great guy Terry was.

Lily wasn't convinced. Reluctant to encourage conversation, she gave him a smile and a quiet thanks as she headed for the stairs.

He kept pace. “You never disappoint. Whether it's here or at parties, you're good. Beautiful, too, but you must hear that all the time. By the way, you didn't seem nervous.”

Lily tucked away the “beautiful” part—which she did
not
hear all the time, and being human and female, rather liked—and said, “I do this for a living.”

“I mean, playing for the Cardinal. He's an important guy. Don't you get a little shaky playing for him?”

She chuckled. “Oh, no. He's heard me play too many times for that.”

“Huh. That's right. I did hear that he likes music.”

“He doesn't just like it. He's good at it.”

“Sings? Plays instruments?”

“Both.”

“A Renaissance man, then?”

Wondering if he was being sarcastic, Lily stopped at the bottom of the stairs to search his face. “Actually, yes.”

He smiled and held up his hands. “No offense meant. I'm as much a fan as the next guy. He fascinates me. I've never met a man of the cloth quite like him. He inspires piety.”

Lily relaxed some. “Yes.”

Terry narrowed an eye. “Half the women I know are in love with him. He's a virile guy.”

Lily was embarrassed even
thinking
about Fran Rossetti that way.

“Don't tell me you haven't noticed?” he asked.

“In fact, I haven't. He's a priest.”

“And you're not even a little bit in love with him?”

“Of course I am. I love him as a person. He's insightful and supportive. He hears and listens and responds.”

“Sounds like you know him well.”

She was proud to admit it. “We have a history. I met him when he was Father Fran, just about to be appointed Bishop of Albany.”

“No kidding?”

Something about his nonchalance was a bit much. It reminded her that he was a reporter. She nodded and checked her watch. “I have to get back to work.”

“How late do you play tonight?” he asked, walking beside her.

“Ten-thirty.”

“Without dinner?”

“I ate before.”

“Can I buy you a snack when you get off?”

He had offered something similar when he called her apartment. At the time, she had thought it an attempt to make the idea of an interview more palatable. Now, with him standing there in person—the right height for her, the right age, and maritally free, Mitch Rellejik had said—it almost felt like something else. Almost—but there was still that mustache, which was alternately dashing and hard. And there was an intensity in his eyes that didn't hit her right.

She wasn't
that
desperate for a date.

At the dining room entrance now, she smiled and shook her head. “Thanks, anyway,” she said and went on inside.

Back at the piano, she began playing the kind of music that this later crowd would enjoy. She sang “Almost Paradise,” “Candle in the Wind,” and “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” She did some Carly Simon, some James Taylor, some Harry Connick, Jr. She loved every song she played. If she didn't, she wouldn't be able to perform with feeling, but the feeling came easily with these songs. They were her generation's favorites.

Playing without effort, swinging her hair back from her face and leaning forward to sing into the mike, she blotted out the audience and let her heart take over. Singing had always been her salvation, the only time when she was naturally free of a stutter. Though time and training had freed her to speak, singing remained special. She might not have been able to make it on Broadway, but when she was lost in a song this way, she
could just as well have been there. The feeling of pleasure, of success, of escape was the same.

Halfway through the second set, the Frisches came over to thank her for helping make their anniversary special. A short time after they left, another patron, Peter Swift, sat beside her on the piano bench and sang harmony. He had a beautiful voice and often joined Lily in a song or two when he and his wife ate at the club. The spontaneity of it never failed to please the crowd. Soon after Peter returned to his table, the Cardinal took his place. She was playing “I Dreamed a Dream” from
Les Miz
at the time. He played along in the lower registers through the end of it, then joined right in with the more throbbing chords of “Red and Black.” When it was done, he gave her hand a squeeze, rejoined his waiting guests, and left the dining room.

All told, it was a good show. Lily was tired but satisfied when she finally closed the piano lid. A handful of guests lingered over second or third cups of coffee, but the rest of the tables had been cleaned and reset. Half of the wait staff had left. The chef, George Mendes, who had trained in New York and was just Lily's age, had changed from his whites into jeans and was waiting for her in the office.

He held out a bag. “You like risotto. Tonight's was great.”

She was touched that he remembered. He hadn't been at the club for long, and she was only one of many who raved about his food. “Thanks,” she said with feeling and took the bag. “This'll be tomorrow's dinner. Are you walking home?” He lived in her direction.

“Not yet. I have to run a few menu changes past Dan. He's upstairs.”

The third floor of the brownstone held private dining rooms, the fourth held overnight accommodations. Lily knew from experience that Dan could be a while, and she was too tired to wait.

“Then I'm off,” she said, and called over her shoulder as she left, “Thanks again for the risotto.”

She was thinking that if George had been straight, she could be seriously interested in him, when she reached the street and found Terry Sullivan leaning against the wide stone stoop. He looked innocent enough in the gaslight's glow, but a part of her was starting to feel harassed. She had refused him three times. He was annoyingly dogged.

She went quickly down the steps and hit the sidewalk in something just shy of a trot, in the hope that he might take the hint.

“Hey, hey.” He fell into step with her. “Where're you running to?”

“Home.”

“Mind if I walk along?”

“That depends. I haven't changed my mind about your interview.”

“But it doesn't make sense. The publicity would be
great
for you.”

Lily might have agreed several years before, but she had been struggling then. Now, between teaching and the club, she received two fixed monthly paychecks. Add what she earned playing at private functions, and she was content. She didn't need more work, hence didn't need publicity.

“Is it me?” Terry asked. “Does something about me offend you?”

“Of course not,” she said, because it wasn't her way to hurt people. “I'm just… private.”

“It's the public you I'm interested in—the one who rubs hips, so to speak, with people like Cardinal Rossetti.” He made a whistling sound. “That was amazing, the two of you playing tonight.” He took a long breath. “I really want to do this interview.”

They reached a corner. She shook her head, waiting only until the traffic cleared before trotting across the street.

He kept pace. “Are you sure it isn't me? Would you talk to one of my colleagues?”

“No.”

“Ah. You hate the press. You're afraid someone will misuse your words. But I'm a good guy, Lily. How can I not be, especially with you? I'm Catholic, and you're Cardinal Rossetti's pal. Would I dare do anything bad, knowing it'd get back to him, knowing I might risk eternal damnation if it did?”

Lily didn't believe in eternal damnation, but if Terry Sullivan did, that helped. She slowed down a notch.

“I feel like I should know everything about the guy,” Terry said conversationally. “I mean, my paper's covered him from head to toe, and the
Post
is good.” He looked at her, earnest now. His voice was lower, almost confidential. “Listen. The Fourth Estate has taken a lot of flak lately. Some of it's deserved. Most isn't. It's like everything else. There may be a few bad apples, but that doesn't mean we're all rotten, and since I've already confessed my fear of eternal damnation…”

She had to give him credit for being upfront.

“What's so fascinating,” he went on, seeming caught up in it, “is the way the Cardinal is so
normal
. I mean, there he was, sitting beside you, playing the piano. I half expected him to start belting out the words.”

Lily smiled. She couldn't help herself. “Oh, he's done that too.”

“You're kidding.”

She shook her head.

“In
public?
”

“In private, in small groups. He used to do it more, before all this.”

“You mean, before he was named Cardinal?”

She nodded again.

“So you met him in Albany. What was he like then?” He sounded genuinely intrigued, not at all grilling as a reporter would be, but more personally involved—and Lily was a sucker for fans of her friend.

“Warm,” she said. “Vibrant. But I actually met him in Manhattan.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Visiting the Cardinal there. They both went to a reception at the mayor's house. I was playing.”

“You played at the mayor's house? I'm impressed.”

“Don't be. I was a Broadway wannabe and taught piano to pay the bills. His kids took lessons. That's how he knew me.”

“A Broadway wannabe,” Terry said, still sounding impressed. “No more?”

She shook her head.

“Were you in anything?”

“A few ensembles. Nothing major.”

“Do you dance, too?”

“Not well enough.”

“Ah. I understand.” He let her off the hook. “So you met Cardinal Rossetti in the city and followed him to Albany?”

She didn't answer. After another minute of walking, she felt him looking at her. When she met his eye, he said, “Why the frown?”

“This feels like an interview.”

“It's not. It's just me, interested in you.”

If she was frowning now, it was in skepticism.

“I've never met a religious groupie before,” he teased.

She sighed. “I'm not a religious groupie. I didn't follow Cardinal Rosetti to Albany. I followed the
mayor
there.” She caught herself. “Ooops. That came out wrong.” She felt a tiny tightness at the back of her tongue and focused on relaxing it. With a single, slow, calming breath, it dissolved. Flawlessly, she explained, “My relationship was with his kids. They loved me, and they'd been shaken by the divorce. When he was elected governor, he had to move to Albany, and the kids went with him. He figured that if I kept teaching them, it would be one thing that didn't change in their lives. When a position opened up in a private school there, the timing seemed right.”

“So you gave up on Broadway?”

“It gave up on me,” she said and slid him a wary look. “You're smooth.”

He tipped his head. “How?”

“Getting me to talk after I said I wouldn't.”

“This is what's called a social conversation.” He held up his hands. “No pen, no paper. Strictly off-the-cuff. Like I say, the Cardinal intrigues me. So—he was the Bishop of Albany when you moved there?”

Social conversation or not, Lily didn't want to talk about herself
or
the Cardinal to Terry. But he did look intrigued. And Mitch Rellejik had vouched for him. And the question was innocent enough.

So she said, “He was.”

“And that's where you really got to know him?”

She nodded.

“Did you ever dream he'd be a Cardinal one day?”