Lake News (7 page)

Appalled, she took the elevator down to the garage and slipped out the back unnoticed. Hurrying down Newbury Street, she cut through the Public Garden and reached school in record time. The teachers' lounge was empty when she arrived, but she had barely poured a cup of coffee when a bell rang to mark the end of the first period. Within minutes, several faculty members wandered in. Since they weren't ones she knew well, the murmuring among themselves was normal. Reasoning that if they hadn't seen the
Post,
they might never be the wiser, she ignored their glances.

Peter Oliver was something else. She was stirring powdered cream into her coffee when he walked in and stopped short. “Whoa. The lady of the hour.” Sidling up until they were shoulder to shoulder, he reached for a cup and spoke under his breath. “You had me worried there. I was starting to think I'd lost my touch when you kept refusing me. Now it makes sense.”

Lily felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach. Her tongue tightened up.

“The
Post
story?” he prompted. “Is it true?”

She shook her head.

A different voice said a low “Lily.”

Her eyes flew to the door. Michael Eddy, headmaster of the school, was short, with a gentle paunch and a normally round, friendly face. The friendly part was strained now. He motioned her to follow.

Leaving her coffee where it stood, she crossed through the reception area to the headmaster's office. Michael had barely closed the door when he said, “Is it true?”

She shook her head, shook it fast and hard.

“Any
of it?”

She swallowed and forced her throat to relax. “No.”

“You're quoted there.”

“Out of context.”

“Did you say those things?”

“Not like that. And not on the record.” When Michael closed his eyes in a gesture of defeat, Lily's anger reared up. “I've ttttt…” She took a breath, focused on untying her tongue, said more smoothly, “I've tried calling the man who wrote it. He'll have to retract it. It isn't true.”

Michael raised his head and sighed. “Well. As long as you've denied it, I'll be able to answer the parents who call. Several already have. I wish you hadn't given the paper the name of the school.”

“I didn't!”

“Then how did they get it?”

“I don't knnn-know.” Another breath, and the return of control. “I guess the same way they learned that I went to NYU. I graduated with honors. They didn't sss-say that. Or that I got a degree from Juilliard. Or that the only reason I went to the Governor's Mansion twice a week was to give piano lessons to his kids. Or that the governor was never there when I was.” She pushed a hand into her hair. It stopped midway and hung on. The reality she had been trying to ignore was finally taking root. “This is all over Boston. All over the
state
.” She was feeling the horror of it when her eyes met Michael's. “I have to reach the Cardinal.”

He gestured toward the desk, offering her the phone.

She punched out the number she had called earlier. It was still busy. “Oh God,” she breathed, frightened. “This could ruin him.” She looked at Michael. “What do I do?”

“Hire a lawyer.”

“But this is just a mistake.” She didn't want to think it was malicious—couldn't believe that Terry Sullivan would go to this kind of extreme just because she had refused to be interviewed—couldn't
believe
that he would deliberately slander
the Cardinal
this way.

“Hire a lawyer,” Michael repeated.

“I can't. I don't have money. Besides, why do I need a lawyer? I haven't done anything wrong.”

“You need a spokesperson. Someone to issue a denial. Someone to challenge the
Post
.”

She took a breath and tried to remain calm. “Governor Dean denied it. So did the Cardinal. He'll do it again. It'll be over and done.” Lifting the phone again, she tried the
Post
. This time when she reached the newsroom, she lucked out.

“Sullivan here,” she heard, and something about his cold voice, something about the image she conjured of a slick, mustached man who appeared to have wooed her with lies, made her snap.

Fury alone kept her tongue fluid. “This is Lily Blake. Your story is wrong.”

His voice stayed cold. “Wrong? No, it isn't. I check out my facts.”

“There's nothing going on between the Cardinal and me.”

“It sure looks that way.”

“You
made
it look that way,” she charged.
“You
were the one who kept talking about the Cardinal being appealing to women. You led me into a hypothetical discussion, then took my words out of context. That's really… ssss-scummy! You
also
said our conversation was off the record.”

“I never said that.”

“You
did.”

“I said ‘off the cuff.' That's different from ‘off the record.' ”

“You knew what I meant!” Looking straight at Michael Eddy, she said,

“You also knew my phone number was unlisted, so you got it from Mitch Rellejik, who had no right to give it to you in the first place. Now two other nnn-newspaper people have it. That's a violation of my privacy!”

“Look, Lily,” he said with a sigh, “I'm sorry if this upsets you, but the truth sometimes does. I saw the way you looked at the guy last night at the club. And then you gave me quotes on a silver platter.”

She was livid. “You twwwwisted what I said! That is
the
most shoddy thing! And you lied to me. Over and over, you lied. Now you've lied in the paper, and people
all over
are reading it. I want a retraction.”

He laughed. “Are you kidding? This is the hottest story in town.”

She didn't understand his complacence. “Why are you
doing
this?”

“It's my job.”

“To
smear
people? You said you
loved
the Cardinal.”

“No. You said that.”

“You talked about eternal damnation.”

He laughed again. “Honey, I was eternally damned long before
this
story.”

There had to be a method to his madness. “Do you have something against the Cardinal?”

He was suddenly impatient. “Look, in my business, you get wind of a good story, you run with it. If you hit a wall, you back off. If not, you keep going. I'm going, baby. I'm going right to the end.”

“But this is a lie!”

“Tell it to the Pope. Hey, there's my other line. Take care.”

The phone went dead. Lily stared at the receiver. Floored, she looked at Michael.

He held up his hands. “I've already given you my advice. I don't know what more to say. My concern is this school.”

Lily tried the Cardinal's number again. It was still busy. Carefully, she replaced the receiver.

“This is unreal,” she said, more to herself than her boss. “But it's all right. The Cardinal has power in this city. He'll clear everything up. That's probably why his line is busy.” She glanced at the clock. “I have a class.”

If any of the fifteen students taking music appreciation were aware of the
Post
article, none mentioned it. They were as blasé as ever. By the time fifty minutes had passed and the bell rang to end the period, Lily had convinced herself that, Terry Sullivan's treachery notwithstanding, the article was nothing more than a bad judgment call on the part of the
Post,
that the Cardinal
would raise Cain and get a retraction printed, that the whole matter would be quickly forgotten.

She tried to call him again, but the line was still busy.

With five minutes to spare before a piano lesson, she went to the cafeteria for a cold drink. The first lunch period was under way. One step into the large, high-ceilinged room and she heard the sudden drop of conversation, felt the force of dozens of pairs of eyes.

It isn't true,
she wanted to say, but her tongue was tight. So she simply shook her head and gestured no, got her drink, and left. By the time her student arrived at the practice room, she had recomposed herself, but she knew what his curious look meant.

“The
Post
article,” she told him, “is wrong. The Cardinal is a friend, nothing more.”

“I believe you,” the boy said. He was sixteen, a lacrosse player struggling to fulfill an art requirement by taking piano lessons that he hated, but he did sound sincere.

So she set the
Post
story aside and tried to focus on his lesson and two others that followed, but she kept expecting an office assistant to cut in with a message from the Cardinal saying that everything was fine, that he would handle it, that she shouldn't worry.

The door remained shut for everything but the departure of one student and the arrival of the next, and when the three lessons were done, she tried the Cardinal again, still with no luck.

Fortunately, she wasn't hungry. She didn't want to face a cafeteria full of stares until a retraction appeared, an apology was issued, and the
Post
had egg on its face. She might laugh along with the rest then, but not now—nor
at two-thirty, when her girls' a cappella chorus met. Each of the twelve was sober and staring. Clearly they knew about the article.

She stood before them, aware that her shoulders were drooping but unable to help it. She was starting to feel the strain. Quietly, she said, “Questions?” When the girls were silent, she said, “I'll answer the one you won't ask. The Cardinal is a man of the Church. He would no more have an affair with me than I would have one with him.” She looked from one face to the next until she saw a modicum of acceptance, then she reached for printouts of a new song and handed each trio of voices its part.

The practice went well. At other times Lily coached a larger mixed chorus, of freshmen and sophomores, but the small, upper-class groups, one male and one female, were her favorites. Some of the students had wonderful voices. The idea that she could train them was a gratifying one.

By the time the hour ended, she was starting to feel like herself again. Then she got through to the Cardinal's secretary.

Father McDonough was a young priest who had landed the plum assignment in Brighton as a result of his attention to detail and his endless good nature. The Cardinal relied on him heavily. As for Lily, she knew the man only by name and voice.

After identifying herself, she said with relief, “Thank goodness. Your line's been tied up. What's going
on?”

“I take it you saw the story.”

“Yes. The reporter was at the club last night. He told
me he was a fan of the Cardinal. We got to talking. He took words here and there and fabricated a story.”

“Well, it's made an awful mess.”

“But it's all false.” And nonsensical. “Does the Cardinal
know
Terry Sullivan?” Maybe their paths had crossed. Maybe there was some personal enmity.

“He knows him now. We've had calls from everywhere.”

“Has he demanded a retraction?”

“Our lawyers have,” came the reply, and for the first time Lily realized that the voice was cooler than usual.

“Oh. Shhh-ould I hire a lawyer?” She wanted him to say, in his normally good-natured way, that there was no need, that the Cardinal's team would resolve the matter, that it was already nearly done.

Instead, he sounded distant. “I can't advise you on that. Our concern is protecting the Church. We're trying our best to do that. But it might be better if you didn't call here again until everything is straightened out.”

Lily felt as though she'd been slapped—as though she had sinned and in so doing had single-handedly caused a deep embarrassment for the Church.

Stunned, she said, “I see. Uh. Thank you.” Quietly, she hung up the phone.

Things went downhill from there. After suffering through one more private lesson, she packed up her briefcase and headed home. She had no sooner breathed a sigh of relief that the front steps of the school were clear than she hit the sidewalk and, seemingly from nowhere, a woman with a microphone appeared.

“Ms. Blake, would you comment on the
Post
story?” Lily shook her head and hurried on, but the reporter kept pace. “The archdiocese has issued an official denial. Doesn't that contradict your quotes in the
Post?”

“The
Post
lies,” Lily muttered, keeping her arms around her briefcase, her head bowed, her eyes on the cobblestone underfoot.

A male voice said, “Paul Rizzo,
Cityside
. You were seen leaving the Cardinal's residence late Sunday night. Why were you there?”

He was a balding man whose baby-smooth skin suggested that the hair loss was premature. His eyes were unblinking. His chin jutted forward. He reminded Lily of the hook stuck in the mouth of the very first trout she had ever caught for herself at the lake. Then and now, she was repulsed.

I was hired to play the piano,
she wanted to tell him, but her tongue was tight, and she knew she would never get the words out. So she lowered her head and kept her feet moving fast.

“When did you break up with Governor Dean?”

“Was the Cardinal aware of your relationship with the governor?”

“How do you explain the late-night phone calls?”

“Is it true that you were in the Cardinal's arms at the Essex Club last night?”

When Lily looked up to say an angry “No,” a cameraman snapped her picture. Ducking her head again, she hurried on, but the questions got worse.

“Where did you do it?”

“What kind of sex?”

“Has the Church tried to buy your silence?”

“What does your family think of this?”