Confucius Jane (29 page)

For a long moment, Priscilla didn't move. Then, finally, she sighed. “Maria, will you bring me a new compress, please?”

“Of course, Mrs. St. James.”

Sutton peeled the cloth off her forehead and passed it back to Maria, who left the room. Once the door was closed, she waited for her mother to speak again. Still, she said nothing. Battling back her irritation, Sutton focused on maintaining an even keel.

“Did you hear what they said on the news about Dad?”

“I heard it, yes.” Her words were clipped.

“Do you think it's true?”

Finally, Priscilla met Sutton's eyes. “Does it matter?”

Sutton felt her jaw drop. The question was inconceivable. “Yes! It matters!”

Priscilla sighed. “Of course it's not true. It's a fabrication invented by someone trying to ride the coattails of his celebrity. Or get some of his money.”

She sounded so certain that Sutton actually experienced a surge of relief before she realized that her mother's theory was exactly that. It might be right, or it might be wishful thinking. No one except her father knew for sure what had happened.

“Unfortunately, as long as the media believes it's true, they're going to make our lives difficult.” Sutton grimaced as she imagined her mother interacting with the reporters outside. Their invasive questions would bewilder and fluster her.

Suddenly, she had an idea. Their country home, on several acres of land in Southampton, would be the perfect place for her mother to weather the storm. Reporters would still be able to find them there, but it would be out of their way. And since her father would no doubt remain in New York, they might choose to focus on him and leave them alone entirely. She would have to take time off from the hospital, of course, and she hated having to leave suddenly. But there were plenty of other students to pick up her slack. And if she didn't take care of her mother right now, who would? Even if he was innocent of the charges, her father would be terribly distracted.

“I have an idea. What if we go out to the house?”

Priscilla blinked slowly and sat up in the bed. “For how long?”

“However long it takes for this to blow over.” Sutton stood and pulled aside the curtain of the nearest window. The throng outside looked as though it had increased. “At this point, it's only getting worse.”

As Maria returned with the compress, Sutton's phone rang. “Don't answer that,” her mother said sharply.

“We had to disconnect the house phone earlier,” Maria said fretfully. “It wouldn't stop ringing.”

“Who called?”

“The first time it was one of those reporters, asking all kinds of inappropriate questions.” Priscilla shuddered delicately. “Then it was my brother. And then the neighbors phoned to complain about the noise outside.”

“What did you tell Uncle Phillip?”

“I assured him there had been a misunderstanding, and that we would have it resolved soon.”

Sutton couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. Her mother truly didn't seem worried about her marriage at all. She wasn't even admitting the possibility that the rumor might be true. All she seemed to care about were the consequences of a scandal to the family's public reputation.

“I called the police about all the people outside,” said Maria, “but they said no one had broken any laws and they couldn't do anything.”

Sutton wasn't surprised. “We should go, Mom. Really. At least in the Hamptons, the press won't be able to camp out five feet from the front door. I think you'll feel much better out there.”

Her mother was silent for a long moment. “We would leave tonight?”

“Yes.” Sutton had no idea how much worse the situation might become, and she wanted her mother tucked safely away behind the high walls of their estate by the time the morning news cycle began. “You don't have to do anything, okay? While I call for a car, you tell Maria what you'd like to pack. She and I will handle it.”

“Very well.”

Relieved to be taking action, Sutton hurried into the hall, pulling up the number of the car service as she went. She ducked into her childhood bedroom as the line connected and she was placed on hold. Perching on her bed, she tried to focus her swirling thoughts into a mental to-do list. On the wall above her desk, the orderly columns and rows of the Periodic Table of the Elements seemed to mock the chaos that had suddenly infiltrated her life.

After arranging for the car and calling the hospital to let them know she wouldn't be coming in for the next few days, Sutton climbed the stairs to the third floor. She hesitated when she reached the landing, before turning toward her father's study. While she might have significantly less faith in his innocence than did her mother, he hadn't been proven guilty yet. He didn't deserve to find them mysteriously gone, without so much as an explanation.

The door was closed, a sliver of light leaking out onto the hardwood floor from beneath the crack. She raised her hand to knock, only to pause at the sound of his voice.

“Where is this coming from? Who leaked it?” The cold fury in his voice made the hair on Sutton's neck prickle. She had never heard him sound so angry. “Then who has those? What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you a great deal of money to know these things!”

Sutton lowered her hand and backed away from the door. She wasn't about to interrupt that conversation. Besides, he didn't exactly sound like an innocent man. An innocent man wouldn't be talking about leaks. Anger flared in her chest, hot and sharp, urging her to barge inside and demand answers. Instead, she forced herself to walk away. Now was not the time for a confrontation. She had to focus on keeping her mother safe and making her comfortable, two things that were obviously nowhere near the front of her father's mind right now. Guilty or not, that said an awful lot in and of itself.

“How are you doing?” she asked as she entered the master bedroom to find Maria transferring clothing from the boudoir to a large valise open on the floor. “Can I lend a hand?”

She looked up briefly. “I'm fine. I'll be ready to help you, soon.”

“No need.” Sutton headed toward the bathroom, squinting at the brightness of the white tiles reflecting the fluorescent overhead lights. “I'll get Mom's medicine.”

The cabinet revealed several prescription bottles, and Sutton examined each in turn. The beta interferons were a long-term medication, taken daily in an attempt to stave off a flare-up. The corticosteroids, on the other hand, were only meant to be used during a relapse. Sutton also reached for the anti-anxiety medication. Better safe than sorry.

The only vial with her father's name on it was a prescription for some antihistamine eye drops. But as she looked through the drawers beneath the sink for her mother's toiletry kit, she found another bottle tucked away beneath his shaving supplies. Viagra. Grimacing, she hastily covered it back up. That didn't prove anything, of course. But either way, she didn't want to think about it.

“I'm sure we are forgetting something,” Maria said anxiously as she surveyed the suitcase.

“Don't worry. If so, we'll just pick it up out there.” Sutton knelt to zip the case, then paused and looked up as a thought suddenly occurred to her. “Maria, do you want to come with us? Or would you rather stay here?”

“I will stay. That way, if you need something here, I can help.”

“You're sure? You feel safe? The press will try to talk to you, too, you know.”

She smiled a little. “If they try, I will pretend I don't speak English.”

Sutton wasn't sure how well that tactic would work, but she let the subject drop. She had one more question to ask. “Do you think it's true? What they're accusing him of?”

Maria looked toward the door and then back to Sutton. “I don't know,” she said quietly. “But I will watch and listen.”

“No, you don't have to do that,” Sutton said. “Just take care of yourself. The truth will come out, one way or another.”

As they descended the stairs, she caught a glimpse of the large family portrait hanging over the mantel in the sitting room. Her father had commissioned it just before she left for college, from a photographer who had been recommended by the Secretary of the Treasury. Briefly, she met the eyes of her glossy, younger self. Her smile had been genuine that day. Anticipatory. Flanked by her parents, she had been sheltered by their pride and just free enough to feel exhilaration.

Once upon a time, she had been the perfect daughter. Once upon a time, they had been the perfect family. A wave of nostalgia washed over her, even as she shook her head at the thought. Like the photograph, that perfection had been only skin deep. She had been so naïve at seventeen. Despite the many ways in which she had disappointed her family since that day, she wouldn't go back and rewrite any chapter of her journey, even if she were magically given the chance.

As she continued down the stairs, she suddenly remembered Sue's words from their session in front of the cameras. Had that really been only this afternoon? It felt like years ago now.
This will likely be a year of conflict for your family,
Sue had said. How right those words had turned out to be.

Thoughts of Sue led to thoughts of Jane, of course. Her chest ached at the prospect of leaving New York so quickly, even though she knew that was silly. Instead of being disappointed, she needed to think of it as a warm-up to her departure in the summer. The Hamptons were at least in the same time zone as the city. But still, if only Jane could come with them. Her mere presence would lighten the load Sutton felt pressing down on her shoulders. Jane comforted her. She made her feel strong and capable and beautiful. She made her laugh. They could talk about anything candidly.

Well, no. That wasn't quite true. Not anything. They never discussed their relationship, and where it was going. There were a few occasions on which she'd thought Jane had been about to bring it up, but something had always held her back. Probably for the best.

Pausing outside the guest room door, she pulled out her phone and tapped out a quick text message.
I'm taking my mother out to our house on Long Island. Not sure how long I'll be there. I'll call when I can.
Thumbs hovering above the cramped keyboard, she frowned down at the screen.
I miss you,
she typed. And then immediately deleted it.
Sorry I had to leave so abruptly,
she wrote instead.

Before she could second-guess herself, she pocketed her phone and turned the corner. Maria was helping her mother sit up in bed, and Sutton schooled her features into what she hoped was a semblance of calm.

“Okay, Mom. Are you ready to go?”

*   *   *

JANE LAY ON HER
stomach, arms curled around her pillow, left leg bent slightly and her face turned toward the small window. This was her favorite way to doze off, and she was exhausted. But despite the long day behind her, and a restless sleep the night before, her brain refused to quiet.

Flipping onto her back, she sighed into the rafters. What was Sutton doing right now? Was she asleep, or also lying awake? What was she thinking about? Was she completely embroiled in the drama that was unfolding around her father, or did she spare a thought for her, once in a while?

They had exchanged only a handful of texts since Sutton had left on Sunday night. Her messages were always short, and always somewhat formal in tone. That wasn't new, of course—her texts had never been warm and fuzzy. But until now, Jane had always been able to supplement them by reading her body language and the intricate patterns in her expressive eyes. A few stilted words in a text bubble only left her frustrated and wanting more. Sutton was barely two hours' drive away on Long Island, but she might as well have been in Sweden already. Or on the moon, for that matter.

Grimacing, Jane sat up and leaned over to check her phone on the nightstand. Just past one o'clock in the morning. The light from the screen illuminated the tabloid paper beneath it. “Dr. America's Daughter in the Dark,” read the headline. Beneath it was a photograph of Sutton outside her apartment, one hand outstretched, looking furious. And beautiful. The article had been brief, and Jane had ground her teeth the entire time while reading all about how Dr. America's extramarital liaison had blindsided both his wife and daughter. What on earth had he been thinking when he decided to bully a patient into having an affair? And how dare he preach to Sutton about her choices, when he had betrayed not only his family but also the ethics of his profession?

Silently fuming, Jane sat up and propped her pillow behind her back. Her renewed anger had set her heart to racing, and now she needed to find a way to keep from stewing in her own indignation. If she wasn't going to sleep, then damn it, she could at least be productive. She hadn't yet begun to sift through the new lines she and Sutton had found together in Grand Central. If she could finally finish the poem, her application for the fellowship would be complete. At least then she would have accomplished something.

Thankful that Min was a heavy sleeper, Jane turned on the lamp and angled the shade toward her bed. Pulling up her knees, she propped her notebook onto them and opened the front cover. She had tucked Sutton's paper just inside, and she took her time unfolding it, savoring the memory of that afternoon. Something had shifted between them that day, like tectonic plates sliding subtly beneath the earth's crust. It had begun with a not-date and ended with a kiss on the cheek that still pierced Jane with its sweetness.

With one fingertip, she traced the compact strokes of Sutton's lines. Her handwriting was elegant yet efficient. Just like her. Jane smiled and flipped to the pages she had set aside for her work in progress. But almost immediately, she found it impossible to concentrate. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture Grand Central's main hall—to see and hear and smell the press of humanity in perpetual motion along the floor of the cavernous space. But try as she might, she couldn't seem to project her consciousness back into the station. Sutton's image kept pulling her away, back into her own body. Aching to comfort her, Jane sat paralyzed in the cone of light from the lamp.