Lake News (4 page)

She pushed on with her head down, turning left on Arlington and right on Commonwealth. Despite the shelter of the trees here, the gusting air had a straight shot in from the west and was even cooler. She hurried against it down one block, then a second, third, and fourth. By the time she reached the end of the fifth block, she might as well have tossed the paper away. Her hair was as wet as everything else.

Entering the outer lobby of her apartment building, she held the dripping paper off to the side while she fished in her briefcase for keys. Seconds later she was inside, and what had felt stuffy that morning was suddenly welcome. Pushing wet hair off her face, she went past the elevator to the trash closet and dropped the sodden
Post
in the paper bin. She hadn't read it yet, but doubted there was much to miss. Other than Archbishop Rossetti's elevation to Cardinal, which had been covered in depth the weekend before, the city scene was quiet.

She turned into the mail room—and immediately wished she hadn't. Peter Oliver didn't intrigue her, but Tony Cohn did. He lived in one of the penthouse suites, was a business consultant, and as dark as Peter was blond. Classically, Peter was the better looking of the two, but there was something about Tony that was foreign and daring. Lily wasn't a big talker under the best of conditions, but when Tony was in sight she was positively tongue-tied.

Of course, Tony never asked her out, not for drinks,
not for dinner. Other than the nod of his head or a short word of greeting if they were stuck in the elevator together, he didn't talk to her at all.

He did look at her now, though. How could he not, with her all wet and bedraggled—wasn't it always the way?

As unobtrusively as she could, she plucked the wet of her tank top away from her breasts. They were her best asset, but this was embarrassing.

Not that he seemed impressed. “Got caught, huh?” he said in a voice that was just deep enough, just amused enough to cinch her humiliation.

Nodding, she concentrated on unlocking her mailbox. She wondered where he would be thirty minutes later and why she couldn't bump into him then. She would look good then. She would look
gorgeous
then.

But now? She slipped the mail from her box and was trying to think of something witty to say, knowing that even if she did think of something, even after years of speech therapy, she would probably mess up getting it out and be even more embarrassed than she already was—when he closed his mailbox and left the room.

Releasing a breath, she listened for sounds from the lobby. After a minute she heard the whirr of the elevator door opening, then shutting.

He could have waited for her.

Thank God he hadn't.

Resigned, she left the mail room and looked through what she had in her hands while she waited for the elevator to return. There were two bills, two contracts for her services, and four pieces of junk. With any luck, the
contracts contained deposits that would take care of the bills. She knew just what to do with the junk.

She left the elevator at the fourth floor, just as one of her neighbors was about to board it. Elizabeth Davis owned a hot PR agency and had the breathless lifestyle to prove it. As always, she was dressed to the hilt. Her suit was red and short, her lipstick high gloss, her umbrella black and long. She had been using the mirror on the elevator panel to put on large gold earrings. Slipping into the elevator to finish up with the mirror there, she held the door open with a foot.

“Lily. Good timing.” Head tipped, eyes on the mirror, she worked at fastening the second earring. “I'm doing a bash for the Kagan for Governor Committee and need a pianist. It would be background music, not much singing, but I've heard you at the club, and you're perfect.” She did look at Lily then, giving her a dismayed once-over. “Oh dear. You're wet.”

“Slightly,” Lily said.

“Well, you clean up good. I've seen you at work, understated elegance all the way, which is what we want. The fund-raiser is two weeks from tomorrow night. We can't pay—the budget is pathetically low—but I can almost guarantee you'll get another job or two out of the gig because important people will be there and important people give parties, so it wouldn't be a total loss from your point of view. Besides, Lydia Kagan would be
the
best thing for women in this state, so it's in your best interest to do it. What do you say?”

Lily was flattered to be asked. Rarely did a week go by when Elizabeth's name wasn't in the
Post
. She ran
top-notch functions. Lily knew she wasn't her first choice for this one, not at this late date, but that was fine. She liked playing at political functions. The more people there were, the easier it was to lose herself in the song. Besides, she agreed with Elizabeth's assessment of Lydia Kagan.

“I'll do it,” she said.

Elizabeth smiled broadly and removed her foot from the door. “I'll put it in writing, but mark your calendar now. It's a go. I'm counting on you.” The elevator door closed.

Lily was running too late to feel more than a passing satisfaction. Hurrying down the hall, she let herself into her own apartment. It was a small one-bedroom that she rented directly from an owner who loved green, her favorite color, and had a kind heart, which was the only reason she could afford the location. The living room was small and dominated by an upright piano against one wall and a stuffed bookcase against another. The only other furniture was a sofa with its back to windows overlooking the mall and an upholstered chair done in a matching flowered fabric of green, beige, and white. At the shoulder of the chair, more in the tiny front hall than the living room, was a glass table that held a telephone, a lamp, and the CD player that, with the touch of a button now, picked up in the middle of a flowing Chopin. The kitchen was one wall of the living room, and the bedroom was just big enough for a double bed, but the whole apartment had been renovated, which meant that she had a modern marble bathroom with a glassed-in shower.

That was where she headed, pulling off wet clothes,
warming up under the hot spray, soaping, shampooing, and turning off the water well before she was ready, but the clock was ticking. In record time she applied makeup and blew her chin-length hair dry to give it a lift. She ate a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then slipped into a plum-colored dress that worked with her fair skin and dark hair, stepped into black heels, and clipped on silver earrings that glittered and flowed. Grabbing a purse and an umbrella, she set off.

Naturally, when she reached the lobby, Tony Cohn was nowhere in sight, but at least the rain had stopped.

The Essex Club thrived in a large brownstone on the opposite side of Commonwealth Avenue, an easy three-block walk from her apartment. It was a private dinner club, elegantly decorated and skillfully run. Relieved to have made it with time to spare, she checked in at the office, where Daniel Curry, the club's owner, was taking a last-minute reservation.

A square-built man of forty-five with perpetually ruddy cheeks, he acknowledged her arrival with the hitch of his chin and finished up on the phone. By that time she had stowed her things in the closet.

She glanced at the reservation book. “Good?”

“Very, for a Monday. There are a few empty tables out there now, but we'll be full in another hour. It's an easy crowd. A lot of old friends.” He named a few, couples Lily had come to know in three years of playing there.

“Any special requests?” she asked.

“One thirtieth wedding anniversary, Tom and Dotty Frische. They'll be arriving at eight, table six. He's arranged to have a dozen red roses there and asked if
you'd play ‘The Twelfth of Never' when the champagne is uncorked.”

Lily loved doing that kind of thing. “Sure. Anything else?”

When he shook his head, she left the office and climbed the winding staircase to the main dining room. It was decorated in the club's trademark dark wood and nineteenth-century oils. The color scheme was hunter green and burgundy, carried through table linens, china, carpeting, and draperies. The effect was rich and Old World, which made her feel part of something with a distinguished history.

She greeted the maître d' and smiled at those patrons who caught her eye as she crossed the carpet. The piano was a baby grand, a Steinway, beautifully polished and tuned. There were times when she felt sinful being paid for playing it, but she wasn't about to tell her boss that. After taxes, what she earned at the Winchester School teaching music appreciation, coaching singing groups, and giving piano lessons barely paid for rent and food. Without her work here and at private parties, she wouldn't have money for much else. Besides, this job was what had brought her to Boston. The club was far nicer than the one she had played at in Albany.

After settling comfortably on the bench, she warmed up her fingers with soft arpeggios. The keys felt cool and smooth. Like early morning coffee, those first few touches were always the best.

Her hair fell forward as she watched her hands. Swinging it back when she raised her head, she slipped into the mildest of New Age work, variations on popular
songs to which she gave a different beat, a gentle flow. Patrons might recognize the song, but even the most frequent diners at the club wouldn't hear the exact same rendition twice. Playing by ear, she just let loose and did what felt right at a given moment. She rarely used books or sheet music other than for learning classical work or, on occasion, the words to a collection of songs. More often, she simply bought CDs. Once she knew a tune she could play her own version, giving it whatever slant was appropriate to the audience. Some of the parties she played at called for soft rock, others for Broadway hits, others for Brahms. Adapting the same song for different audiences was one of the things Lily did best. It kept her fresh and challenged.

The piano stood on a platform in the corner, allowing her to look out over the room as she played. She smiled in greeting to familiar faces, smiled generically at new ones. Dan had been right. The crowd was mellow. Granted, early diners were usually older and milder, but the club had its share of aged loudmouths. She didn't see any tonight.

Based on the patrons she did see, she segued into a set of smooth oldies, leading with “Autumn Leaves” and “Moon River,” moving on to “Blue Moon” and “September.” Twice she played requests passed on through the maître d'. She kept going until seven-thirty, when Dan brought her a glass of water.

“Any questions?” he asked while she took a drink.

She was careful not to look at the diners now. “Davis just seated a foursome at table twelve. They look familiar but… members?”

“No. The men are the governors of New Hampshire and Connecticut, in town for the conference that just ended. You probably saw their pictures in the paper.”

That explained the familiarity, but it raised a new question. Lily definitely recognized the man at table nineteen. There was no mistaking that dark mustache. He was a reporter with the
Post
. “Is Terry Sullivan here watching the governors?” she asked.

Dan smirked. “Not to my knowledge, or I wouldn't have let him in.” The club protected its members. Journalists were welcome when they were guests of a member, as Terry Sullivan was. Few had the sponsors, much less the funds, to join themselves. “He must like the place. This is, what, his third time in as many weeks?”

“Yes,” Lily said. She had counted, too.

“He likes you.”

“No.” But she couldn't deny that she might have been the reason Terry was there. “It's business. He's doing a series of profiles of Boston performers and wants to do one on me.”

“That's nice.”

Lily didn't think so. “I keep refusing him. He makes me nervous.”

“Must be the mustache,” Dan said and glanced at the door. Cheeks ruddying up, he grinned as he straightened. “Ah. There he is.” He set off.

Lily broke into a smile of her own at the sight of Francis Rossetti. Archbishop Rossetti. Newly named
Cardinal
Rossetti. Saying the last would take some getting used to. Lily and the Cardinal went back a ways. She was every bit as proud of his elevation as Dan, who was married to his niece.

Lily wasn't Catholic. She wasn't much of anything, but for several minutes, sipping her water, she marveled at the power of the man. He wore no elegant robe, no red hat. Those would come in four weeks, when he went to Rome for his first consistory. But he didn't need robes or a hat to be charismatic. He was a tall man who stood straight and wore his crisp black clerical suit, pewter pectoral cross, and thick silver hair with style.

This wasn't the first time Lily had seen him since his elevation. A frequent pianist at archdiocesan events, she had played at a lawn party at his residence last night, but this was the first time he had been to the club. Without conscious thought, her hands found the keys and began playing the theme from
Chariots of Fire
.

He heard it, looked over, and winked.

Pleased, she finished the song and moved on to others. Fran Rossetti and she had played side by side often enough for her to know which songs he liked. He was a man who appreciated the fullness of life. His taste in music reflected that, in church and out.

She played “Memory” and segued into “Argentina.” She played “Deep Purple,” the love theme from
Dr. Zhivago,
and then “The Way We Were.”

Promptly at eight, a couple was seated at the table with the red roses. Soon after, when the wine steward uncorked a bottle of champagne, Lily turned on the mike and played “The Twelfth of Never,” singing in the rich alto that went so well with the club's decor.

Dotty Frische took a visible breath. She glanced briefly at Lily—then positively beamed at her husband. It made Lily's night.

There was soft applause at the end of the song, so Lily did a medley of other Johnny Mathis hits before returning to singing more Broadway. By the time she was done, it was eight-thirty and time for a break.