Lake News (47 page)

But Maida did have a business. From what Lily could see, aside from one backhoe that needed replacing and two workers with broken bones, she was running it well.

Lily had to admire her for that—and to feel compassion when Maida took a break from culling apples to rub her lower back. When they broke for lunch, Lily waited for her. They walked down to the house together.

“Is your back bothering you?” Lily asked.

“A little. It's a muscle. Nothing important.”

“Can you rest it?”

“In January. Not much to do here in January.”

“You pull too much weight getting the crates on the lift.”

“Someone has to do it.”

“Oralee could.”

“Oralee's too old.”

“I could.”

“You're too young.”

Lily didn't say anything.

They were nearly at the house when Maida said a tentative “You could.”

They changed places that afternoon—just an experiment, both agreed—but it worked well. Maida layered racks and cloths and let Bub do the pulling and pushing. Lily got crates on the lift, dumped apples in the bath, culled out bad ones, adjusted pulleys, and raised and lowered the press. She drove the loader when it was time to bring more apples in from the yard, and shimmied under the press when one of the drainage tubes popped a leak, and she loved it all, because she could
do
it all. She hadn't felt such a sense of accomplishment since… since she couldn't
remember
when. And contentment. That, too. There was something about putting in a full day's work at a place with her family name on the sign.

Father Neil Sullivan, Terry's brother, lived in Burlington, Vermont. When he wasn't at his church, Christ the King, he was counseling college students at a guidance center in town, or teaching at their school. John would have saved himself the trip and simply called on the phone if he had thought the man would talk, but reason said that he wouldn't. Terry hadn't betrayed him; he wouldn't betray Terry.

John did call the church beforehand to make sure that Father Sullivan was in town and not off somewhere in another part of the country. The secretary at the rectory said that he was at St. Michael's College, teaching a course. St. Michael's was in Colchester, the town abutting Burlington. That was all John needed to know.

Having arranged for one of his correspondents to distribute
Lake News,
he left Lake Henry as soon as he finished wiring the paper to the printer. Burlington was a five-hour drive. Assuming, optimistically, that he would spend a few hours with the priest, it would be late when he was done. Barring anything so unpleasant as to put
him on the road sooner, he figured he would stay the night.

John knew Burlington. For five years running, dating back to his days with the
Post,
he had participated in a journalism seminar at the University of Vermont. He liked the city—liked the way it rose on a hill overlooking Lake Champlain, liked the aura of energy and excitement that came from six colleges, with sixteen thousand students milling about. Though fall had well passed its peak here, the late-afternoon sun more than compensated with color on both lake and sky.

At Christ the King, John learned that Father Sullivan was at the guidance center, which he drove to in no time. It was located on the second floor of one of the Federal-style buildings that overlooked the waterfront, and consisted of a comfortably furnished, if magazine-and-Styrofoam-coffee-cup-strewn reception area and several offices off a long hall.

The reception area was empty. The doors of two of the three offices were closed, though the fluorescent lights blazing through glass panels high above suggested they were in use.

John wandered down the hall to the open door. The office was empty. He was about to return to the reception area to wait when a woman appeared at the far end of the hall, on the threshold of what looked to be a small kitchen. She was of average height and build, with long hair center-parted and wire-rimmed glasses. John figured her to be in her late thirties. Between that and the tailored look of her sweater and slacks, he guessed she wasn't a counselee.

“May I help you?” she asked in an authoritative voice.

“I'm looking for Father Neil Sullivan.”

She came down the hall, pointing at one of the closed doors as she passed. “He'll be done shortly. Do you have an appointment?”

“No. I thought I might catch him at the end of the day.”

“For…?”

“Just to talk.”

“About…?”

John debated lying. If this woman was as controlling as she sounded—and if she knew anything about the priest's personal life—she might send him packing. But the priest was nearby. John could wait either inside the center or out on the street. He wasn't leaving until he talked with the man.

Evasion seemed pointless. “About his brother.”

The change in her expression was subtle, but John was looking for it. Oh yes. She knew about Terry.

Slipping her hands into the pockets of her slacks, she leaned against the wall. “Why?”

He shrugged, held up his hands, then extended one to shake. “John Kipling.”

She removed a hand only long enough to meet his. “Anita Monroe. I'm the director here.” The hand returned to her pocket. She was keeping her distance. “Are you with a newspaper?”

“A small one in New Hampshire. I used to work with Terry in Boston.”

“Lucky you,” she said with another subtle change of expression, but before John could explore it, a door
opened behind her. A young man came out first. His age and worn backpack said he was a student. Eyes lowered, he slipped past them and hurried out.

John looked at the man in the clerical collar who was watching from the office door. There was a family resemblance, though John couldn't quite pin it down. Neil was clearly older than Terry, with graying hair and creases in his forehead and cheeks. He wasn't as tall or as lean, though he held himself as straight. The mouth might have been the same. But Neil's was bare and gentler. Same with the eyes. Neil looked far more friendly and warm than Terry ever had. He was approachable. Smiling now, he was even inviting. John could easily believe all the good things he'd heard about the man.

Anita cut right to the quick. “Father Neil, meet John Kipling. He wants to talk with you about Terry.”

Father Neil inhaled sharply and tipped his head back as if to say,
I'm found out
. His smile was wavering by the time he righted his head, but the handshake he offered was warm. “Lots of Sullivans in the world. I was wondering when someone would make the connection. How'd you do it?”

“An old neighbor in Meadville said you were in Vermont. The local diocese did the rest. I've known Terry for years. We went to college together.”

“And worked together,” Anita put in.

The priest smiled sadly. “I'm afraid you know him better than I do, then. There were seven years between us growing up. We were never close.”

“Aren't you in touch with him at all now?”

“No. We've taken different roads. So I'm not sure what you're looking for, and if you've come a distance, I'm sorry. But I really have nothing to say.”

John might have been sly. He might have gotten the priest talking about other things and slipped into his confidence that way. But—totally aside from Anita standing guard—that didn't feel right. So he explained his quest by telling of his friendship with Lily and of the losses she had suffered since being implicated in the scandal. “She's trying to fight her way back. I want to help her. We're trying to understand why Terry hated Fran Rossetti enough to go after him and ruin an innocent woman in the process. I know that your mother and Rossetti were sweethearts, that your father was jealous of that, and that Terry was physically abused. I know that you were immune from much of it.”

There was pain. John could see it in Neil's eyes. Quietly, the priest said, “If you know all that, why do you need me?”

“You're the only one who can pull it all together. We can speculate on his motives, but we need to have someone confirm it.”

“For publication.” With that same sad smile, the priest shook his head. “I'm sorry. I can't do that. He's my brother.”

“He slandered a Cardinal. He ruined an innocent woman.”

“He's still my brother. You'll get your information one way or another, but not from me.”

“I want the information to be correct. You're the only one who was there.”

“But I wasn't really. As I said, I was seven years older. That's a world away when you're a kid.”

“Was Rossetti at the root of the family problems?”

Neil took another one of those breaths with his head tipped back. It seemed enough to shore up his resolve. “You'd have to ask my parents that.”

“They're dead.”

“Yes.” He went silent.

The silence lengthened.

John tried, “Were you surprised that it was Terry who broke the Rossetti-Blake story?”

There was another sad smile, but patience. “I won't answer that.”

“Doesn't it bother you that Terry has caused so much harm?”

The priest thought about that one. Still patient, still sad, he said, “It bothers me that the press has the power to cause so much harm.”

“It has to stop somewhere,” John said, thinking of Terry.

Neil was clearly thinking of John. “You're right. That's one of the reasons why I won't talk to you.”

It was a point well taken. John felt a stab of guilt. It quickly turned to envy. Neil was very sure of himself, but without arrogance. There was calm and the kind of confidence that came with believing in something very much.

Realizing that, John doubted he would be moved. But he made a final stab at it. “What if I promise complete confidentiality.” He was willing to do that. It felt right.

“No matter,” Father Sullivan said in the same quiet voice. “He's
my younger brother. It's not my place to betray him.”

“Even knowing the harm he has done?”

“It isn't my job to judge. God does that.” Again, he grew silent. Again, the silence lengthened.

John sought Anita's help. “Can't you see this from Lily's point of view?”

Anita surprised him by saying, “I can. If I were her, I'd want to learn everything I could. But I'm not the one whose brother it is.”

“Can you convince him?” John asked, tipping his chin toward Neil.

“No,” Neil said with finality. “She can't.”

John knew when to quit. “Okay,” he said. “That's honest enough. Tell you what. I'm taking off now, but I'll be spending the night at the Inn on Maple. If you change your mind, will you call me there? By tomorrow afternoon, I'll be back in Lake Henry.” He took a business card from his wallet. “Here's my home number.”

The priest tucked the card in his pocket without a glance.

John was discouraged. He had known that getting the priest to talk was a long shot, but after meeting the man, he wanted it more than ever—actually, wanted it on a personal level that had nothing to do with Lily. Neil Sullivan was insightful. He had to be, given his line of work. John wanted to know how
he
lived with the knowledge that he hadn't been there for his younger brother.

But Neil hadn't shown a moment of doubt. He wouldn't talk. John was so sure of it that he debated
returning to Lake Henry that night. But the drive was long, he was exhausted, and—even if hoping was futile—he had told the priest he would be at the Inn.

So he ate dinner on the waterfront and wandered through lively downtown blocks wishing Lily were with him. Convinced that the priest wouldn't call, he stayed out late walking, and returned to the Inn tired enough to fall quickly asleep. He slept soundly and late, and woke up with barely enough time to make breakfast. There was neither a call nor a message.

As he entered the mansion's dining room, he was thinking that he could live without the priest's help and that he missed Lily and just wanted to be home—when he spotted Anita Monroe. She sat with a cup of coffee at the most privately situated of three small tables. Her eyes held his.

John helped himself to coffee from an urn on the sideboard, filled a small plate with pastries, and joined her. He kept the coffee on his side and put the pastry dish between them.

“You're not the one whose brother it is,” he reminded her.

Her voice was softer than yesterday, but just as sure. “No. But I'm the one who has watched the one whose brother it is suffer the guilt and regret.”

Guilt and regret
. Strong words. “Does he know you're here?”

“Yes. We talked it out last night.”

“He sent you?”

“Not explicitly. But he knew I would come, and he didn't ask me not to. I took Lily's side in the discussion.”
She smiled. “You pushed the right button. If this can help her, then he needs to do it. The thing is, though, I need a guarantee of confidentiality. Neil thrives on anonymity. He doesn't want the press rushing here. And he won't have Terry hurt by his hand.”