Lake News (49 page)

She threw the question right back. “Does it bother
you?”

He didn't blink. “Not one bit.”

The back room hadn't changed much in the eighteen years since Lily had been there last. Café tables and chairs had replaced benches, and there looked to be a new sound system, with speakers mounted high in the eaves. But the small, raised stage was the same, as were the potbelly stove and the ambience, which was low key and laid-back. Not that much in Lake Henry wasn't. But Thursday nights at Charlie's back room took the cake. No one rushed. No one talked business. No one wore anything dressier than jeans. And perfume? A no-no. The place smelled of old barn board, fresh coffee, melting chocolate, and fun.

It was all instantly familiar, but Lily didn't know what to expect. There were no outsiders here. The audience was wholly Lake Henry. She feared she would be the butt of whispers and stares, as she had been that first Sunday in church.

But Poppy was there, so she spent a while talking with her, and with Marianne Hersey, who stopped by, and with Charlie Owens. The rules held. No one talked business, not even Cassie, who arrived with her husband and pulled up a chair. Coffee arrived, along with the same warm, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate chip cookies that the Owens family had served at the back room for three generations running. By then the place was
packed, and the band had begun, giving people something better to look at than Lily.

Slowly she relaxed. She hadn't been on this side of the stage in years, and the energy the band generated was infectious. After several songs she was tapping her foot along with the rest of the crowd; after several more she was humming along. If people were aware of her presence, they didn't make anything of it. For all intents and purposes she was just another Lake Henryite, kicking back on a Thursday night.

Toward evening's end, the band took requests. Most were for songs from the seventies and eighties, and the mood grew nostalgic. It was particularly so for Lily, who had spent much of her career doing Simon and Garfunkel, the Eagles, Carole King, Van Morrison, even the Beatles, and she felt a sudden ache to do them again.

The combination of guitar, violin, and cello were perfect for songs like “Yesterday” and “Desperado,” and she wasn't the only one to think it. Hearty applause brought reprise after reprise, then similarly effective versions of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and “Into the Mystic.”

She was into it big-time when, suddenly, Charlie was on his haunches beside her chair. “They do a great ‘Tapestry.' ” He held a cordless mike her way. No doubt what he had in mind.

“Oh, nn-no,” Lily whispered, horrified. “I couldn't.”

But there was a sudden, familiar wolf whistle—Poppy urging her on—and the start of a rhythmic clapping from other parts. The sound grew. Lily looked at John,
who looked nearly as frantic as she felt. Odd, but that did it. She was an entertainer by trade. She had sung dozens of times before strangers, often in far larger numbers. If she had done that, she could do this—if not for herself, then for John.

Taking the mike from Charlie, she went to the stool that had been added onstage. Bowing her head, she blocked the audience out. Of Carole King's songs, “Tapestry” was one of her favorites. She closed her eyes when the guitars began, and focused on the sound when violin and cello joined in. When the introduction approached its end, she took a deep breath and raised the mike. Eyes still closed, thinking about the words now, she began to sing.

The words flowed, one after the other, and it was easy. She had done this too many times for it not to be, but she hadn't expected the relief. It was like breathing after days underwater, like seeing again after days in the dark. Her voice was an old alto friend that came smoothly, faultlessly. She rode its crest as the tempo picked up, one line leading to the next, the melody growing fuller, if sadder, with the story of a life at its end, but by the time the last words were sung, Lily was going strong. Eyes open, she faced the band more than the audience. It was only natural to segue into “You've Got a Friend.”

Lily was in her element. She had always loved Carole King, and the band knew her music well. “You've Got a Friend” segued into “So Far Away,” which segued into “Will You Love Me Tomorrow.” She was so comfortable, so oblivious of her audience, that she might have
been alone in a small studio with four musicians who shared her passion. She tapped the mike to her chin and grinned at them when they played the opening bars of “A Natural Woman.” By the time she sang the last chorus, she practically shook with the beat.

The strings went on for a minute's conclusion. Invigorated, exhilarated, momentarily sated, Lily put down the mike and beamed at the players, but they were motioning for her to acknowledge the audience. It was only then that she heard the rousing applause. With a sheepish smile she turned and bowed low.

Poppy pulled up at her house shortly after ten. It was another few minutes before she was in her chair and out of the van, and another after that before she was inside. Annie Johnson, who had covered the phones, met her in the hall.

“I thought I heard the van,” she said, pulling car keys from her pocket. “There's a call for you, still on the phone. A guy with a
great
voice.”

Griffin Hughes. Poppy stayed calm.

“Anything else?” she asked, but Annie was already at the door.

“Nope,” came the call back. “Quiet night.” The door banged shut.

Poppy wheeled herself to the phone bank and, leaving the headset on the desk, picked up the receiver. “Willie Jake is sound asleep. The man is seventy. Did you really think he'd be available at this hour?”

“No,” came the good-natured response. “That's why I called you directly.”

Poppy looked down at the bank of buttons and blushed when she saw where the little green light was. “How did you get my number?” She would
kill
Willie Jake—or Emma, for that matter—if either of them had given it out.

“Directory assistance,” Griffin said in that same good-natured way.

“Oh.”

“Am I calling at a bad time?”

“No.”

“Were you out?”

“Yes. It's Thursday night.”

“Yes?”

“I was at Charlie's.”

“Who's he?”

“It's not a
he
. It's an
it
. A store. Actually, the back room of a store. There's live music there on Thursday nights.” She told him about the group that had performed that night, minus Lily's role at the end.

“Sounds like fun,” Griffin said.

“Nah. Very small-town. You're New Jersey. You're used to New York. You'd be bored.”

“That's a generalization if ever I've heard one, Poppy Blake, and it's wrong. I live in Princeton. It isn't a big place, but I choose to live here because it has a small-town feel. I haven't been to New York in months. There's no need.”

“Not even for work?”

“No. Not with telephone, e-mail, and fax.”

“Do you teach at the college?”

“No. I just write.”

“And you're still calling me for information on Lily? Aren't you anxious to get this article of yours done? Don't you need the
money?”

Quietly but factually, he said, “No. I'm independently wealthy. Like you. And I'm not calling for information on Lily.”

That stopped her short, tied up her tongue. When she didn't say anything, Griffin laughed. “Got you there, didn't I?”

“Why are you calling, then? There must be lots of pretty little coeds in Princeton.”

“Coeds are too young.”

“Then grad students.”

“I like older women.”

Poppy smiled. “Flattery will get you nowhere. I don't fall for deep, dark, sexy voices. They're usually tied to frogs.”

“I'm not a frog.”

No. She didn't think he was.

“Want to see in person?” he asked.

“Hah! Wouldn't you like me to say that I would. You'd come up here with a bona fide invitation and spend the whole time digging up stuff for your piece. I know your type, Griffin. I'm not inviting you here. I don't have time to show you around town.”

“Why not? What do you do, other than work?”

“I have friends. We do things.”

“Couldn't I tag along?”

She sighed. In a calm voice, she said, “I'm not inviting you.”

“Is there someone else?”

She contemplated lying. It would be the easiest thing. End it now. Clean and simple. But she liked dreaming about Griffin Hughes. If dreaming was all she had…

“No,” she said. “There's no one else.” She grew beseeching. “I like talking to you. You sound like a great guy. This is fun. But don't push it. Please?”

John was so gone he didn't know what to do. He had already fallen for Lily the cook, Lily the friend, Lily the gun toter, even Lily the singer-with-loons. Watching her at Charlie's Thursday night, he fell for Lily the seductress, and it was bad. She was wearing plain jeans and a turtleneck shirt, and no makeup to speak of, and was in either her own world or one with the band, but his heart ached with awe. He hadn't experienced anything like that with Marley, hadn't experienced anything like it watching Meg Ryan in every blessed one of her films—three times. He actually felt shy when Lily returned to their table, and was absurdly pleased when she spent the whole of the drive back to Thissen Cove crowded close to him on the bench seat of the truck. But she did. For all outward appearances, she seemed gone on him, too. At least, that was the message that came through in the minutes before they fell asleep.

By the time he woke up, she was off to work at the cider house, but he felt her presence in the cottage, along with that same achy awe. This time it had to do with the
larger picture of his life—with long-range wants and needs, even dreams. He thought about those as he sat out on her dock shivering in an October drizzle. The moisture made a tapping sound as it dripped through crisp leaves on the shore. There were no boats in sight. Most were out of the water, shrink-wrapped for the winter. In another few weeks Lily's dock would have to come in, too. If the pilings were squeezed by ice, they would snap.

Winter had its big toe on the threshold. The air was raw, the sky like steel. There were no loons in sight. John didn't know if they were still around, but if so, it was only a matter of days before they left. The cold and the wet said it was time to move on.

It was time for him to do it, too. Time to fish or cut bait. The next step of his life was waiting. If he was writing a book, he had to get to it.

So he went to the office Friday morning with a sense of resolve. He hadn't been there for more than five minutes when Brian Wallace called.

“I thought you'd want to know,” he said matter-of-factly. “We got the report. The Blake tape was spliced. Terry's been fired.”

John waited for the rest.

“Isn't that what you wanted?” Brian asked. “You've hated Terry's guts for years. For what it's worth, you aren't the only one. There'll be joy in the old newsroom tonight.”

A month ago, John would have felt it, too. But a month ago he hadn't been part of Lily's cause. “And?” he prompted.

“He's cleaning out his desk as we speak. He claims he has plenty to do without busting his butt for us, but that's a load of shit. He's done for around here.”

That wasn't what John was waiting for. “Forget Terry. What about Lily?”

“What about her?”

“Is the paper doing a story?”

“Nah. Terry's firing is a postscript. It's irrelevant.”

“Excuse me?” John was incredulous. “An innocent woman was skewered by your paper based on a tape that you refused to authenticate until I gave you grounds for malice on Terry's part—and you don't owe her anything?”

“What would you have us do?” Brian asked, sounding annoyed.

“Her lawyer demanded a retraction.”

“Oh please. Gimme a break. We didn't do anything wrong. We acted in good faith. We believed the story to be legitimate based on research—”

“Based on an edited tape.”

“Based on a tape we thought was real. Christ, Kip, what would you have us
do?
Test every goddamned tape for authenticity?”

“No,” John said slowly. “I know reporters on your staff who are above that, but Terry isn't one, and you knew it. You knew it, Brian, and you knew that this story had the power to hurt. Face it. You went with it because you knew it would sell papers, and it did. You guys made out like bandits. So now you've moved on to blood and gore in the Back Bay. What's the problem with printing a retraction on this?”

“The problem,” Brian said with surprising candor, “is that we pride ourselves on being better journalists. Apologizing to the Cardinal was bad enough. Why rub it in? Everyone knows we blew it. Apologizing to Lily Blake is overkill.”