Lake News (6 page)

She shook her head. “But I'm not surprised. Father Fran gets it.”

“Gets it?”

“Understands people.”

“You saw that?”

They had reached another corner and were waiting to cross. Traffic leaving the city sped by in a blur of lights and chrome. “He understood me,” she said. “I've been grappling with things. He's been—” How to describe Fran Rossetti in a word? Friend? Adviser? Therapist? “He's been a comfort.”

“So you followed him to Boston?”

Her eyes flew to his. Here was the reporter again, more prodding than casual.

Terry winced. “Sorry. Nothing untoward meant. Asking questions is a habit. I was always doing it as a kid, so I went into journalism. No other field would have me. It's the tone. Hard to turn off, but I'll try.”

He sounded so sincere that Lily relented. “I followed
him to Boston only in the sense that I moved here soon after he did.”

Terry didn't say anything. When the light changed, they crossed the street and walked on.

Still feeling guilty for overreacting, she volunteered, “Father Fran told me about the Essex Club. It was a step up from the club I played at in Albany, and Dan's regular had just given notice. When I found a teaching position here, it was like it was meant to be.”

Terry looked thoughtful, walking with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the brownstones ahead. “Neat club, the Essex. Isn't it pricey for a Cardinal?”

“Not when his nephew owns the place,” she said.

“Is that kosher?”

“Usually the people he's with pick up the tab. Big donors to the church.”

“Is
that
kosher?”

“Why not?”

“Bribery. Favor seeking.”

“From a
Cardinal?
What does a Cardinal have to sell?”

“Political clout. A good word to the gov, or the prez.” He wiggled his brows. “Maybe a kiss.”

She leveled him a look. “I don't think so.”

“I'm
kid
-ding,” he chided.

She wasn't sure she liked the joke, but then, she tended to take things too literally. At least, that was what the last guy she dated had said when they called it quits. Actually, he had used the word “dour,” and though she didn't believe she was that bad, she made an effort now to go to the other extreme. “A kiss?” she
kidded back. “Why not a weekend? Auctioned off for charity.”

Terry laughed. “Warmin' up, Lily Blake. It'd bring in a bundle for his favorite cause. I'm telling you, dozens of women would bid.”

She smiled. “Can you imagine some woman telling a friend, ‘The Cardinal and I are having an affair'?”

“A
passionate
affair?” Terry asked in the voice of that startled friend.

Lily played along. “What other kind is there? Forget the auction. We've been doing it for
years
.”

He put back his head and laughed.

She laughed, too, then said, “Cute. But not Father Fran. If anyone gets anything from those dinners, it's the church. This is it,” she said, coming to a stop in front of her building. She turned to him, thinking that the laughter had been nice.

“You're an interesting person,” he said, grinning. “Think you could fit me in between dates with the Cardinal?”

She grinned back. “I don't know. He takes a lot of my time.” She made a pretense of mental calculation. “I could probably fit you in some time next week. I'll have to check.” As she moved past him, she tossed him a dry “You have my number.”

She went into the building without looking back and slipped into the elevator feeling buoyed. She didn't know if she liked Terry Sullivan, didn't know if they had another thing in common besides admiration for the Cardinal. She hadn't felt an instant attraction to the reporter, but things like physical attraction sometimes took time.
She did know that she wasn't interested in Peter Oliver, Tony Cohn wasn't interested in her, and she wasn't getting any younger.

She had never dated a reporter before. If nothing else, it might make for an educational dinner or two.

She never dreamed that the education would come so soon, and at her own expense.

Since Lily worked nights and rarely had an early class, she usually took her time waking up. This morning the phone jolted her out of bed at eight. Her first thought was that something was wrong back home.

“Hello?” she asked, frightened.

“Lily Blake, please,” said a man she didn't know. His voice was all business. Poppy's doctor? Her
mother's
doctor?

“Speaking.”

“This is George Fox. I'm with the
Cape Sentinel
. I wonder if you would comment on your relationship with Cardinal Rossetti.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your relationship with Cardinal Rossetti. Can you tell me about it?”

She didn't understand. The newspapers had already covered almost everything about the Cardinal that there was to cover. She was irrelevant, only one of many of his friends, and the one least equipped to talk with the press.
“You'll have to call the archdiocese. They'll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Are you having an affair with the Cardinal?”

“A what?” When he repeated his question, she cried, “Good God, no.” It was a prank call, but not a blind one, since she did know the Cardinal. Cautious, curious, she said, “This number is unlisted. How did you get it?” Terry Sullivan was the only reporter she knew, and yes, he had her number. She didn't want to think he was passing it around.

“Were you having an affair with Cardinal Rossetti in Albany?” the reporter asked just as her call waiting beeped. She was unsettled enough by his question to switch right to the second call.

“Yes?”

“Lily Blake?”

“Who is this?”

“Paul Rizzo,
Cityside.” Cityside
was a renegade daily that had come from nowhere to rival Boston's mainstream press. “I'm looking for a comment on the
Post
story.”

Her heart was pumping faster.
“What
story?”

“The one saying that you and the Cardinal are sexually involved.”

She hung up. On
both
calls. After waiting a minute for the dial tone to return, she lifted the receiver and dropped it in the bedding. She didn't believe there was any story in the
Post
—how could there be one, with no substance?—but after two calls, she had to see for herself. Slipping on a coat over her nightshirt, she took the elevator to the first floor and had barely started for the outer lobby where the
daily papers were left when she saw someone waiting. He had a tape recorder hanging from his shoulder and a microphone in his hand. At the sight of her, he came to life.

She slipped back into the elevator seconds before the door closed, and quickly pressed her floor. For good measure, to hide her destination, she pressed every floor above her own on the panel. As soon as she was in her apartment again, she linked her laptop to the phone line and accessed the
Post
on-line.

She didn't have to go past the home page. It was right there in big, bold letters—the lead story.

Beside it was a picture, apparently taken the night before, of the two of them, arm to arm, hip to hip on the piano bench, smiling at each other, in vivid, crystal-clear color.

Horrified, Lily began to read.

Less than a week ago, Archbishop Francis P. Rossetti was elevated to Cardinal amid an outpouring of praise for his humanitarian achievements and religious devotion. With the celebration barely over, the Post has learned that Cardinal Rossetti has led a double life. In an exclusive story, the Headline Team reveals a long-term relationship between the Cardinal and Lily Blake, 34, a cabaret singer at the posh Essex Club on Commonwealth Avenue.

Bewildered, she clicked on to the rest of the story.

Blake and the Cardinal met eight years ago at a party in New York City. They were introduced by then Mayor William Dean, who had first spotted Blake on the Broadway stage. As soon as the mayor and his wife separated, Blake became a regular guest at Gracie Mansion. It was there that she met the Cardinal.

Lily was incredulous. She read now with a kind of morbid fascination.

Two years later, when the mayor was elected governor of New York and moved to Albany, Blake went with him. Between twice-weekly visits to the Governor's Mansion, she sang at a nightclub not far from the State House. In addition, the governor set her up entertaining at private parties.

“No, he didn't,” she cried. “Those bookings came from my work at the club!”

Francis Rossetti, then Bishop of Albany, often attended those parties. He began inviting Blake to play at similar events at the Bishop's residence. Within months, she became a frequent visitor. One employee of the diocese, who asked to remain anonymous, said it was obvious that Rossetti and Blake cared for each other. She was often seen leaving the residence in the early morning hours.

“With other people!” she told the screen in outrage. “The
two
times we might have been alone were when we
were playing the piano after a party and lost track of the time!”

Three years ago, when the Bishop was named to lead the Archdiocese of Boston, he secured a job for Blake at the Essex Club, which is owned and managed by his nephew Daniel Curry.

Scrolling farther, she cried out in disbelief when three more pictures appeared. One was of the Cardinal hugging her in the Essex Club lobby. The other, taken with a night lens, showed her as a lone figure running up the steps of the Cardinal's residence. The third, taken through a window at the residence, showed the Cardinal with an arm around her shoulder.

She was sick to her stomach, but she couldn't stop reading.

Blake teaches part-time at the Winchester School on Beacon Hill. She entertains at private parties and political fund-raisers, and is a regular pianist at archdiocese events. She is often seen arriving at those events in the Cardinal's company. Phone records show a pattern of late-night phone calls between the Cardinal's residence and Blake's apartment.

A native of Lake Henry, New Hampshire, Blake studied at NYU and the Juilliard School. Though she repeatedly auditioned for leading roles on Broadway and occasionally served as an understudy, she never made it out of the chorus line. She
was twenty-eight when she left Broadway and moved to Albany.

Blake's relationship with the Cardinal has been a well-kept secret. Vatican sources have told the Headline Team that the Pope did not know of this relationship before elevating Rossetti to the position of Cardinal. When contacted by the Post, a spokesman for Cardinal Rossetti denied the allegations.

Blake was more forthcoming. “The Cardinal and I are having an affair,” she confirmed.

Lily gasped.

“I love him. We have a history.” She described the Cardinal as a warm, vibrant man, and admitted that she followed him to Boston.

The article closed by saying,

Governor Dean of New York has denied having a sexual relationship with Blake.

Incredulous, she returned to the start of the piece, but there was the headline—
CARDINAL LINKED TO CABARET SINGER
—larger and bolder than ever. This time, though, she read the byline. The article had been written by Terrence Sullivan.

She felt totally and utterly betrayed. And
furious
. Disconnecting the laptop, she grabbed the phone book from a closet shelf, found the number of the
Post,
and called it.
After several menu choices, she reached the newsroom. Terry Sullivan wasn't there. He would be in later, they said, though they didn't know when.

Frustrated, she pressed the disconnect button. With her hand hovering over the keypad, she shut her eyes and tried to remember the Cardinal's number, but even if she called it often—which she didn't—her mind was in too much of a muddle. Scrabbling through the phone book again, she located the Boston Archdiocese and ran a finger down the list of numbers until she found a familiar one. It went to the Cardinal's secretary. Father McDonough was the one Lily dealt with when she played at church events.

His line was busy. She tried it again but couldn't get through this time either. Feeling stymied, she went to the window. There was a van parked right in front of her building, with sun glinting off the satellite dish on top and the markings of a local television station on its side.

It was insane.
Insane
. Surely a mistake. And easily corrected, once she reached the right people. In the meantime, she had lessons to give and classes to teach.

After showering, she put on a soft, soothing Schumann while she dressed, but she was too dismayed to feel any comfort. She tried the Cardinal again; the line was still busy. She tried Terry again; he hadn't yet arrived. She pushed cereal around in a bowl until she was too late to delay longer, but she knew not to leave the elevator when it reached the ground floor. The brass panels that housed the doors reflected the outer lobby. Even allowing for distortion, there looked to be a whole
handful
of reporters out there now.