New England White (11 page)

Julia’s face burned. She could not believe she was suffering this humiliation in front of Astrid, whose half-smile suggested that the contretemps was proving her point. A moment ago, in full view of the two women, a teen with two dogs had strolled unmolested past the guard post. A white teen. “Listen to me, young man—”

“Residents and guests only. The beach is closed.”

Her cousin-in-law had a hand on her shoulder. “This is why we have to get that man out of the White House. So shit like this will stop.”

“Wait.” Julia looked past the guardhouse, across the empty parking lot, down to the cold, smooth slope of sand, and the frothy, inviting water beyond. In her imagination she felt the chill. She was a Veazie, and would not accept defeat; looking the boy in the eye, she realized that she need not. “I know you,” she said quietly.

“Town ordinance. Residents and their—”

“You’re Petey Wysocki, aren’t you?”

This shut him up. The pimply jaw gaped. “Uh—”

“I’m Julia Carlyle. Remember me? I taught you eighth-grade general science.”

“Oh. Uh. Uh.” Like a man lifting a heavy weight. “Right. Right! How are you, Mrs. Carlyle?”

“I’m fine, Petey. I’m fine.” Smiling in memory, because she had liked Petey, for all his struggles in the classroom.

“How’s your family?” she asked now, still smiling. “Didn’t I hear your sister got married?”

He blushed, pleased that she remembered. “Yeah, and she’s working on her second kid. Can you believe it?”

“That’s great. Give her”—a search of those endless mental lists as Astrid looked on, impressed—“give Doreen my best. And your brother, ah, Mikey. Tell Mikey I said hello.”

“I will.”

“And your parents, too.”

“I will, Mrs. Carlyle. I will. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Petey,” she said, and moved toward the perfect sand. Despite the season, she might even take off her shoes and socks, roll up her pants, and go up to her ankles in the frigid water.

“Wait, Mrs. Carlyle.”

Julia turned. “Yes, Petey?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Carlyle. I still can’t let you on the beach.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Even if I know you? It’s still residents and their guests only.” He tapped the sign. “Town ordinance.”

CHAPTER 11

PRIVATE DINNER

(I)

“I
WONDER WHAT
he’s going to ask you to do,” said Julia, smiling at her husband in the mirror as she stood behind him adjusting his collar, although, in truth, it was already lying perfectly. But fixing his appearance was the sort of thing he had been raised to expect his wife to do. As scholar and university president, Lemaster Carlyle was all for the equality of women. In his home, by his own proud admission, he remained a traditionalist; and, whatever else the word implied, it meant that Julia checked his tie and smoothed his collar every morning.

“We don’t know that he’s going to ask me to do anything. I just started a new job. So it’s probably nothing more than a social thing. It’s been a long time since we all sat down together.” But the fierce ambition in his shining brown eyes conveyed a different message.

“Almost a year.”

“Something like that.” He smoothed the vent of his suit, turned this way and that, preening in the mirror. He slung a dark formal coat over his arm. Six months as president of the university, and Lemaster was prepared to move to the next thing. Twenty years of marriage, and he was always prepared to move to the next thing. “I think we’re ready,” he said, and it took her a moment to realize he was speaking only of tonight.

Julia, who never liked the way she looked in evening attire, thought nothing of the sort, but held her tongue. Everything in Lemaster’s closet seemed to fit him perfectly. If she did not cut out the vanilla cherries and cappuccino truffles, nothing in hers would ever fit her again. She made herself a fresh promise to stay away from Cookie’s: it was just the first Tuesday in December, and there remained time to keep the stern resolution she had made back in January. She sat on the bed to put on her pumps and glanced out the window. They were at the Hay-Adams, a hotel she liked for the way its paneled rooms seemed to breathe history on you, although on this trip their choice had really been dictated by proximity to the White House. Even though the Social Office had offered a coveted on-site parking space, in these days of heightened security they would have had to wait forever for the vehicle search; the only reliable way to get there was to walk.

“Just give me a minute to call home.”

“Why?”

Julia was, for a second, stuck on the words. Wasn’t it obvious? “To see if the kids are all right. If they need anything.”

Lemaster pointed to her shiny Isabella Fiore handbag. She owned several nice purses, from several nice makers, because she had been taught that a special evening bag is the mark of a true lady, and, despite her best efforts, could not stop trying to be one. “You have your cell.” He patted his pocket. “I have mine. Wendy is no shrinking violet. She’ll call if there’s an emergency.”

“I’d just feel more comfortable—”

Both palms came up, although he was declaring victory, not surrender. “No, Jules, please, don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. If you need to call, go ahead. We have the time.” A grin. “Whatever you need, I’m on your side.”

Need.
She wanted to slap him, and so kissed his cheek.

In the elevator they talked about their afternoons. Julia had lunched with Tessa Kenner, soaking up Washington gossip, astonished at how much blonder she had become. Lemaster had met alums and lobbyists, but most of his work had been by telephone. As they crossed Lafayette Park in the brisk Washington night, Julia tottering on her heels, grasping his arm more for balance than for show, he said, “By the way, I forgot to mention, that detective dropped by Lombard to see me yesterday. Chrebet.”

“What did he want?” Not the lampposts. Please. And not the mirrors. But another part of her knew that Lemaster had never forgotten anything in his life.

“He was wondering—this is going to sound strange—who would have known we were taking Four Mile Road home that night.”

“Why?”

Lemaster shrugged. “Chrebet seems to have some idea that Kellen’s killer might have left his body there intentionally.” Their feet crunched over the salted walkways. “For us to find.”

“What?”

“I pointed out that whoever it was would have to be awfully sure we’d stop. How could anybody know we’d have an accident?” A wintry laugh. “Chrebet said he had to pursue every possibility, no matter how unlikely. Then he misquoted Conan Doyle.”

She clutched his arm more tightly. “But why—I mean, who—”

“I have no idea who. I have no idea why.”

Julia caught the tiny slightest emphasis on the pronoun and felt her fury rise. She stopped watching her feet for a moment. They had almost reached the northwest gate and its guardhouse. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That I have no idea who or why.”

“No. You’re suggesting that I might know why.”

“Of course I’m not. I told him neither of us had the slightest idea. Oh, good, we’re not late after all.” He pointed to a taxi a block away, at the corner of Seventeenth Street, depositing the House Majority Leader and his wife. In the park, protesters were beating drums, but Julia could not remember why.

“Lemmie, wait. Wait.” Pulling his arm to slow him down, because otherwise he would be busily glad-handing, and she would never get him back.

“What’s wrong, Jules?”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

“It is not my habit to tell you anything else. I’m your husband.”

Oh, well, that explained everything.

“Please, Lemmie. Tell me you don’t think I would have any idea who did this.”

The eyebrows did that inverted-V thing that she hated. The night chill nipped a brightness into his dark cheeks. In the cold his sharp face always seemed so handsome, and so impregnable. “No, Jules. I don’t think you have any idea. All right?”

“I don’t know.” She felt sullen, uncertain, ready to scream. Lemmie did this to her, whether by intention or not: took her perfectly reasonable indignation and turned it into a perfectly unreasonable shame. “I guess so.” A shake of the head. “I don’t know. It’s all such a mess. I hate this.”

“It’s going to be fine, Jules.”

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about!”

“Interesting.”

“What is?”

“How you seem to get awfully riled every time Kellen’s name is mentioned.”

“And that’s an awfully shitty thing to say.”

Those eyes, so beautiful and expressive and wise. Reproach. Judgment. Hurt. Lemaster disapproved of vulgarity, and the kindness in his voice made sure she knew it. “Calm down, Jules. Look. I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. I love you. I would not hurt you for the world, or let anybody else hurt you. You know that. So tell me, Jules. Please. Tell me what you’re so upset about.”

About the fact that I seem to get awfully riled every time Kellen’s name is mentioned. About the fact that he broke the lamps on our driveway. About the fact that he left me two mirrors. About the fact that I missed my chance to say goodbye. About the fact that our daughter sometimes freezes up when she tries to eat her cereal in the morning. About the fact that love to you is duty, not choice. About the fact that I got pregnant and married the man who calmed me down instead of trying for one last chance with the man who—

“Nothing.” She smiled her crooked smile and, once more, straightened his tie. He was a good man, she reminded herself. Solid and steady. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Let’s go see the President, and find out what job he’s handing you next.”

Except that, once they were inside the White House, she knew that the get-together had nothing to do with Lemaster’s career, or, indeed, with Lemaster. Dinner was in the Yellow Oval Room, upstairs in the residence, with its view south between the columns of the Truman Balcony toward the Washington Monument and beyond. The President and the First Lady, Lemaster and Julia, and three other couples: a prominent novelist who had vociferously opposed the President’s election, the new head of the second-largest think tank in town, and the Congressman they had spotted outside. The Majority Leader and the think-tank fellow both had spouses in tow; the novelist had brought a girlfriend. Not the floating of a job, then. The sort of mix-and-match party this President was said to enjoy. But, for a moment, all Julia could see was the novelist’s girlfriend, who, according to his laughing introduction, wrote circles around him.

“Julia and I have already met.”

“Have you?”

“Oh, yes. And it’s so nice to see you again,” said Mary Mallard.

(II)

T
HE TWO WOMEN STOOD
on the balcony, shadowed by one of the massive columns, lights deliberately kept dim for reasons of security. Inside, the party was into the
oh-do-you-remember-the-time
stage. The South Lawn was floodlit and, from this vantage, looked like a football field before the big match.

Mary Mallard said, “I was hoping you would have called me by now.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To tell me you’d found Kellen’s surplus.” The writer stubbed out her cigarette, her excuse for wandering out here, with only Julia—who no longer smoked but, unlike most of her judgmental generation, could stand those who did—as company. Although Mary’s ducklike countenance was softer than Julia remembered from the funeral, the obsidian eyes had lost little of their fanatical glow. At her neck was another Hermès scarf, this one of a playful plum. “The truth is, Julia, I really think we should work together. I think we share a common goal.”

“What goal is that, Mary?”

“Truth. We’re each of us, in our own way, committed to truth.”

“I see,” said Julia, leaning on the rail.

“You don’t think so. But you’re the one who got fired because she decided to let a thirteen-year-old explain to her science class why she thought the Genesis story was true and God created the world in six days.” Julia was stunned. It had not occurred to her that Mary would look her up.

“I did
not
get fired.”

“There were parental complaints, there was going to be a hearing, the union ran for cover, and you resigned.” The writer was precise. “You were offered several speaking dates, which you turned down. By the way, how’s your daughter doing? Vincent Brady has such a brilliant reputation. Would you say it’s justified? Or too early to tell?”

Julia was ready to get in her face. “You’ve made your point, Mary. Now, do you want to tell me what I’m doing here, or do you have some more showing off to do first?”

The white woman’s tone remained placid. She lit another cigarette and drew deeply, eyes closed, and Julia remembered the delicious tickling warmth of smoking outdoors on a cold night; and not only tobacco. Early snowflakes, tiny and delicate as newborns, brushed over their faces. “You’re here because the President and the First Lady invited you to dinner,” said Mary. “Please don’t make it into something it isn’t.”

“I’m here because you wanted to talk to me.”

“I’m just a hack writer, Julia. The White House Social Office doesn’t exactly dance to my tune. If I wanted to talk to you, I’d drop by Room 118 of the main building of Kepler Quadrangle, or the Exxon station on Route 48, in Langford, where you buy gas twice a week on the way home, or Greta’s Tavern on Main Street, where you like to stop for coffee after work, or the bagel shop at the corner of King and Hudson, where you used to have the occasional breakfast with Kellen Zant.”

Despite her anger, Julia was dizzied by this casual disclosure of how much information the woman had compiled about her everyday life. Still, she kept on swinging, because Veazie women never quit. “Unless you wanted to meet me where there was zero possibility of being overheard.”

“Although they deny it, I’ve always suspected that the Secret Service has the whole White House wired for sound.”

“Probably not the balcony, though.”

Mary smiled. Her lips, painted bright red, would otherwise have been nearly invisible, despite her protuberant mouth. “Yes. Probably not the balcony.” She stubbed out the second cigarette. Down below, uniformed guards on patrol looked up at them suspiciously. The writer waved, so Julia did, too, on the off chance that waving helped them decide whom not to shoot. “And, yes, you’re right, when I heard you were going to be here I sort of had to persuade Mr. Pulitzer Prize in there to bring me as his date instead of somebody else.” A glance at the door. “He needed a lot of persuading.”

“Am I supposed to be flattered?”

“No. You’re supposed to stop attacking me and listen for a minute. I’m joking. Okay, I’m not joking. But, seriously, please, Julia. Just give me a minute. Kellen came to me, not the other way around. That’s what I want you to understand. He was on the track of something important. An old story everybody got wrong. That’s what he said. And that the implications would be—earth-shattering.”

“He was always the shameless self-promoter.”

“Maybe so.” She pulled out a third cigarette, pondered whether to light it, yielded to temptation. “But he was frightened, Julia, and I’d never seen him frightened before. He offered me a teaser. That’s what he called it, a teaser. He said when he had the story nailed down he’d give me the rest. Not before.” She paused. “He said he’d had some help in putting together his inventory. He said the Black Lady had helped him. That’s what he called her, Julia. The Black Lady. You could hear the capital letters. Naturally, I figured it was you. Black Lady, Sister Lady—you see the connection. I mean, you are all black, aren’t you? Ladybugs?”

“That’s actually a contentious issue. The charter doesn’t specify skin color, even though it’s understood, and a few of the chapters have tried to admit Caucasians to make up the budget, because it’s not cheap to be a member and they can’t find—” Julia made herself stop. “And that’s why you bothered me at the funeral? Because you think I’m Kellen’s Black Lady?”

“That was part of it. But Kellen also said that if anything happened to him he’d arranged to transfer the surplus to the girlfriend who got away. That’s you, I believe.”

“It could be any of a dozen women. He had so many.”

“I don’t believe that, Julia. You don’t believe it either.” She flicked the cigarette over the balcony, the red ash arcing into the chilly night, an act Julia found vulgar as well as rude but also endearingly defiant, reminding her, oddly, of Vanessa. “Come on, Julia. He wanted you to follow up his work. All right, nobody can force you. If you choose not to try, that’s your business. I understand that.”