Shadows on the Ivy (2 page)

“Do you know her well?”

“Not as well as I know Oliver. But she’s been very hospitable since I moved to New Jersey. I didn’t know his first wife at all.”

“First wife? When he moved here and started donating to Somerset College, Dorothy was his wife.”

“Oliver and Dorothy were newlyweds when I first went to work for Oliver’s firm. They’ve only been married six or seven years.”

“I remember hearing that he has adult children.”

“A boy and a girl, from his first marriage. They’re in their late twenties and live on the West Coast. They grew up over in Bernardsville, where Oliver used to live. He sold their old house and bought this one for Dorothy. ‘A new house for a new marriage’ is how he put it.”

Maggie and Paul both looked at Dorothy, whose gold turtleneck and form-fitting black silk slacks matched the drama of her short blonde-tinted red (or was it red-tinted blonde?) hair. She was still holding Sarah Anderson in conversation.

“How much younger is Dorothy than Oliver?” Maggie was curious, and Paul didn’t seem to mind sharing what he knew about them.

“He retired at sixty; I think she’s in her midforties.”

“Really? I thought she might be older,” said Maggie. “She doesn’t look it, but she has a sort of attitude that says…”

“She’s pretentious as hell, you mean,” Paul said, grinning.

“Absolutely. If she knew that attitude would make people assume she was older, she’d drop it as fast as she’d drop a manicurist who smudged her nails. But I suspect no one’s ever had the guts to tell her.”

“And I’m certainly not going to be the one,” said Maggie. “But I do think I’m going to rescue poor Sarah. Dorothy’s been talking at her for long enough.”

“If you’re going to play Good Samaritan, I’ll return to the herd. I know a couple of students over by the window. I’ll go and act professorial.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Maggie glanced toward Geoff Boyle and Linc James, two other professors, and headed for Sarah and Dorothy. She concentrated on not limping. The blister must be getting worse. And she really shouldn’t stay much longer; she had to organize prints before her morning lecture, and she should pack her van. Not to mention the joy of replacing these blasted shoes with a pair of cozy fleece slippers.

“Have you ever taken Aura to a children’s theater performance?” Dorothy’s hair was blocking Maggie’s view of Sarah’s reaction. “Perhaps we could arrange for tickets for all of you some weekend.”

“That’s a lovely idea, Dorothy,” Maggie interrupted. “As long as it isn’t near exam time! Maybe after the holidays. Sarah, have you tried the roast beef? It’s delicious. Dorothy, your caterer has done wonders with the horseradish sauce.”

Sarah slipped away with an appreciative nod at Maggie.

“We do have a wonderful caterer, don’t we?” agreed Dorothy. “And nothing too fancy. We wanted the young people to feel right at home. I’m so glad everyone from Whitcomb House could come, and some of the students Oliver has met at the gym, too.” She gestured at a group near the French doors that opened onto the patio in warmer weather. “And, of course, some of the faculty. Students mixing with faculty
is
part of the college experience, don’t you think?”

“I enjoy getting to know my students,” Maggie said. “It helps me plan classes so the material I cover best meets their needs.”

“That too, of course.” Dorothy held a glass of sparkling water, and her pale pink nails—not a smudge in sight—were reflected in the crystal. “Young minds meeting”—she glanced at Maggie—“more mature ones. Culture being passed from one generation to another. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

Most students at the community college were living at home and working part-time. Many supported families. A cocktail party at Somerset County Community College was not a humanities seminar at Yale. Maggie glanced around the room. Few students were conversing with professors; most were taking full advantage of the free food and open bar, and talking with each other.

“I think perhaps a beautician…,” Dorothy was saying.

Maggie focused in on the red hair and the pink nails again. “Oh?” she said noncommittally. What had Dorothy said?

“A beautician, and then perhaps an interior decorator, would make marvelous guests for those Monday-night seminars you organize for the house, don’t you think?”

Maggie spent every Monday evening at Whitcomb House, bringing with her an expert in an area she hoped the students would find helpful—childhood nutrition; legal issues related to single parents; financial planning; time management. The sessions were usually full and lively, since they always included at least some of the six children whose existence qualified their parents for residence at the house.

But a beautician and an interior decorator? Just what six struggling young parents who were exhausted from child care and studying would need. “Maybe later in the year,” Maggie compromised. “The women might enjoy having makeovers. Especially if we found someone who could donate makeup for them.”

Tiffany Douglass was the only one with any expertise in that area, Maggie realized. Tiff always looked ready for a photo session. Maria, Heather, Kayla, and Sarah had more…natural…styles. Unless you counted Maria’s seven earrings and nose ring or the vine tattoo on Heather’s right leg that climbed past all parts of her visible to the general public.

“Oh, I’m sure it could be arranged that the girls get some free makeup,” Dorothy said.

Thank goodness she’d found something of value in Dorothy’s suggestion, Maggie thought. She’d discouraged Dorothy’s last two brainstorms—a catered Halloween party and sterling silver flatware—and Dorothy had been hurt.

“And don’t you think Santa should visit for Christmas?”

Maggie sighed inwardly. The Whitcomb House students felt indebted enough to Dorothy for room and board and tuition; they didn’t need reminding that they had little money for Christmas gifts. Especially when Dorothy visited at least once a week, leaving presents each time she came. It was nice for the kids, but hurtful for the parents who couldn’t provide toys themselves. “I’ll talk to everyone and see what their Christmas plans are. Some may want to stay at the house; others have family they’ll visit.”

“Poor Sarah. She has no one. Oliver and I were thinking of inviting her and Aura to spend the holidays with us.” Dorothy and Maggie watched as Sarah poured herself a glass from a pitcher labeled “Bloody Mary mix.” She didn’t add vodka.

“I’ll talk to her,” said Maggie. “But don’t make any plans until I do.”

“Of course not.” Dorothy squeezed Maggie’s arm. “I’m sure you’ll find a good way to introduce the idea to her. So she won’t feel we’re being patronizing.”

A trace of insight? Maggie wondered as Dorothy headed for the bar to refill her sparkling water.

So far as Maggie knew, Dorothy didn’t have any children, and clearly the young Whitcomb House students and their families were filling that role for her. They are for me, too, Maggie admitted to herself. She enjoyed the kids at Whitcomb House, from the youngest, Kendall’s Josette and Maria’s eighteen-month-old Tony, to the oldest, Mikey Farelli, who at six would be too old next year for his mother to qualify for residence at the house.

Sarah’s daughter, Aura, and Kayla’s daughter, Katie, were favorites. Both four years old, they quickly became a team: masters of intrigue and disguise; experts at making costumes out of anything they found, from couch pillows to napkins. Last Monday Aura and Katie were princesses, dressed in their mothers’ half-slips and balancing Beanie Babies they’d liberated from Mikey Farelli’s collection on their heads as if they were crowns. Aura’s pale red-gold curls and Katie’s black ones bounced as the girls giggled and pranced in front of Whitcomb House’s most recent guest, a Montessori teacher there to give the young parents advice about early childhood education.

Wonderful kids. And their parents were learning parenting skills from each other as well as from the college. Only Tiffany’s Tyler, who was two, seemed less cared for than the rest. There was always someone to clean him up and head him in the right direction, but that person wasn’t always Tiffany. Tiffany had missed more of the Monday seminars than anyone else, too. Where did she spend her evenings? Based on her American Studies grades, not at the library. Maggie sighed. Tiffany had skipped Maggie’s “Myths in American Culture” class again last Friday. Maybe Tiff was doing better in her other classes; she should find out and then have a serious talk with her. Soon. Scholarship students had to keep up their grades.

As Maggie watched, Sarah joined Tiffany at one of the bookcases. Sarah looked unsteady. Maybe her earlier drinks had been stronger than Bloody Mary mix. Tiffany guided Sarah to a chair.

It wouldn’t be good for the Whitcombs to see one of “their” girls drunk. Maggie crossed the room quickly.

“Sarah, are you all right?” Maggie bent down next to her.

“No. It’s not June. Don’t let Simon know.” Sarah looked at her strangely. “But I smell roses.” Her body listed toward the side of the chair. “I think I’m going to puke.”

“Tiffany, take her arm.” Together they helped Sarah stand.

“My head hurts, too. Bad.”

Maggie quickly smelled Sarah’s breath. No alcohol. But she did smell as though she’d been smoking. Funny; she’d never seen Sarah smoke. “Let’s get her out of here.” Maggie headed Sarah and Tiffany toward the door.

“Shouldn’t we say good-bye to the Whitcombs?” Tiffany said. “I’ll go tell them.” She dropped Sarah’s arm and headed for Oliver.

Maggie just managed to keep Sarah upright. She was becoming weaker, and a puddle of drool was dripping onto the front of her soft gray turtleneck. Please, don’t let her throw up on the Aubusson carpet, Maggie thought, just before Sarah’s legs gave way and she collapsed onto the floor. Within seconds her limp body was surrounded by curious and well-meaning guests. “Give her some space!” Maggie commanded firmly. She knelt and took Sarah’s wrist. The pulse was too rapid to count. Dangerously rapid.

“What’s the matter with Sarah? Is she drunk? What can we do?” Dorothy looked aghast. “She seemed fine—”

“Call 911,” interrupted Maggie. “Now.”

The Whitcombs’ cocktail party broke up as soon as the ambulance carrying Sarah Anderson to Somerset Hospital departed, its siren wailing through the quiet suburban streets of a Sunday night in early November.

“Professor Summer, should some of us go to the hospital to check on Sarah?” Kayla Martin was the most dependable of the Whitcomb House residents. At twenty-two, she was also the only one who had been married, proudly signing her name
Mrs.
Kayla Martin. Her former husband even sent occasional child support payments. Kayla brushed her short black curls back from her face. “We have the children to think of, too. What should we tell Aura?”

“Don’t worry, Kayla,” Maggie said. “You all go back to the house. Just tell Aura her mother was sick and had to see a doctor. I’ll go to the hospital. As soon as I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

Kayla nodded. “I’ll let Aura sleep with Katie tonight. They’ll like that. And Sarah will be home tomorrow, won’t she?”

“I hope so, Kayla.” Maggie turned and almost ran into Dorothy Whitcomb, who had been accepting thank-yous and good-byes from other guests.

“Are you going to the hospital, Maggie?”

“Yes. Someone should.” Aura was Sarah’s only family. She’d been a child of the foster care system in New Jersey for many years but didn’t keep in touch with any of her seven foster families.

“I’ll go with you,” said Dorothy.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Nonsense. I’ll take my own car and meet you there.”

There was no use arguing and no time to waste. What had happened to Sarah? She’d seemed fine only moments before. Food poisoning? But would it have come on so suddenly? Alcohol? But, at least when she’d seen Sarah, she’d only been drinking spiced tomato juice. Maggie looked over at the bar. It was already closed. Two women from the catering staff were covering and removing the food. They had already disposed of the pitchers containing tomato and orange juices, sealed the liquor and soft drink bottles, and were gathering dirty glasses.

Sarah couldn’t have gotten sick from the food. They’d all been sampling the buffet dishes, and everyone else seemed fine.

If all parties could be cleaned up so quickly, Maggie thought, she might be tempted to entertain more often herself.

The hospital was a ten-minute drive away. Maggie passed fields where show horses grazed during the day. Then the fields and barns gradually changed to small lots filled with split-level homes and modern colonials where grinning jack-o’-lanterns still glowed on porches beneath trees festooned with toilet paper. Two nights ago these suburban streets would have been filled with children dressed as ghosts and witches and Superman and Harry Potter. How did parents come up with those costumes? Maggie had never even mastered the hemstitch in eighth-grade home economics.

She concentrated on her driving and tried not to think about the work waiting for her at home. Holding down two jobs was often exhausting, much as she enjoyed them both. Teaching American Studies took up her time during weekdays and even some weekends, such as when she had to go to a “must be there” reception. Like today. And when she wasn’t at school or preparing for classes, she had to mat engravings or sort inventory items. She called her business Shadows because prints were a reflection of life the way it used to be, a view into the past. The income from Shadows, Maggie hoped, would help frame her future.

Her life had changed in so many ways during the past year. Now a widow for ten months, she’d decided to continue both her academic and antique-print careers, and, if possible, to increase the antiques side of her life to try to compensate for the loss of Michael’s income. The truth was, she missed his monetary contribution to their marriage more than she missed him. His presence in their marriage had been questionable before the car accident that ended it completely.

She was handling everything well—perhaps too well, her friend Gussie sometimes said. Michael’s death and the estate issues; the knowledge of his betrayal; getting back into teaching and antiques; even finding a new potential romantic interest.

Maggie smiled softly to herself as she thought of Will Brewer’s strength and patience and kindness. The feel of his arms around her.

Will’s own antique business kept him on the road most of the time, and his home base was Buffalo, New York, not Somerset County, New Jersey. They’d met at an antique show last Memorial Day weekend. That had been just five months ago, but they’d been closely in touch, or together, since then. His caring filled an empty space in her life. His daily e-mails kept her checking her computer on days when she needed to lean on an emotional shoulder. “I wouldn’t have time for a man in my life, full-time,” she told herself. There was too much she needed to do first. Will’s long-distance caring worked for now and allowed her to maintain her crowded schedule. Unromantic? Maybe. But true.

Or was she finding excuses not to have a man in her life on a regular basis? Michael had frequently traveled on business; there were often weeks when he’d arrived home on Friday after she’d left town to do a weekend antique show. Was she repeating a pattern? Was it simpler to live her life without a man in it?

Maggie shook her head. Her world was the way she needed it to be. Except for those long nights when e-mail messages couldn’t take the place of a man to share her bed and to remind her she had a body as well as a mind. Except for those days when she wondered whether Will was really the right person for her after all.

At thirty-eight, Maggie knew her options in some areas of life were limited, and she had almost decided she wanted to be a mother. No. She knew she wanted to be a mother. She just didn’t know whether she was brave enough to become a single mother like the women at Whitcomb House. Will had made it clear he wasn’t father material. And she wasn’t so old that she didn’t fantasize about having a husband before she had a child.

Maggie groaned inwardly and shelved her personal issues as she approached the hospital. Tonight she must think about Sarah, not about her own issues.

“Sarah Anderson.” The young blonde woman at the front desk looked bored and annoyed as Maggie asked again. “I’m here to find out about Sarah Anderson. She was just brought in by ambulance.”

Five or six people sat in the pale green waiting room filled with orange plastic furniture. Maggie could hear voices and machines beeping behind the wall in back of the reception area.

“Are you a relative?”

“We’re all Sarah has,” said Dorothy, who had just joined Maggie at the desk. “We need to see her. Or her doctor.”

“Mrs. Whitcomb, you’re always welcome here.” The blonde smiled, showing teeth perfected by orthodontia. “The doctors are with Ms. Anderson now. I’ll let them know you’re here.”

“Thank you. We wouldn’t want to interfere in any way, of course,” added Dorothy.

Maggie and Dorothy sat next to each other on the hard chairs that lined the waiting room under a mural of ivy climbing a wall.

“You know the woman at the desk?” Maggie asked.

“I’m on the hospital board,” explained Dorothy, straightening the pale mink coat she held across her lap. “I try to meet the staff whenever I can.”

“Of course,” said Maggie. So Whitcomb House was not Dorothy’s only pet project.

They sat silently, watching muted CNN on the television hung above the waiting area. A car had been bombed in the Middle East. A software company announced it was going into Chapter 11. The local forecast was for temperatures in the forties, with snow flurries later in the week. Words appeared along the bottom of the screen.

Maggie looked at her watch. Almost eight.

It was another forty minutes before a doctor appeared.

“Mrs. Whitcomb? I’m Dr. Stevens.” A tall, middle-aged man with a receding hairline looked down at them. Dorothy and Maggie both stood.

Dorothy shook his hand. “And this is Maggie Summer. Professor Summer. She’s Sarah Anderson’s campus adviser.”

Dr. Stevens acknowledged Maggie’s presence with a slight nod. “I’m afraid Ms. Anderson is very ill. She’s in a coma.”

“Oh, my heavens! What happened to her? What can be done?” Dorothy’s voice rose to an almost hysterical note. “She’s a single parent, Doctor. She has a little girl. Please don’t spare any expense.”

“I assure you we’re doing everything that we can, Mrs. Whitcomb. She appears to have swallowed something she’s had a strong reaction to. We’ve pumped her stomach, and we’ve given her atropine. We’re admitting her to our intensive care unit and will monitor her condition constantly. Without knowing what she might have ingested, it’s hard to predict the future. Right now she’s a seriously ill young woman. She has no family?”

Maggie shook her head. “Just a four-year-old daughter. Do you have any idea of what she might have eaten that would make her that sick?”

“We can rule out some things, like alcohol, but it’s too early to tell. We’ve sent the contents of her stomach to our lab for analysis. Could either of you tell me where Ms. Anderson has been or what she has eaten? Does she have any food allergies? Does she takes any medications or drugs of any kind?”

“No!” Dorothy’s voice was strong, but her natural high color had disappeared from her face. “She doesn’t take drugs! She doesn’t drink, she doesn’t smoke. She’s a fine young woman.”

The doctor looked at Maggie.

“I don’t know if she has any allergies. But as far as I know, Dorothy is right. I’ve never seen Sarah taking any medications or drugs. And I think she’s been in good health. We were all at a party at Dorothy’s house when Sarah collapsed. Everyone else was fine when we left. But I’ll talk to the students she lives with. They might know more.”

“Anything you could find out would be helpful. You can reach me here at the hospital. Have me paged.”

“Can we see her?” Dorothy asked.

“Not right now. We’re in the middle of transferring her upstairs to the ICU.”

Dorothy looked ready to say something else.

“Mrs. Whitcomb, she wouldn’t know you were there. It’s best to let her be quiet for now, until we have a better sense of her condition. We’re doing the best we can.”

“You’ll call me if her condition changes?”

“I think it would be better if the doctor called me,” said Maggie, digging in the side pocket of her purse for a business card. “If anything happens to Sarah, I’m the one who’ll have to tell her little girl her mother’s not coming home.” She paused, suddenly overwhelmed by what she was about to say. She took a deep breath. “I’ll be Aura’s guardian.”