Shadows on the Ivy (8 page)

Dorothy paused for a moment. “I must be boring you, Maggie. I’m going on and on. But I’ve never told anyone. No one.”

“It’s all right, Dorothy. I’m here. And I do care.” As she said the words, Maggie realized they were true. She did care about the young Dorothy who had felt trapped and limited by circumstances. Her own family situation had been far from perfect, but she’d been able to get a college scholarship so she could leave home and make a new life. She hadn’t had to depend on her mother and father. No wonder Dorothy wanted to help young single parents. Their plights were all too real to her.

“Then I married for the second time. I was in my late twenties by then, and Fred was a nice man. He had a job at the local bank, and he wasn’t aiming at being its president. All he wanted was a wife to love him, and a small home in the suburbs, and children. He wanted children more than anything. He’d been an only child, and he wanted his children to have lots of brothers and sisters.”

“That must have been a great relief…to be with someone who loved children, as you did.”

Dorothy nodded. “Yes. Of course, I didn’t tell him I already had a child. He would never have understood my giving her up. And it wouldn’t have made a difference; she was living with her adoptive family by then. Fred and I planned to have our own children. But life is ironic, Maggie. That’s a word I probably didn’t know when I was eighteen, but I sure know it now. Ironic. Because Fred and I couldn’t have children. And it was all my fault. We both had all the tests, and he was fine. But I had endometrial adhesions that were blocking my fallopian tubes. I couldn’t conceive. The doctor said the condition was too far advanced for surgery to help. That I had been very lucky to have a child when I was so young, before the condition had progressed. Because I’d never have another child.”

“Oh, Dorothy.” Maggie could see the pain in her eyes as she told her story.

“Fred said that a marriage wasn’t a real marriage unless there were children. So he divorced me, and I was alone again. He married a friend of mine. Last time I heard they had four children. By then my parents had died, and I’d gotten a little money after the divorce. I decided that marriage and children were not to be my life. Can you believe, Maggie? I came here, to Somerset College, and got my associate’s degree, and then went on to Rutgers. Just like Larry had.”

“How wonderful, Dorothy! You pulled your life together.”

“After I graduated I got a job down on Wall Street. I was an ‘administrative assistant’—really a glorified secretary—but I was finally earning enough to support myself and to buy some nice clothes and have my hair done.” Dorothy smiled almost shyly at Maggie. “That’s where I met Oliver. He was married when I first met him, but his wife had breast cancer. We all felt so sorry for him. And about a year after his wife died he asked me to have dinner with him and…here I am.”

“Have you ever told Oliver about your baby?”

“No. Never. That was so long ago. And Oliver had two children with his first wife and didn’t want any more. It didn’t bother him that I couldn’t have children. I don’t think it ever occurred to him that once I might have been able to.”

“But you found a way to help single parents who were struggling as you had. That’s a wonderful story, Dorothy.”

“Not quite that wonderful, Maggie. I did have the idea of creating a dorm for single parents and their children. But the more I thought about it and started talking to people about it, the more I thought about my own daughter. So I hired a private detective to find her.”

“And?” Maggie suddenly had the feeling she knew where all this was leading.

Dorothy raised her head and looked straight into Maggie’s eyes. “Sarah Anderson is my daughter, Maggie. Aura is my granddaughter. And now Sarah may die before I really get a chance to know her.” The tears started again. “I finally found my daughter, and now I may have lost her.”

Dorothy was Sarah’s biological mother. As Dorothy had told her complicated story, Maggie had started to wonder…but now she knew for sure. Dorothy and Sarah both had slightly red hair. And Aura, too. Three generations. Now that Dorothy had told her, the connections seemed obvious. “Does Sarah know you’re her mother?”

Dorothy looked up from her tissues. Her expression became almost threatening. “No! And no one must ever tell her.” She paused. “But you need to understand, Maggie, that if Sarah dies, then I
will
take custody of Aura. She’s my granddaughter, and she’s the same age Sarah was when she was taken from me for the last time.”

Maggie moved back in her chair. This was all going too fast. Sarah was very sick, but it was not certain that she would die. And, should she die, she had left custody of Aura to Maggie. Not to Dorothy. Aura should be with the person her mother had named in her will.

Besides, Dorothy was obviously used to getting her own way and might not be able to give Aura the freedom she would need to grow up. Grow up to be herself—not a replacement for another little girl who was no longer there.

“Dorothy, Sarah made me Aura’s guardian. And although I never dreamed that this situation would come up, I did promise Sarah that I’d love Aura and care for her as though she were born to me.”

“You can’t, Maggie. That’s why I told you my story. She’s
my
flesh and blood.”

“But unless you can prove that—which means everyone will know Sarah was your daughter—then you have no legal right to question Sarah’s will.”

“But you’ll do the right thing, Maggie. You’ll relinquish custody of Aura to Oliver and me. You’re not married; you work two jobs; you have no time for a child. I’ll make sure any needs you have are met. Oliver and I can give Aura everything she would ever want. For Aura’s sake, you
will
give her to me.”

Maggie stood up. “Sarah’s not going to die. I can’t have this conversation. We mustn’t even think of anything but how to get Sarah well again.”

Neither of them noticed Dr. Stevens approaching until he spoke. “I’m glad both of you are here. I just saw Sarah again, and there’s been no change. But it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. We have to wait this out. At least there’s been no change for the worse.”

“There is no way of predicting?” said Dorothy. The only sign of her earlier emotional story was her slightly swollen face and a trace of black mascara smudged beneath her left eye.

“We may know more when we identify what poison she swallowed. I’m hoping those test results arrive very soon. Now we can just monitor her closely and hope for the best.” Dr. Stevens was clearly sticking to a middle ground. He was neither holding out hope nor accepting defeat. “I’ll let you know as soon as I learn something.”

“I should be home by midafternoon.” Maggie glanced at her watch. “Right now I need to get back to campus. I have a class at one o’clock.”

“Remember what I said.” Dorothy reached out her hand as though to stop Maggie, but Maggie kept walking.

“I’ll remember.”

There was no chance of her forgetting, Maggie thought as she drove back to campus. She swerved around the remains of several smashed pumpkins. What was Dorothy really asking—or telling? Did she expect Maggie to hand Aura over to her on the basis of a story that, much as it sounded credible, was at this point just a story? Would that even be legal? And was Dorothy offering to bribe her?

Maggie still hadn’t sorted the situation out when she reached her office and picked up her classroom notes. Social, political, and economic reasons for the American Civil War. She had given that lecture often enough that she didn’t need to prepare for it. Which really isn’t fair to the students, she thought guiltily as she gathered up her notes and shooed Uncle Sam out from under her desk. Claudia must have left her office door open again.

She had ten minutes before class.

She sat down at her computer and started typing a note to Will. She hadn’t answered this morning’s e-mail, and she needed to communicate with someone who was not involved in this whole mess. But she couldn’t say anything about Aura, or about Dorothy’s confession. Not only had she promised Dorothy she wouldn’t tell anyone, but Will had made it clear that he didn’t want to have children. How would he react if Maggie suddenly had custody of Aura? Would fulfilling her dream of becoming a mother move her away from the one man she cared about?

Maggie looked down at her right hand. She’d once mentioned to Will that she’d always loved nineteenth-century “posy” or “poesie” rings, but had never had one. Will had given her one—in friendship, they both stressed—when they last saw each other, at an antiques show in Philadelphia. He’d bought it from an estate jewelry dealer at a show in Rochester. She’d hesitated about the symbolism of a ring, but it was so lovely, and clearly chosen for her, that she couldn’t say no.

Posy rings were simple Victorian gold bands inlaid with a series of small stones that spelled out words or names. The most common were called regard rings because, like the ring Will had given her, their inlaid stones were a tiny
r
uby,
e
merald,
g
arnet,
a
methyst,
r
uby, and
d
iamond. Her friend Gussie had a “dearest” that her former husband had given her, and Maggie was secretly thankful that the one Will had found was a “regard.” It was the perfect word for where they were in their relationship.

And it was a beautiful ring. She smiled and held her hand out under the desk lamp to admire it.

Even so, she deleted her note to Will. She couldn’t tell him all that was happening, and she didn’t want to tell him only part.

It was easier to say nothing. She turned off her computer, picked up her notes, and headed for her “American History to 1865” class. What good was a relationship where you couldn’t share everything that was important to you?

As she walked, Maggie realized she was also thinking of the relationship she’d had with her former husband. She hadn’t shared her desire to have children; he hadn’t shared his doubts about the marriage. Maybe he’d shared that with his other women.

And now, knowing Will had no desire to be a father, she was again keeping her thoughts to herself. Could there ever be a relationship in which you could be truly honest and open? She’d never had one. But that didn’t mean she’d given up hope.

The causes of the American Civil War were simple compared to the causes why relationships succeeded. Or failed.

“Professor Summer, you have another pile of messages.” Claudia popped one of her omnipresent chocolate Kisses into her mouth and handed Maggie several pieces of pink message paper. No piles awaited other teachers.

“Am I the only one lucky enough to be in the line of fire today?”

“No, Professor Summer. Mr. Turk”—Maggie smiled at the use of the
Mr.
Paul had just reregistered at New York University to complete the doctoral program he had dropped out of ten years ago to go into the business world, and Claudia saved the term
professor
for those who had already earned their doctorates—“Mr. Turk’s been in and out all day. He has all his messages. He was looking for you, too. I think you have a message from him.”

Maggie looked down. Sure enough.
Dinner, tonight? Paul.

“I’ve heard he takes people to really nice restaurants,” whispered Claudia. “Usually in New York. Most of his women call to say thank-you the next day.”

“I see,” said Maggie. Most of his women. So Paul’s charms were spread thin.

“He went out for coffee, but he’ll be back soon. Professor James is in class, and Professor Boyle is in his office.”

“Thank you, Claudia.”

“Professor Summer? Is there any news about Sarah Anderson’s condition? I heard she was a total vegetable, just hooked up to wires and tubes and everything.”

Where was this information coming from? “Sarah’s in a coma. Some people are in comas for a few hours or days, come out of it, and are fine. I talked with her doctor a couple of hours ago and he was optimistic.” Well, at least not pessimistic. “So if you hear any rumors like that, squelch them, please! Sarah’s going to be fine.”

“I’m glad. I keep thinking of that poor little girl of hers. She’s so pretty. And she has no one but her mother. It’s so sad.” Claudia pulled a tissue from the box on her desk and blew her nose loudly. “Oh, and Tiffany Douglass called again. I told her four o’clock would be okay with you. She’ll be here then.”

It was three-thirty. Maggie’s office was as cluttered as always. She cleared a space on the desk and put down the papers from her class. Luckily she had already prepared Friday’s exam.

Paul’s message was on top of the “call back” slips. He had asked her out before, but never so persistently as today. Could his sudden interest have anything to do with Sarah, or with his friendship with the Whitcombs? She put his message aside.

Her dentist had called, reminding her it was time to have her teeth cleaned. Rah.

A student was going to miss Friday’s class because he had to attend a business conference. He wondered if he could take the exam early. That would be a change, Maggie thought. Usually in such circumstances people asked to take the exam later. In fact, based on her students’ requests, she suspected exams coincided with a fair percentage of the illnesses, deaths, and business commitments of the population of Somerset County.

An antique show promoter in Pennsylvania asked if she could do a show in Allentown this weekend—another dealer had canceled at the last moment and the show could really use a print specialist like Maggie. Too bad, but she was committed to doing the Morristown show. The promoter must be frantic to fill the space at this short notice.

And finally, a message from Heather Farelli. Would Maggie call her at Whitcomb House as soon as she got in?

Maggie dialed the number, and Kendall picked up the telephone.

“I’m glad you called, Professor. We’re all here—well, most of us are. The police left the house a wreck. And then they took each of us out of our classes and questioned us. But let me get Heather. She’s the one who called you.”

Heather came from a large Italian family and used most of her emotional energy, aside from that spent chasing six-year-old Mikey, trying to separate herself from that family. It had been a great relief to her to get the Whitcomb House scholarship. At twenty-four, after three years of attending part-time, she had managed to accumulate one year’s worth of credits at Somerset College. Living on campus with a scholarship meant she could finish her associate’s degree in relative comfort, away from her family, and then apply to a state four-year college. In one of the Monday-night seminars Heather had been clear about her goal: “I got screwed over once in my life, by Mikey’s father, and I’m making sure it don’t happen again. I’m going to be a lawyer. That way no one can put anything over on me again. Or over anyone I can help.”

Maggie smiled, remembering. Heather’s tattoo would stand out in a courtroom, but if anyone could make it work, it would be Heather. She had definite ideas about almost everything. And she hadn’t separated totally from her close-knit family. Wasn’t it Heather’s mother who had made the minestrone everyone at Whitcomb House had eaten for lunch yesterday? Yesterday.

“Professor Summer? This is Heather. You’re the only one who’ll give us a straight story. There’s a lot going on. The police messed up the house, reporters are following us around, and our families and friends are driving us crazy. And we don’t know what to say to anyone! We don’t know what’s happening.” Maggie heard a child crying in the background. It sounded like one of the little ones, Josette or Tony. “First of all, how is Sarah? Really? We’re hearing all sorts of rumors.”

“Sarah’s holding her own, Heather. She’s still in a coma, and as of about two hours ago they still didn’t know what poison had caused it. But she’s hanging on, and the doctor has hopes she’ll recover.”

“Then she isn’t dead?” Heather put her hand over the receiver. But her muffled voice was still clear. “Hey, guys, Professor Summer says Sarah’s not dead.” Maggie heard assorted voices in the background. What rumors were going around campus? Or had something happened to Sarah that she didn’t know about?

“I promised you all I’d let you know anything as soon as I heard it,” Maggie said, “and I will. No word from me means the situation hasn’t changed.” And I’ll call Dr. Stevens as soon as I get off the phone, she told herself. I have to make sure what I’m telling people is accurate.

“Okay. That’s good. Now, I won’t say we aren’t all pretty pissed off about our property being dumped by those cops, but we know they were trying to help. Did they find anything that would tell them what happened to Sarah? Or who tried to kill her?”

“Not that I know of, Heather. But I haven’t talked with either of the detectives this afternoon. Again, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Okay. I’ll tell everyone. We’re pretty nervous. We were with Sarah the whole time yesterday—all day and at the party. I mean, some people might even think one of us gave Sarah that poison. The other students on campus, and even some of the professors, looked at us funny today because we’re ‘those Whitcomb House people.’”

Maggie felt her blood pressure rising. Stay calm. “It’s going to be all right, Heather. Sarah lived with you, and the detectives are crossing off possibilities. She was poisoned, after all! There’s going to be talk.”

“That’s for sure! President Hagfield even called here!”

Max called Whitcomb House? “He called to say he was sorry about what happened to Sarah?”

“Not exactly. He just muttered about how none of us should talk with anyone in the media. He asked to speak to each one of us and just kept repeating the same thing. ‘Don’t talk.’ He must think we’re idiots.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. He’s just upset. So he talked to everyone?” That didn’t sound typical of Max. Usually he avoided talking to students directly when there was any kind of problem. He left confrontations up to people like Maggie.

“Everyone except Tiffany. She must still be on campus. He seemed aggravated at that, too. He asked to speak to her first, and then asked each of us where she was. And his tone of voice made it sound as though he thought one of us had poisoned Sarah!”

“He probably just wanted to make sure he’d talked with you all.”

“Maybe so. But no other dorms were searched today, and detectives aren’t wandering over campus asking about any of the other students.”

“Let’s hope this is all settled quickly, Sarah will be fine, and we can all go back to living our own lives,” said Maggie. And, she added to herself, let’s hope the police find whoever did this to Sarah and make sure he or she disappears. Permanently.

“What should we do about people calling for Sarah?”

Calling for Sarah? By now everyone in the world seemed to know what had happened to Sarah. “She’s been getting calls?”

“A man called earlier, a couple of times. Finally Kendall told him Sarah was in the hospital. That was okay, right?”

“I’m sure it was. Do you know who it was?”

“He didn’t leave a name. But Sarah doesn’t get many calls, so it was a little weird.”

“I’m sure you all handled it well. Anyone in New Jersey could have read
The Star-Ledger
today and known that Sarah is in the hospital. But if she has any other calls, try to get a name. Sarah might have friends or acquaintances none of us know about.”

Or enemies, Maggie thought.