Regrets Only (7 page)

“Does the girl know who I am?” he managed to ask.

“No. She doesn’t know anything yet. There are still a few legalities to work out. I don’t want to approach her until everything is in order. But it won’t take much longer now. I feel that she has a right to know who we are.”

“Why? If you were so concerned, what’s taken you so long?”

Morgan’s face was flushed. Despite the elegance of her understated taupe gown, the long line of her neck adorned only with a small gold locket, her neatly styled hair, she looked as anxious and earnest as she’d looked that day at the diner. For a moment he felt compassion, the urge to embrace her or to make some sort of reassuring gesture, but that was out of the question. This woman is about to ruin your life, he reminded himself.

“I’ve made mistakes, many horrible mistakes. But now there’s a person, a young woman. She’s lost her brother. Maybe she’ll want nothing to do with me or you but I have to take that chance.”

Think, Tripp. But his mind couldn’t focus. He needed time, time to make a plan, time to protect himself and his assets. Having a nearly full-grown child emerge as the product of his affair, his only marital aberration in twenty years, was out of the question. Sherrill wouldn’t understand. He might as well have his bags packed before he ever uttered a word. The scandal, even more than the betrayal, would close off any possibility of reconciliation.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his wife. It was definitely she, not a figment of his imagination, and her stride was quickening. A few more seconds and he’d be faced with his ultimate nightmare: introducing his paramour to his wife. Morgan gave him a quizzical look, but he had neither the skill nor the inclination to interpret her expression. All he wanted was for her to quietly disappear.

“My, my, the famous Dr. Reese,” Sherrill cooed as she joined them. “I had no idea my husband’s company would appeal to such an esteemed psychiatrist.”

Tripp knew this act: The stalking tigress who makes her prey feel comfortable just before she’s ready to go in for the kill. He could recognize her fake smile anywhere, her squinted eyes, curled lips, and big teeth protruding from pink gums. He held his breath.

“Please call me Morgan,” she said, graciously extending her hand. “It’s been my pleasure.”

Was she going to betray him right here and now?

“Morgan’s been kind enough to update me on the comings and goings of a mutual friend,” he offered before she could say anything further. Did he sound adequately dismissive, uninterested? “Hard to believe we know someone in common. The only doctors I know are my own, and I do everything possible to avoid them.” He forced a laugh. Tripp as the witty master of small talk; it was a role he knew well.

“Six degrees of separation, isn’t that how the expression goes?” Sherrill asked rhetorically as she linked her arm through Tripp’s, establishing her territory.

“And so much can happen to all of us,” Morgan added, clasping her hands.

He watched Sherrill’s eyes dart to Morgan’s bare fingers, immediately registering the lack of either an engagement ring or a wedding band. She could home in on marital status within seconds. Thinking back, he’d been lucky it wasn’t a skill Morgan shared.

The three of them stood without saying a word.

After what seemed an eternity, Sherrill finally broke the silence. “I certainly didn’t mean to interrupt whatever catching up you were doing on your
friend
.” She lingered over the last word, as if suspicious of such a person’s existence.

Tripp felt sick. This triangle had to end. He put his arm around his wife’s waist, feeling the thickness of her middle, the roll underneath her body-contouring control-top pantyhose. “Have you looked around?” he offered meekly. “It’s a wonderful show this year. The best I can remember.”

Morgan took the hint. With a slight bow in Tripp’s direction, she excused herself. “We’ll have a chance to talk again soon.”

Not if I can possibly help it, Tripp thought as he watched her walk away into the crowd. He removed his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He felt as if he’d awoken from a nightmare and now faced the task of coming to terms with whatever demons had emerged from his subconscious. Revealing his identity, making his daughter aware of his existence, was out of the question. But his brief encounter with Morgan had been enough to convince him that her mind was set. No amount of arguing or even begging would persuade her otherwise. Could anything? How could he keep his past at bay and protect his cherished existence? He needed an answer. And he needed it fast.

10:44 p.m.

“We’ve been friends a long time, is that fair to say?” Dixon Burlingame asked in a deep, slightly hoarse voice.

They sat together on three steps leading to the peach-colored facade of a set-designed Puerto Rican home. Dixon, a heavyset man in his late fifties with a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, had loosened his tie. He’d lost one of his shirt studs during the course of the long evening, and David could see his white undershirt protruding through the opening. In the background, salsa music still pulsed although many of the patrons had left.

“Indeed we have. I dare say, I’ve known you longer than anyone,” David replied. They’d been friends since the fifth form at St. Mark’s and then roommates at Haverford College. As bachelors, they’d shared an apartment on South 37th. David had been the best man at Dixon’s wedding, then a godparent to Dixon’s eldest son, and, since his divorce, he had been going to the Burlingame home for Thanksgiving dinner.

“Do you remember that redhead freshman year? Ramsey Whitmore.”

“The one who wore shorts so short her derriere was ever-so-teasingly visible?” David laughed, remembering.

“That’s the one,” Dixon said, smiling. “Do you remember the advice you gave me about her? I’ll never forget what you said. You told me not to ask her out. That she was too hot for a pudgy guy from Pennsylvania who hadn’t made the cut for even a club sport. You told me that it was better to preserve my ego and not put myself in the position of being turned down. That it was better in the long run to focus on the girls who might say yes. Some of the best advice you’ve ever given me.”

David smiled, remembering the conversation. Since then, he’d offered professional advice and medical consultations on subjects far more important than how to deal with the most popular girl in the class. Dixon was chairman of AmeriMed, one of the three largest pharmaceutical companies in North America, and he’d relied heavily on David’s expertise and guidance over the years. David had helped Dixon survive numerous mergers and acquisitions by providing information about the status of FDA approvals, translating into layman’s English the medical terminology in patent licenses, and keeping him abreast of potential areas of research to exploit. All the while, Dixon had grown his company into a monolith and amassed a fortune in stock options.

But now, finally, payback time had come. Because of Dixon’s power and prestige in both the medical and business communities, and because of AmeriMed’s role in the development of the facility, he’d been named head of the search committee for the director of the Wilder Center, a position that virtually guaranteed David’s appointment.

“So now it’s my turn to be blunt.” The reminiscence about Ramsey wasn’t just the drunken reverie of a middle-aged man. There was a point.

“When have you been anything
but
that?” David asked good- naturedly.

“Well, what I’ve got to say kills me but I’m in a bind.” He coughed. Phlegm rattled in his throat. “I need you to withdraw your application for the directorship.”

“What?” David must have misunderstood. His reputation in the medical community was well established. He had strong ties to the University faculty, as well as to the FDA and NIMH. Navigating through various governmental agencies would be key to operating a brand-new psychiatric hospital. Dixon had capitalized fully on that experience when it served his purpose. Plus David had a proven track record of fund-raising capabilities. Sometimes he wondered whether he should have been a salesman because he was so good at getting others to part with their money in support of his causes. But most important, he had extensive experience with pharmacological advances in the treatment of mental illness. “Why would I do that?”

“For your own good. You’re not going to get the appointment. So I’d rather have you withdraw than lose out.”

This couldn’t be true. He was the front-runner. All the news-paper articles had given him that label. The selection process had to be perceived as fair, and the committee had initially included an African American and two Jews in its list of nominees. But he’d survived the initial cuts. Now the contest was between him and Morgan. She might be the token woman, but she couldn’t get the position over him. He was by far the more qualified.

“Look.” Dixon leaned toward him and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “You and I both know that what happened with the Herbert kid wasn’t your fault. It was a horrible tragedy. But the press . . . public opinion . . . The Center and its investors simply can’t endorse you. The last thing a psychiatric hospital needs is a high- profile suicide to open its doors.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Dixon stood up. “Follow my advice. Make it your own choice. Down the road, things may open up. The air will have cleared. No one will remember the Herbert death. You don’t have to be the first director.”

“You’re giving Morgan the job?”

He nodded. “There’s one other candidate publicly in the running, but she’s got it locked up. Although it won’t be public for another couple of months—the end of May if everything goes according to schedule. We want the announcement to coincide with the opening and we’re still doing some finishing construction work, finalizing some administrative details, that sort of thing.”

“She treats children!” His voice sounded shrill, bordering on hysterical.

“Not exclusively. She’s got experience almost as varied as your own. And she’s got impeccable credentials, dozens of publications, research experience. Most important, everybody respects her. She wowed the pants off the committee. That woman knows her stuff. She has unbelievable contacts. Between her personal background and her medical experience, she has access to everyone, including a hell of a lot of people with money. And we need that. You know as well as I do that the director is primarily a political position. She’s not going to be seeing any patients.”

“Let me come in and talk to the committee. Give me one more chance.” He hated begging and hated Dixon for making him beg.

Dixon shrugged his shoulders, leaned on one knee, and pushed himself upright. “It’s too late for that. The decision’s been made. Unless Morgan doesn’t accept the position, she’s got it. I’m giving you an out. If you don’t want to take it, that’s your business. But as your friend, I’m advising you to pull yourself out of the running.”

As David slumped forward, he felt Dixon’s hand on his shoulder. “Give me a call next week. Let’s have lunch. Maybe the Union League.”

David looked up. He wanted to shout. To discuss what? Your betrayal? That I’m being punished for something over which I had no control? That the committee is too filled with cowards to give the job to the most qualified applicant? That my own friend is swayed by media pressure? It would take all his self-control not to throw an order of turtle soup in Dixon’s fat face. But he said nothing.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Dixon remarked.

Not as sorry as I am, he thought. He thought of Morgan in his office just after Foster’s death, her apparent concern and her apparent sympathy over the adverse publicity. Had she known then that this tragedy would be a windfall to her? How had the media learned that Foster was his patient? Apparently not from the Herberts, who hadn’t given a single comment to any newspaper that he’d seen.
You know how it is. Medical records that are supposed to be confidential never are.
He remembered her words. Could she have gone through his files? Would she have done something so unethical? Had he been betrayed first by a colleague and then by a friend, or was this disappointment making him paranoid?

He rubbed his eyes. It was late, and he was tired. Ultimately the truth didn’t matter. The job was hers instead of his. The only way to avoid the inevitable was to convince her not to take the position. And short of having her drop dead, David could think of no possible strategy that could achieve that end.

6

Sunday, April 13th 4:15 p.m
.

L
ucy, can you bring the mint jelly in for me? It’s on the pantry sideboard,” Mrs. O’Malley called out in brogue as she navigated around a boisterous game of jacks and placed a steaming bowl of mashed potatoes on the buffet. She rested her hands on her hips and surveyed her Easter table. She’d been starching and ironing linens for days in anticipation of the family gathering. The cut-glass goblets had all been washed by hand, and her mother-in-law’s china unpacked from the attic for the annual celebration. She’d even Pledged the cherrywood chairs, although she’d had to add some metal folding ones from the basement to accommodate several extra guests. Home magazines might put a premium on the visual beauty of the table arrangement, but hospitality had always been her concern. She wasn’t about to turn anyone away on a holiday.

“Could one of you smokers come get these candles lit?” she called out. Although she could hear voices and laughter in the adjacent room, no one responded. “You’d think I was the only one here for all the work I’m doing,” she muttered.

Meghan, her eight-year-old granddaughter, threw a red Super Ball up in the air and scrambled to collect the metal jacks, but she was too slow. The ball bounced off the back of her hand and rolled under the table. On all fours, she followed it, bumping her head as her sister, Tara, giggled uncontrollably.

“You two have exactly thirty-seven seconds to pick up those jacks,” Mrs. O’Malley warned, shaking her finger at both girls, “or I’ll tan your hides—Easter or no Easter.”

“Give it up, Mum,” Lucy said as she entered the dining room holding a crystal dish filled with mint jelly. “Your threats have never been taken seriously.” She smiled. “Anyway, it’s my fault. The jacks were a present from me.”