Stephen L. Carter by New England White

Author:New England White [White, New England]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Family Secrets, College Presidents, Mystery & Detective, University Towns, New England, Legal, Fiction, Psychological, Women Deans (Education), African American College Teachers, Mystery Fiction, Race Discrimination, Thrillers, Suspense, African American, General
ISBN: 0099437465
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 2007-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 32

DENNISON

(I)

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Julia and Lemaster drove up to New Hampshire to pick up Aaron at Exeter, where the fourteen-year-old was marvelously popular, perhaps because of his considerable charm, or perhaps because his father was president of a university where a not-inconsiderable number of the school’s graduates hoped to matriculate. They had decided to do it together, but conversation during the drive was more muted than usual. Preston had called the night before from Cambridge to announce that he would not be home for Christmas. He and his latest girlfriend were heading to Mexico. Julia was stunned. None of the children had ever missed Christmas. She pleaded. She argued. Preston was, as always, immovable. She decided to detour and see him, but Preston told her not to bother: they were leaving on the early flight.

Tonya Montez, chief local Sister Lady, liked to say that parenthood was the process of watching your children slowly lose interest in you. With her eldest, that process was already over.

They drove by his apartment anyway, just to be sure. There was no answer at the buzzer. “I suppose he already left,” said Lemaster.

“I suppose,” said Julia, worried, secretly, that Preston was ignoring them. She wished she knew why her firstborn so determinedly avoided his parents. If wishes were horses, Granny Vee used to say, then beggars would ride. Around Preston she always felt like a beggar.

Leaving Cambridge, they headed across the bridge into Boston and stopped at a row house in the endless maze of narrow, crooked historic streets of Beacon Hill. Parking is impossible but Lemaster eventually managed the miracle, squeezing the Mercedes into a spot that looked, at first glance, large enough to hold a child’s bicycle. He pumped his fist, because beating the odds was his hobby, and she kissed his cheek, because congratulating him was hers. The sky had the flat, hazy look that comes only from heavy smog or heavy weather. Their feet slid on the bumpy, cobbled sidewalk, the stones slippery because not every homeowner was equally diligent in clearing the seasonal mess. The houses were of stout brick, cramped and expensive. Few had lawns of any consequence. Windows opened directly into the street, like they did in many parts of Europe; walking past, you caught glimpses of neighbors sleeping, shaving, dressing, embracing, the full spectrum of activity among the newly wakened. Julia felt newly wakened herself. For the first time in years, she was taking risks. She would find Kellen’s evidence and save her daughter: unless, of course, her pride led to a fall, which she admitted was always possible.

The house was just like all the others, except that it sat on a corner lot and had slightly more than a postage stamp of a yard, guarded by a low wrought-iron fence in need of painting. Standing on the front step, they had an excellent view down the hill toward the Boston Common and the Public Garden. The brass knocker was an eagle, easily a hundred years old.

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