"Can you confirm that a U.S. senator is involved?"

"Who's your client?"

"What's the complaint?"

Hugh held up a hand and kept walking. He felt the phone in his pocket, but it was silent. Time was running out. Once he entered the courthouse, he wouldn't turn back.

He was nearing the top step when he heard footsteps climbing fast behind him. Someone caught his arm. His own hand was on the door when he looked around.

He didn't recognize the sweating young man, but his worried expression made him an obvious junior a.s.sociate.

Catching his breath, the a.s.sociate gasped, "They want me to tell you. We'll do it privately."

"Who's 'we'?" Hugh asked, but he stepped away from the door.

"The senator," the a.s.sociate said, following when Hugh moved farther from the path of traffic. "I work for Dan Drummond. I just got his call."

Hugh didn't have to ask why the a.s.sociate was in Lowell. He was there to let Drummond wait until the last minute, hoping Hugh would blink first, before giving in.

In command now, Hugh said, "It has to be done Friday."

"The senator suggests four in the afternoon at his office. If word gets out, the deal is off."

"That goes two ways," Hugh warned. "If he reneges on the deal, I call the press ASAP, and I want this in writing."

"Mr. Drummond is couriering a letter to your office."

"See that Starbucks?" Hugh asked with the hitch of his chin. "I'll be waiting there until my office calls to say it's been received. Either we get it by three or I file."

"I'll let Mr. Drummond know," the lawyer said, and loped back down the steps. Hugh followed, and was immediately surrounded by the press.

"Has there been a postponement?"

"Is it true that a senator is involved?"

Hugh held up a hand. "There's no case. Sorry, folks." Working his way through the group, he crossed the street. He stopped at his car. With his eyes on the grudgingly dispersing crowd, he phoned his office, instructing them to call as soon as the letter arrived. Then he went into Starbucks, ordered a Mocha Frappuccino-venti-and finally breathed a sigh of relief.

He would wait for the call, though it was a formality. The letter would come. Dan Drummond was an annoying SOB, but his word was good.

Chapter 29.

Eaton had decided to revisit his past. On Wednesday, he drove to Vermont to see towns he had spent time in as a boy. On Thursday, he drove to New Jersey and walked the campus of his prep school. But he knew he was procrastinating. The issue of the blatant inaccuracies in One Man's Line had to be dealt with.

On Friday, with four days to go before publication, he spent the morning in his office rereading those parts of the book that involved his parents and himself. The errors were on these pages. If he chose to alter the text for a future edition of the book, it would require research. That would take time. But it could be done.

More pressing, at this moment, was how to promote the current edition.

He didn't doubt that Thomas Belisle was his father. Hugh's daughter provided the missing piece of the puzzle, and Hugh's sickle-cell test confirmed it. Did Eaton want to be tested himself? No. He knew what the result would be.

The question was how much to say and to whom. Once he admitted the truth, there would be no turning back.

When his publicist called first thing that morning to discuss last-minute additions to the tour, he grew more agitated. When Dorothy appeared midmorning with a danish and coffee, he couldn't eat at all. By noon, he was back in the car. He drove past the country club, past the harbor restaurants he and Dorothy frequented, past the marinas that dotted the sh.o.r.e.

Without realizing where he was going, he headed north. Soon after, he found himself at Hugh's office.

Hugh was only marginally more settled than his father, and that simply because he was preoccupied with work. But he was ready for a break when a movement at the door caught his eye.

"I just walked in past your receptionist," Eaton explained, tossing a thumb back toward the lobby. "She must have thought you were expecting me." Tentatively, he came in. "I don't want to interrupt. Finish what you were doing." He took a chair.

Hugh added a final sentence to the memo he was writing and turned to his father. After an awkward silence, he said, "How's Mom?"

Eaton grunted. "Liberated."

Hugh laughed. "Is she still angry?"

"No. But she seems to be withholding judgment. Expecting something more from me."

"Have you heard from Robert?"

Eaton shook his head. "You?"

"No. He's in denial. You've lost weight, Dad."

Eaton shrugged. "I can't seem to eat and readjust to all this at the same time."

"It takes a lot to turn around a lifetime's way of thought." Hugh glanced at his watch. It was one-thirty. "I haven't had lunch. Did you eat?" Of course Eaton hadn't. Hugh rose. "Let's go out. I'm starved."

They went to the University Club, which would be emptying out at this hour. They could talk in private there. It was an easy walk from Hugh's office, and the Elm Room served Eaton's favorite crabmeat salad.

When they were seated, a couple of acquaintances stopped to greet them, but by the time their lunch arrived, they had the wood-paneled room to themselves.

They ate in silence. Hugh bit into his club sandwich, remembering all the times he had eaten this same lunch with Eaton. The University Club, like the country club, was part of his past. He had taken for granted his right to these memberships. Now he regretted that.

With barely half of his salad eaten, Eaton set down his fork. "So would we be here today if I had known the truth growing up?"

Hugh finished chewing. "You might have known the truth about your parentage and still grown up in the same house."

"Or not," Eaton reasoned. "What if my father-Bradley-had divorced my mother?"

"Her family still had a name."

"But no money. I wouldn't have had such a privileged childhood. I keep wondering about what I have now that I might have been denied if, say..." He didn't finish.

"If, say, your skin had been brown?"

"Yes."

"You did well in school. You got into college on your own. Same with graduate school. You earned your place at those schools."

"Did I?" Eaton asked quietly. "There were others who were just as qualified as I was, who didn't get in. Was my admission based on merit? Or was it money, or the family name? Same with the books I write. Did the first one sell because I was from an ill.u.s.trious family? That first one was far from brilliant, but it gave me a foot in the door."

"It was good," Hugh said.

"Good, but not brilliant. There are many good books that never make it into print. My publishers might have given up on me."

"But you were good," Hugh argued.

Eaton shook his head. "The image of who I was reinforced the merit of the book. More to the point," he continued, "would we be here now? How many African Americans come to the Elm Room? Not as many as have graduated from the university, I'd warrant."

"They're not comfortable here. It's a bastion of whiteness."

"It's a bastion of privilege," Eaton amended with disdain. "I feel guilty about that. I feel I should have spoken up against the exclusivity here. I always called myself progressive."

"So did I, but here I am," Hugh said. If being two-faced about his liberalism was a crime, he was as guilty as his father. "I spend my days representing minority clients, then go home to a community where there are few minorities. David Johnson is the exception."

"Does that mean you ought to move?"

"Does it mean we should drop our membership here?"

"What does it mean?" Eaton asked.

"Beats me," Hugh replied.

A door opened at the far end of the room, and a private party began to disperse. Hugh recognized many of the men. They were prominent members of the business community.

Several stopped at their table, a few dawdled at the door of the private dining room. At the center of that group, one of the last to emerge, was Stan Hutchinson.

Eaton stiffened when he spotted him. "Will this be a problem?"

Hugh shrugged and continued eating.

Hutchinson was halfway through the room when he saw them. Sending the rest of the group ahead, he approached.

Hugh and Eaton rose. Hutchinson shook their hands and gestured toward the bar. "Chivas, neat," he called.

"It's been an interesting week," he said as they sat down. "Your boy played me well, Eaton. Has he told you about that?"

"He certainly did," Eaton replied, fully composed. "He's good at his job."

The senator chuckled and said in the same collegial way, "I'll have to remember that next time some woman hits me with a potentially damaging charge. You know me," he drawled, "I'm a decent guy. I've spent the last thirty years fighting for the poor. I championed raising the minimum wage, I've proposed education incentives and sponsored job-training programs. h.e.l.l, know what we were discussing there in the back room just now?" He looked up when the bartender brought his whiskey, and took a healthy gulp. Then he set the gla.s.s down and smiled. "That meeting was about getting the leaders of this community involved in hiring teens and raising college scholarships." He thumped his chest. "This is what I stand for."

"No one's denying that, Hutch," Eaton said.

"Your boy is," Hutch argued, still speaking in a good-natured tone. "I stand for decency and honesty and respect."

"And family values," Hugh put in. "Wasn't that your message on Meet the Press a couple of Sundays ago?"

"We all know what the truth is here," the senator rumbled on. "We have a girl who has real problems. So she decided to go after me, because she has nothing to lose, not one d.a.m.n thing. And I'll go along with it, Hugh, because you played your cards right. I gotta hand it to you. You knew I wouldn't want the publicity of even an accusation." He took another drink and set down the gla.s.s. "Was it the book, Eaton-because I wouldn't do your f.u.c.kin' interview? Or you, Hugh, because I didn't offer you the job as legal counsel for my committee?"

"What job?"

"The one I gave to your law-school pal?" he said, seeming legitimately confused. "What was it? You know me, you know my family. Why'd you pick on me?"

Hugh wasn't falling for the act. Stan Hutchinson was a seasoned politician. He might play the part of the bewildered victim, but Hugh knew he must be furious.

"I took the case before I ever knew you were involved," Hugh said.

"Okay," the senator allowed, "but afterward, you could have excused yourself. You could have claimed a conflict of interest."

"There is no conflict of interest. My firm isn't representing anyone else with whom you're involved. I took this case because I believe the woman, and she needs help. And you're right, we all know what you stand for. I figured that you, of all people, would want to make sure a child you fathered would have the best possible care."

The senator made a chiding sound. "Do you know how many women try to lay claims on me?"

"He's a sweet boy, Hutch," said Hugh. "He's cute and smart. He's coordinated enough to be a nice little athlete, a.s.suming he gets the medical care he needs."

"He's not my child."

"That's what the test is for."

"Christ, Hugh, do you know the mess this could make? If word gets out-"

"Word won't get out unless you tell someone yourself. Everything will be kept private, from the test to the settlement. Your family will never know. You must have investments your family knows nothing about."

The senator glared at him. "You are a cynical son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h. What if someone did this to you? What if the tables were turned? What would you do? Would you risk your family, your job, your image?"

Hugh didn't hesitate. If he believed anything, he believed this. "If it were about doing the right thing, I'd risk it. You have fought all your life for everything this child represents. To turn your back on him, when there's an easy enough solution, would be the height of hypocrisy. So do you believe what you say in Congress or to Larry King-or is it all hot air? Does the public voice say one thing and the private voice another? If you're a man of honor, you need to show it now."

Hutchinson stared at him long and hard. Hugh was bracing himself for another attack when the man made a disparaging sound, pushed back his chair, and strode out of the room.

Hugh stared after him.

"That's it," Eaton said, his eyes dark and knowing. "You put it well."

Yes, Hugh realized. He had. And they weren't talking about Hutchinson.

Chapter 30.