The slamming of the front door and heavy footsteps on the staircase indicated Clyde was home. Instead of being relieved, Vera’s face crumpled, and tears threatened once again.
Clyde flung open the bedroom door and stepped inside. He must have been informed about the nature of the brewing scandal, for he sank to his knees beside Vera and grabbed her hand.
“Darling, I’m sorry,” he said. His necktie was askew and his hair disheveled. Marianne couldn’t recall ever seeing Clyde quite so distraught as he poured his heart out to Vera. “This is all my fault, but I’ll figure out a way to protect you. I swear it.”
Tears leaked from Vera’s eyes, but she didn’t pull away. “It’s all going to come out,” she wailed. “An opera singer. Anoperasinger! The humiliation is too great. I can’t bear it.”
“Shh, darling,” Clyde soothed, looking on the verge of tears himself. “The blame is all mine. I will shoulder it and protect you. We all will.”
Vera drew a ragged breath. “Marianne said that horrible little man from the newspaper is responsible. We must do something. A lawsuit. Demand a retraction. Something!”
Clyde whipped around to stare at Marianne. His expression was a curious mix of surprise and calculation. Then it cleared. “Go to your room,” he said. “I’ll join you when I can.”
She was relieved to go. Watching this painful exchange between her parents was uniquely horrible, and she was glad to flee from it.
She hid the copy ofDon Quixoteunder her bed. The only thing that could make this day any worse was if her father learned of Luke’s role in the book and spotted the dedication.
From across the hall, the sound of Vera’s wailing made her flinch. Then came the crash of glass shattering against the bedroom wall. It was probably part of the tea set, because two or three additional smashes followed in short order. Throughout it all, Clyde’s low voice could be heard consoling, pleading, and apologizing. It took around twenty minutes for the firestorm to pass, and all the while Marianne tried to predict what this would mean for her family.
People would stare at her when she left the house. Theywould whisper and speculate. She had nothing to be ashamed of, but knowing she was at the root of her mother’s public humiliation still hurt. This was also going to damage Clyde’s chances for reelection, but the very worst thing would be if reporters started scrounging around Clyde’s private life and learned of Tommy. It was one thing to have cheated on a spouse twenty-six years ago, but Tommy was only two years old, and exposing that affair would ruin Clyde’s political career forever.
A quiet tap on her door sounded, and she let Clyde in. He closed the door but didn’t turn to face her. He just leaned his forehead against the door, his shoulders sagging and exhausted.
“It wasn’t Dickie Shuster,” he said quietly.
“What? How do you know that?”
He still didn’t turn to face her. An uncomfortable silence lengthened in the room as Clyde clenched and unclenched his fists. She’d never seen him this devastated. He slowly rotated, then made his way to her bed, moving like a sleepwalker. He sat but hung his head low, staring at the floor. He looked ready to weep.
“It was Andrew,” he said.
Her own brother? Strength drained out of her knees, and she dropped to the floor where she stood, unable even to make it to the chair.
“I don’t believe it,” she finally said. “I can’t.” While she could easily imagine Andrew doing something to hurt her, he wouldn’t do this to Vera. Never.
“Believe it,” Clyde said. “Think! Dickie Shuster works forThe Washington Post, not theEvening Star. He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Then what makes you think it was Andrew?” she whispered.
“I paid the clerk at the front desk of theEvening Stara hundred dollars to tell me the source. Andrew did it last week. The same day you confessed to turning those stories over to Luke. He did it to hurtyou, not Vera.”
Another wave of grief settled on her, weighing her down. She doubted she could get up off this floor if her life depended on it. The betrayal was so absolute, so cutting and deep. Did Andrew hate her this much?
“Does Mama know?”
Clyde’s head shot up. “No! And you’re not to tell her. It would kill her. Andrew has always been her favorite.”
That wasn’t a surprise, but it hurt that Clyde didn’t even realize what he’d just said.
“What should we do?”
His eyes narrowed. “This is my mess. I’ll clean it up. Just do whatever Vera asks of you. All right?”
“I promise.”
“I need you to swear to it, Marianne.” For once her father looked completely shattered and dependent on her. “Knowing it was Andrew could push her over the edge. She can’t handle this right now.”
It didn’t seem right to withhold information to protect Andrew, but everything Clyde said was true. “I swear it.”
