“No.” Dr. DeVries took the chair across from her desk and set his hat on his knee. “At least, not physically. He told me about the dreadful mistake in the newsletter. I’m here to accept all blame. Your father is guiltless.”
She blinked in surprise, then sat in her own chair. “When did you speak with him? I’ve been calling his apartment, but no one has answered. I expected he’d be back from Newport by now.”
“He sent a telegram, which I only received late last night, sinceI’ve been out of town myself. Apparently he’s in Newport for the next few days, but the phone lines at the Napoleon House are down. Or being replaced or some such.” He threw up his hands. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another. At least the roof has been fully replaced.”
“Already?”
“A miracle, I know. Now I beg for another one: your forgiveness. The article’s attribution is entirely my fault. Well, my secretary’s fault, but as I am his supervisor, I should have caught the mistake before it went to print. Your father submitted the article with its proper byline. He even wrote up a short bio for you on a separate piece of paper and paper clipped it to the manuscript. Unfortunately, somehow that bio became separated from your article submission, and when my secretary scanned the name ‘Dr. Lauren Westlake’ at the top, he simply assumed your father had written it. You must admit it’s an easy mistake to make, however unfortunate. A correction is already planned for the next issue. Beyond that, what else can I do to assure you we meant no harm? And that your father, in particular, ought to be exonerated?”
Shock and regret rolled over her in waves. “I don’t know what to say.” Every word she’d spewed at her father came back to her. It hadn’t been his fault at all. But influenced by the story in Dr. Breasted’s letter—on a subject Dad had ordered her not to pursue—she’d assumed he was guilty. She was wrong. They both ran this time, away from each other.
“I could drag my secretary in here to corroborate my story.”
“No, that’s all right,” she mumbled. “I’m glad you came. I—I see how the mistake could have happened. Thank you for running the correction.”
“Dare I hope this hasn’t ended your series for us, which has only just begun?”
Lauren’s mind spun. “I’ll submit more articles,” she said in a daze.
“Wonderful.” He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through a grin. “What a relief. By the way, Agnes and I would like to invite you and your father to join us at the Hotel Astor for a late dinner on NewYear’s Eve. We could stay until midnight for a rooftop-view of the ball dropping from the Times Tower.”
Lauren stood. “Yes, Dr. DeVries. Count on it.” For this one holiday, she and her father would be together. She pulled on her hat. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I have a train to catch.”
———
That afternoon, Lauren was in Newport, knocking on the door of the Napoleon House. She’d talked to Mr. Robinson about taking time off and had called Joe to tell him her plans. She’d also asked a neighbor to feed Cleo, since her roommates were still gone. Now all she had to do was fix the mess she’d made of things with her father.
She knocked harder.
The door opened, and Dad’s eyes went wide.
“Dad,” she said and could not go on.
With a watery smile, he enveloped her in an embrace. She could not remember the last time he’d hugged her. She shook with silent sobs as she wrapped her arms around his middle. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Dr. DeVries told me everything this morning. Forgive me,” she begged. “Please, please forgive me. I said such horrible things to you. I should have let you try to explain. I should have—”
“Shh. There, there.” He patted her on the back as though she were still a child, when in reality, with these heels, she was taller than he was. “All is forgiven.” Standing back, he glanced at the valise and hamper she’d dropped on the porch. “You’re staying the night?”
“If you’ll have me.”
“Nothing would please me more.” His thin hair was disheveled, his clothes rumpled. He looked old, a bit fragile, but entirely relieved.
She felt the same.
That night, instead of going into town for dinner, they ate from the hamper a meal of bread, cheese, grapes, and prosciutto. Since the dining room of the old house had been turned into a gallery, Lawrence took a blanket from the cot in his office and spread it on the floor. With candles and firelight instead of the chandelier, it felt like a winter picnic. A cold dinner had never tasted so sweet.
“I’ll never do that again, Dad,” she said above the popping fire. “I’ll never assume the worst of your intentions.” This was the third time she’d done that since her birthday.
“I appreciate that. I’ll try harder to convince you of the truth next time you’re ... misguided.”
She wasn’t just misguided, she was wrong. “Here, I have something for you.” It was a peace offering, a Christmas gift, and a gesture of good faith, all in one. Pulling her valise closer, she unlatched the buckle and withdrew another article for theNapoleon Herald, this one about the plaster statues of Horus that Vincent Escalante molded and painted to look like wooden carvings.
Lawrence accepted it with a smile that seemed to relax his entire body. “You could have submitted this directly to Dr. DeVries this morning when you saw him. He’s the editor, and the one all submissions go to.”
“I wanted to give it to you.” Surely it wasn’t lost on him that this was an act of trust. “The byline mistake wasn’t your fault. I see no need to circumvent you. Besides, you may want to recommend some corrections to this draft before passing it along anyway.”
Tipping the paper toward the candlelight, he read, his thin lips slanted. “Are you open to a bit of constructive criticism, dear?”
“If I’ve made a mistake, by all means, I’d like to correct it.”
