Mary Clark - I 've Heard That Song Before

“Kay, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Peter’s hand was in mine and our fingers intertwined.

I looked up at him. Peter’s aristocratic face was strengthened by his firm jaw, but always it was his eyes that I saw when I looked at him. Now they were concerned, troubled that he had inadvertently hurt me.

“No, you didn’t upset me, not at all. In fact, you’ve cleared up something important. All these years I’ve had a mental image of my father stumbling around this place in a drunken stupor, and I’ve been embarrassed for him. Now I can erase it forever.”

Peter could tell that I didn’t want to discuss the subject any further.

“Okay, then,” he said. “Shall we pick up the pace?”

By running down the stone walks that wind through the gardens, and then reversing a couple of times, we got in a mile, then decided to do a final loop to the end of the west path that ended at the street. High hedges had been planted there. Peter explained that the state had installed a gas line near the curb many years ago, and when my father had prepared the landscaping design, he had suggested moving the fences fifty feet back. Then, if repairs were ever needed, it wouldn’t damage any of the plantings.

When we reached the hedges we could hear voices and the sound of machinery beyond the fence. By peeking through we could make out that a Public Service crew was creating a detour on the road and unloading equipment out of trucks. “I guess this is exactly what my father anticipated,” I said.

Peter said, “I guess so,” then turned and began to run again. “Race you to the house?” he called over his shoulder.

“Not fair,” I yelled, as he took off. A few minutes later, out of breath but feeling good about ourselves-at least so I thought-we went back into the house.

The Barrs were in the kitchen, and I could smell corn muffins baking. For someone whose normal breakfast is black coffee and half a toasted bagel minus either butter or cream cheese, I realized that firm discipline would be in order if I was going to stay in shape. But I wouldn’t worry about it today, our first breakfast at home.

There’s one thing about a mansion: You do get your choice of locations. The breakfast room is like a cozy indoor garden, with painted green and white lattice walls, a round glass top table, cushioned wicker chairs, and a breakfront filled with lovely green and white china. Glancing at the china made me realize again that there were so many treasures in this house, collected since the early nineteenth century. I had a fleeting thought of wondering who, if anyone, kept track of them.

I could tell that there was something troubling Jane Barr. Her warm greeting did not conceal the worry in her eyes. Something was wrong, but I did not want to ask her what it was in front of Peter. I know that he sensed it, too.

The New York Times was on the table next to his place. He started to pick it up, then pushed it aside. “Kay, I’ve been so used to reading the newspapers at breakfast that I forgot for a moment that now I have a very good reason to let them wait.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “You can have the first section. I’ll take the Metro section.”

It was after she had poured our second cup of coffee that Jane Barr came back into the breakfast room. This time she did not attempt to hide the concern she was feeling. She addressed Peter. “Mr. Carrington, I’m not one to be the bearer of bad news, but when I stopped at the supermarket this morning they were delivering copies of Celeb magazine. The cover story is about you. I know you’ll be getting calls, so I wanted to warn you, but I also wanted you to have your breakfast in peace first.”

I saw that she was holding the copy of the magazine, still folded in half, under her arm. She handed it to Peter.

He unfolded it, looked at the front page, then his eyes closed as though he was turning away from a sight that was too painful to watch. I reached across the table and grabbed the tabloid. The banner-sized headline read, PETER CARRINGTON MURDERED MY DAUGHTER. There were two side-by-side pictures beneath it. One was a formal picture of Peter, the kind of stock photo newspapers use when they’re running a story on an executive. He was unsmiling, which didn’t surprise me. My innately shy Peter is not the kind of man who smiles for a camera. Nevertheless, in this particular unfortunate shot, he did look cold, even haughty and disdainful.

Susan Althorp’s picture was next to his, a radiant Susan in her debutante gown, her long blond hair spilling over her shoulders, her eyes sparkling, her beautiful young face joyous. Not daring to look at Peter, I turned the page. The double spread inside pages were just as bad. DYING MOTHER DEMANDS JUSTICE. There was a photo of an emaciated, grief-stricken Gladys Althorp, surrounded by pictures of her daughter at every stage of Susan’s brief life.

I know enough about the law to understand that if Peter did not demand a retraction and get it, his only alternative would be to sue Gladys Althorp. I looked at him and now could not read his expression. But I was sure that the last thing he wanted was to hear useless cries of outrage from me. “What are you going to do?” I asked.

Jane Barr vanished into the kitchen.

Peter looked as if he were in pain, as if he’d been physically attacked. His eyes glistened and his voice was agonized when he said, “Kay, for twenty-two years I have answered every question they ever asked about Susan’s disappearance. Only hours after they realized she was missing, the prosecutor’s office descended upon us, questioning me. Twenty-four hours later, even before they asked, my father gave permission to have bloodhounds sniff the grounds. He allowed a search of the house. They impounded my car. They couldn’t come up with one single iota of evidence that suggested I knew what happened to Susan after I dropped her off that night. Have you any idea what a nightmare it would be if I demand a retraction from Susan’s mother, don’t get it, and institute a suit? I’ll tell you what will happen. It will be a three-ring circus for the media and that poor woman will be dead long before it even gets near a court date.”

He stood up. He was shaking and fighting back tears. I rushed around the table and put my arms around him. The only way I could possibly help was to tell him how much I loved him.

I think my words gave him some comfort, so that at least he didn’t feel totally alone. But then, in a voice that was sad, even a little remote, he said, “I’ve done you no favor by marrying you, Kay. You don’t need this mess.”

“Neither do you,” I said. “Peter, I think that, horrible as it is, you’ve got to demand a retraction from Mrs. Althorp, and if necessary file suit against her for libel and slander. I’m sorry for her, but she’s done it to herself.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”

Vincent Slater came in as Peter was showering. I knew they were going to Peter’s office together that morning. “You’ve got to convince Peter that he must demand a retraction,” I told him.

“That’s a subject we’ll take up with our lawyers, Kay,” he said, his tone dismissive.

We looked at each other. From the first minute I met him, when I came here begging to have the reception in the mansion, I had sensed Slater’s animosity toward me. But I knew I had to be careful. He was an important part of Peter’s life.

“Peter has been given the chance to clear his name, to show that there isn’t a shred of evidence to tie him to Susan’s disappearance,” I told Vincent. “If he doesn’t demand a retraction, he might as well hang a sign around his neck saying, ‘I did it. I’m guilty.’ ”

He did not answer. Then Peter came downstairs, kissed me good-bye, and they were gone.