Chapter 20: On the Record

Rosalind had the lead story on the six o'clock news.

We watched it in the kitchen of the studio, with Margaret's soup going cold and Ada asleep in the drawer.

She sat in a cream armchair in a donor's living room, with her hands clasped and her eyes red.

She spoke gently, and every word was a small knife.

"I loved Lucy like a sister," she told the interviewer. "That is what makes this so hard."

"Lucy was a gifted student, but she has always needed to be seen. After my husband died, she began to claim his life's work."

"And the drawings? The signature on the page?"

"They are old paper and a bitter old man. I won't say anything cruel. I only want my husband's name left in peace."

She dabbed under one eye.

"I will be at the library tomorrow at ten, to say a few words to the public. I hope Lucy comes. I would like to forgive her to her face."

Margaret reached over and turned the set off.

"That woman cries on schedule," she said.

Harrison sat very still at the end of the table, with his hands around a mug.

"She's good," he said. "I'd have believed her."

"You did," I said. "For six years."

"I'd have believed her last month. I think I believed her until about nine days ago."

"Then come with me tomorrow and watch her do it again."

He looked at me.

"And what do we have?" he asked.

Margaret smiled for the first time all evening and went to the telephone.

"I wrote to an old man in Maine," she said. "He's already in the car."

On Sunday the square was full of cameras.

The library doors stood open, and Rosalind waited on the steps beside the bronze plaque in a black coat and a thin gold wedding band.

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