Loss of Innocence by Richard North Patterson Read Free Book Online Page A

didn’t want to attenuate any discord . . .”
    “Especially when she has no opinion.”
    The remark was sharper than Whitney had intended. Charles regarded her closely. “As Clarice remarked to your sister, Whitney, jealousy is unbecoming—especially of your closest friend. It shouldn’t threaten you to acknowledge that Clarice has considerable tact and acuity, and deserves an enviable place in the world. Even at the price of elevating some benighted male.” He signed with resignation. “A somewhat thankless job, many say these days. But helping a husband’s career is no small thing. I’ve seen unhappy women—alcoholic, neurotic, or just plain shrill—derail a spouse at crucial moments. And others whose touch with people eases the way with such grace and subtlety that no one discerns the art in it.”
    Suddenly, Whitney imagined herself in finishing school, learning to ease the way of men. “Like Mom.”
    Charles gave a slight but emphatic nod. “As I made clear, I never forget what I owe her. Nor will Peter.”
    Unsure of what to say, Whitney lowered her eyes. Gently, Charles kissed her forehead. “I’m very happy for you, and sorry if I upset you.” He paused again, perhaps waiting for her to speak, then went off to join Peter.
    Whitney faced the living room. Clarice and Janine were there, her sister sipping port and conducting what appeared to be a somewhat one-sided conversation. Feeling Anne at her side, Whitney sensed that she was the object of a parental pas de deux. Preempting this, she inquired softly, “Have you ever felt stifled, Mom?”
    Anne’s puzzled look contained a hint of asperity. “‘Stifled’?” she repeated. “Lord no. Your father has given me a wonderful life—love, children, and more privilege than even
I
could imagine. Never once have we disagreed about anything fundamental. Instead I was free to fill the role most natural to women.” Her voice eased. “To these so-called feminists, I know, that sounds like a gilded cage. But I’ve had a life any generation of women in the history of the worldwould have envied—freedom from drudgery and enslavement, the dangers of childbirth, or the ravages of disease. Within my area of responsibility, I was autonomous, a full and equal partner. You and Janine, I devoutly hope, got the best of us both.”
    Beneath this statement, Whitney sensed, lay an inquiry she was not inclined to acknowledge. Instead, she asked, “But when you were supervising Billie, or seeing to our activities, didn’t you ever want to be doing something else?”
    “No,” Anne replied firmly. “I was doing what I wished my own mother had been able to do for me. Watching over you was all I wanted, and more than I’d had.”
    Though Anne seldom spoke of it, Whitney understood that Elaine Padgett’s death from the ravages of cancer, as the fourteen-year-old girl watched with helpless dread, was central to forming the mother she knew. Curious, Whitney asked, “Was that why you and Dad had Janine so soon?”
    Perhaps because of Whitney’s quiet tone, or the privacy created by candlelight and shadow, Anne seemed to relax. “This may sound odd to you, but I’d wanted children for as long as I can remember. For a woman not to, I think, betrays a terrible selfishness. And once you girls were born, I had the luxury of caring more about you and your father than myself. It felt quite liberating, really.”
    The remark surfaced a memory that Whitney had not parsed for years. Well short of adolescence, Janine was pushing a toy baby carriage and baby down the driveway. Watching through the kitchen window, Anne had mused to her husband, “The maternal instinct comes early, doesn’t it?” Hearing this, the child Whitney had wondered when those feelings would bloom inside her, and then wondered at Janine’s. Given that Janine often ridiculed or picked on her, Whitney hoped that she would be nicer to her kids.
    “I had a professor,” Whitney told Anne, “who