The Perfect Mother (12 page)

T
hey met at a tapas bar Roberto recommended on Calle Batis. Always precisely on time, Roberto had arrived first and was waiting at the counter. When Jennifer entered a few minutes later, his wasn’t the only head that turned to stare. She looked beautiful, dressed in her favorite black dress and pointy, patent leather high heels. Her long chestnut hair was pulled into a knot with a few wisps that came loose and softly framed her face. She had put on a little makeup and her lips shone with a pale pink gloss that nearly matched the color of her pink quartz necklace and earrings. She could feel the approval of the appraising glances.

She had deliberately created this effect. Feeling upset and insecure after Mark left, worried about Emma and not sure what to believe, she needed what she had managed to produce: male attention, which restored a small sense of her own power. She spotted Roberto right away and joined him at the bar. He had already ordered and offered her some fried cheese croquetas and jamón serrano. She wanted a drink first, so she called the waiter over to order one. “Vino blanco, por favor,” she said.

“Qué bueno,” Roberto said with a big smile. “You are learning Spanish, senora. This experience will have taught you something, at least.”

She looked past him, not meeting his eyes. “It has taught me many things. Spanish is the nicest of them.”

He took a sip of his beer and peered at her over his glass. “That doesn’t sound good. Has your husband gone home?”

“Yes, but that’s okay. I’m actually relieved he left.”

Roberto picked up his beer again and downed the rest in one large swig. He signaled to the waiter to bring him the check and took out his wallet to settle the bill. Jennifer’s wine was just arriving, and he told the waiter they had changed their minds and had to go but would pay for the wine anyway since they had ordered it. Although she didn’t understand his words, there was no missing his body language as he stood up, offered her his hand, and gently pulled her to her feet. She complied, confused, and let him lead her outside, where she asked him why he was suddenly in such a rush.

“From the way you have dressed and the way you are talking, I see this is not the night for a tapas bar,” he said with a crooked smile. We will go to a quiet restaurant I know where we can talk, and after, if you like, we can take a walk and talk some more. Am I right in thinking you have something you want to discuss?”

She gratefully fell in step with him. He stopped at a taxi stand and they waited for a few minutes until an empty cab pulled up.

“Thank you,” Jennifer said, leaning back into the seat and staring ahead of her. “You’re right, of course. I do need to talk.” She turned to look at him. “I saw Emma today.”

“I know,” he said soothingly. “But we will not discuss that here. We will soon be somewhere more appropriate. I will order a Scotch and you will order some wine—white, I believe—and we will ask for a private room and talk there.”

“A private room? For only two people? Is that possible? Maybe you’re a little optimistic.”

He seemed almost offended, but she couldn’t tell if it was real or if he was playing with her.

“I once told you I never do anything on faith, senora. My brother owns the restaurant. He will accommodate us.”

“But what if the rooms are all taken?”

“Ah, you are very exacting. Good. We will need that kind of thinking for our case.”

“But you haven’t answered.”

He smiled. “I planned to take you there after our tapas. I have reserved the room for the entire night since I wasn’t sure what time we would arrive. Are you satisfied?”

“More than satisfied. I’m impressed. And kind of astounded.”

She leaned back again and looked out the window at the crowded streets, all the people moving about, living their lives, hurrying to meet someone or going home alone to empty apartments, happy or sad or angry or afraid. They were all coping with their own private crises or celebrating their own triumphs. And though she didn’t know them and could barely understand their language, she felt a kinship with them somehow, a sense that they were all part of the same human drama and that, though the cause might be different, her current unhappiness was something they could understand. It would change, even pass one day, and be replaced by other emotions, emotions they also had felt. It was a strange sensation, kind of soppy, she thought, but it was salutary. It made her feel connected to the life around her, less alone. The last time she’d felt anything like it was in college when she’d smoked pot. Remembering that made her think again of Emma. Maybe her involvement with Paco was not so different from Jennifer’s own college days when she had a boyfriend who smoked joints every day and sometimes snorted cocaine. He was always trying to get her to join him, but except for the pot once or twice, she resisted everything else. She hadn’t liked the sensation of being high because she didn’t like feeling out of control. And she hadn’t stayed with him or his crowd. She never approved of the drug scene.

Still, in retrospect, it seemed rather innocent. And that old boyfriend had ended up going to Harvard Business School and was now the CEO of some big company. Maybe Paco wasn’t so . . . But that’s ridiculous, she thought. There’s no comparison. No one died in that group; no one was stabbed to death. And the detective had said that Paco dealt serious drugs, the hard stuff. No. This was different.

The cab pulled over to the curb in front of a restaurant with several small round tables outside. They were all taken, and Jennifer noticed pitchers of sangria on some of them, while at others fried squid and beer were being consumed. It looked good, and she realized she was hungry. Roberto led her inside, and after a few pleasantries with the host, they were taken to a private room in the back. It was furnished with a heavy oak farmhouse table large enough for eight but set for two, a rustic buffet with a travertine marble top, and several side tables. A lavish bouquet of bright pink peonies sat atop one of the tables and white beeswax candles in brass candlesticks had been placed artfully around the room. The host showed them to their seats, lit the candles, and withdrew.

Roberto held her chair and sat down after she did. Almost immediately, the waiter appeared to take drink orders, and she asked if the bartender could do a Bellini. He told her he thought they had peach nectar and could therefore produce it. Roberto asked for a Scotch, neat. The waiter left the menu for them and she started to peruse it.

“There’s no rush,” Roberto said. “We can drink first, if you like. You can order whenever you’re hungry.”

“Actually, I’m hungry now,” she said. “You whisked me out of that other place so fast I didn’t get a chance to eat anything.”

“Ah, then by all means . . .”

She looked at the menu while he called the waiter back and ordered some more croquetas and gambas. She had chosen the lamb for her main course and Roberto ordered that for both of them.

“Now that all of that is out of the way, you are perhaps ready to tell me what you wanted to talk to me about.”

“I think I’d like to have my drink first,” she said.

They waited, making small talk. She commented on the restaurant’s decor and asked if his brother was the chef as well as the owner. He told her that his brother was both but unfortunately had taken a day off or Roberto would have liked to introduce him to her.

The waiter came back with their drinks and they held them up for a toast. “To Emma’s release,” Roberto said. They clinked glasses, but Jennifer was not looking directly at him. “Ah, senora, we must lock eyes for a toast or it will bring bad luck.”

She looked at him. “Then by all means . . .” They clinked again. “Roberto, you must call me Jennifer.”

“Perhaps. But not yet.”

She put her glass down and sat quietly for a few minutes, staring at the tabletop. At last she spoke. “Mark thinks that Emma is lying. He thinks there was no Algerian. He thinks Paco stabbed Rodrigo and Emma is protecting him.”

Roberto hailed the waiter and ordered another Scotch. When they were alone again, he spoke. “But that is not a surprise. You think the same.”

“What are you saying? Of course I don’t think that. I believe Emma.”

He shook his head and spoke gently. “No, senora, you don’t. You want to believe her very much. You think you
should
believe her. But tell me the truth—or don’t tell me but think about it yourself—do you really believe her? Hasn’t she been lying to you from the beginning? Wasn’t she lying even before you came—about what she was doing and where she was living?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“You resent your husband for saying it, but you have said it to yourself, I am sure.”

She thought about what he had said and then nodded slowly and looked down as she spoke. “I resent him for saying it the way he said it. I resent him for bullying me, for accusing me, for expanding this whole nightmare so it includes my relationship with him too.”

He reached out his hand and put it on top of hers. She didn’t withdraw it. He spoke softly, almost in a whisper. She had to lean closer to understand him.

“But you have had the same thoughts, yes?”

Her answer was reluctant and very quiet. She did not look at him but continued to stare fixedly at the table. “Yes. Sometimes. I try not to.”

“You think he blames you?”

She pulled away her hand and looked up. “No. Not really. But maybe. Maybe a little. Maybe I blame myself. I don’t know what to think.” She finished her Bellini. “Maybe you could order a bottle of wine,” she suggested, and he obliged. She waited for the waiter to fill her glass, then drank in little sips until she drained it. She felt the warmth suffuse her body and her eyes get heavy while her mind became slightly clouded.

“Roberto, there is something else, something I understand but I don’t think Mark does. Emma is many things, but one of them is a twenty-year-old young woman who is in love for the first time in her life. And in that early stage of first love the line between who she is and who he is sometimes becomes obscured, especially in someone who is at the same time breaking away from her parents, trying to establish her independence, at least psychologically if not economically. And because I think I understand this, I have an idea of how to help her.”

The waiter stopped at the table to deliver their dinner. When he left, Roberto got up.

“I need to use the restroom. I’ll be right back. What you are saying is intriguing. I want to hear what you have in mind.”

She watched him go, pouring herself another glass of wine. She remembered how she and Emma had been amused by Emma’s friend Mara, one of three suitemates who bunked with her during her freshman year at Princeton. They shared adjoining double rooms separated by a common bathroom and had all been very close friends. But once Mara met her boyfriend, Jules, he was constantly with her. It was awkward for the other two roommates in that cramped space. They kept bumping into him as they came out of the shower or when they were trying to study or get ready for bed, and they got tired of his being constantly around. When they complained, Mara told them, “What you say about him is what you say about me. If you say he’s around too much, it’s like saying I’m around too much.”

“No, it isn’t,” the girls insisted. “You are you and he is him.”

“You don’t understand,” Mara finally proclaimed with frustration. “I
am
Jules.”

Emma and Jennifer had laughed and laughed over this, but now she wondered if this wasn’t exactly what was happening to Emma.

If they wanted to separate her from Paco, if they had any hope of getting her to tell the truth about what had happened even if that would mean getting him into trouble in order to save herself, they had to find a way to demonstrate that she was separate from him, that his well-being wasn’t necessarily hers.

She saw Roberto wending his way through the tables as he returned to their private room. He sat down, put his napkin on his lap, took a sip of his drink, and smiled at her.

“Bien. Now tell me your idea.”

“We need to separate her from Paco psychologically.”

“Por supuesto, pero cómo?” he mumbled.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. Of course we do. But how?”

“I think it’s something you might investigate. For example, where does the money we have given her and she has given to him actually go? He tells her he does everything to help the poor and unemployed, but does he? Where does his drug money go? What organization? What individuals in what village? If we can show Emma that Paco has lied to her, that he isn’t what he claims—and I don’t know; I’m just guessing that he isn’t—maybe she will stop trying to protect him. And there’s another thing. Maybe you could find out if there’s another girlfriend somewhere. I mean, if he was cheating on her, that would be the best.”

Roberto laughed out loud. “Your daughter would not agree with you. But you are devious; I like that, senora. It may be just what we need. Will you tell Emma that you no longer believe her story?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Will you tell your husband?”

“I haven’t decided what I will tell my husband. For the moment, this is just between us. De acuerdo?”

“Sí, Jennifer, de acuerdo.”

T
wo days passed during which Roberto tied up some loose ends on his other cases and he and Jennifer met to discuss their strategy. She awoke on the morning of the third day optimistic and energized, even though she had once again been refused permission to visit Emma and couldn’t reach her by phone. Still, she was a woman with a mission, and now she knew what it was. She would expose Paco, who she was sure was hiding something, and she would free her daughter, not only from prison but from the psychological stranglehold in which Paco held her. Once she was set on this plan, it simply did not occur to her that she might be wrong and that there might be nothing helpful to discover.

She glanced at the clock—it was 8:00
A.M.
She stretched, turning over to lie on her back, where she stayed for a few minutes, a satisfied smile creasing her face as she recalled the plan she and Roberto had finally settled on. He would leave this morning for Paco’s home village and find out whatever he could about Paco’s background: parents, siblings, school reports, neighbors, whomever he could track down. José would check with his sources in the police department to see what they had found out. And Jennifer would try to contact Paco and Emma’s friends.

In some ways Jennifer’s job was the hardest. She had Julia as her contact to Emma’s circle, but she had no idea who Paco’s friends were. Still, she was eager to get started, and she figured she’d call Julia first. She got up and made her way to the bathroom, trying to ignore the lethargy in her limbs and her aching head. She shouldn’t have drunk so much wine, she thought as she splashed cold water on her face and reached into her medicine bag for some Advil. She showered and dressed and, feeling somewhat better, opened the door to pick up her copy of the
International New York Times
, which she intended to take with her to the breakfast room on the ground floor. The paper lay on her doorstep, front page up, and as she bent down to retrieve it her pulse quickened. In the lower half of the front page was a picture of Emma. And not just any picture. It was the incriminating shot of Emma dressed as a prostitute, the one the Spanish press had used and that Jennifer thought had been taken care of when Roberto had explained to the press that it was a costume for the American holiday of Halloween. But here it was again, with no explanation of its provenance, above a headline that read:
PRINCETON CO-ED PRIME
SUSPECT IN MURDER IN
VESTIGATION
.

Her greatest immediate fear had been realized: The story was now the property of the international press. They would arrive in droves, she fretted; they would investigate, incriminate, sensationalize. They would turn an already painful situation into a circus. Most important, they would lessen any chance of getting Emma out quietly without a trial. And there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

She grabbed up the paper and pulled it inside, her heart pounding. She hurriedly read the story, fear turning to despair. Her first thought was to call Roberto, who was on his way to Paco’s village, about four hours away. She tried his mobile, but the phone went straight to voice mail without ringing, so either he was out of range of a signal or—unlikely, given his attention to detail—his phone needed to be charged. She hung up and tried Suzie, forgetting the time difference until she heard Suzie’s thickened, groggy voice.

“Suze, I’m so sorry to wake you. What time is it there?”

“Jesus, Jennifer. It’s two a.m. What’s up? Did something happen to Emma?”

“No, not that. I’m sorry. But I don’t know who else to call. I just saw today’s
Times
and there’s a picture of Emma in that prostitute costume on the front page. The reporter says she interviewed students in and out of Emma’s program. She quotes people claiming Emma was crazed from the moment she arrived here, that she went to wild parties and slept around before she even met Paco. I mean, it’s totally shoddy journalism. I don’t see how they can use unidentified sources when it blackens someone’s reputation and could even affect a verdict. And no one even called me for a comment on this. My lawyer didn’t know it was coming or he’d have warned me.”

“Well, there’s nothing really new in those accusations,” Suzie said. “They’re all lies and gossip. You know that. You’ve heard most of it before.”

“I know, but that was local, the Spanish press. Now this is an American story, an international one—everyone will turn against her.”

“No. We have to get the spin doctors we hired to get to work on this. They have to counter it somehow. She was celebrating Halloween. They’ll push the idea that this is an anti-American witch hunt.”

Jennifer lowered her voice. “Suzie, I don’t even know if it’s true.”

“Don’t say that, Jennifer. Don’t think it. It doesn’t matter right now. We’ll fight these rumors. The truth is, what if she did sleep around? So what? Maybe she went a little wild. That’s like every college freshman in the U.S. Maybe they’re not used to that there. Whatever it is, it’s a long way from being a murderer. Or helping a murderer. We have to get back to the original story where she’s the victim. Any luck in locating the Algerian?”

“No. No one believes there was an Algerian. No one. Not the police. Not her lawyer. Not the reporter who wrote this damn story. Not even her father.”

“Mark doesn’t believe her?”

“No. That’s another story. Too long for now.”

“Well, do you believe her?”

“I don’t know anymore. There’s lots of evidence pointing away from that story.”

“Is any of that in the paper today?”

“No. But it will be. It’s just a matter of time.”

“What does Mark say about this?”

“I haven’t called him.”

“Call him, Jennifer. Whatever is going on between you two, he’s her father. You have to call him. I’ll get hold of the PR company and get back to you when I hear what they have in mind.”

“Thank you, Suzie. I love you.”

“Me too. Call Mark.”

Jennifer hung up and sat motionless staring at the phone. She noticed it was blinking and realized there must be a message, so she picked it up and pushed 6, which connected to the hotel’s individual message system. There was a voice mail from someone called Catherine Murphy asking her to please call back. The date was two days ago, meaning the delivery had somehow been delayed, since she checked her messages carefully these days and was sure the light wasn’t blinking earlier. The name sounded familiar. She glanced at the byline on the story, and there it was: Catherine Murphy. The reporter had called for a comment. Small comfort that was, though it would at least have given her a chance to explain that the picture was misleading and the implication, in her opinion, libelous.

She broke the connection and punched in her home number. The phone rang four times before Mark picked it up. She could picture him first doubling his pillow over his ears, then rolling over to her side of the bed, where the phone was stationed, finally reaching for it, barely awake. He mumbled a sleepy hello.

She didn’t bother to apologize for waking him, launching immediately into the story in the paper. He hadn’t known about it, and they wondered if it would be in that day’s
New York Times
, which would be delivered by 7:00
A.M
.

“We always knew this was a possibility, Jennifer. We’ll do everything we can to launch a counterattack, pushing our own narrative.”

“I’m a little confused about what our own narrative is.”

He answered quickly and fluently, making it clear he was ready for this question.

“Emma is a star student at Princeton, a believer in social justice, an innocent who lived a supervised, hardworking, busy life of study, friends, sports, and volunteer work. She was overwhelmed by the relative freedom she experienced this first time completely on her own, and may have gotten involved with the wrong people. But she is essentially a decent, honest person and would never be involved in either drug sales or violence.”

“Well,
I
believe that.”

He let that go. “There will probably be reporters trying to interview us,” he continued. “Ask Roberto how to handle that. My gut says talk to no one.”

“But maybe we should orchestrate an interview with the right publication or TV channel to give our side,” she suggested.

“We can’t do that until we know the truth or falsehood of their allegations and why they made them. Does this come from gossip or somebody’s actual knowledge? You’ll need to have Roberto talk to the same students and others, and you should go back to talk to Emma again.”

She agreed, telling him that she would consult with Roberto, who was out of town at the moment but should return the following day. She didn’t mention the errand Roberto was on, still intending to keep that secret until they found something. And she didn’t say that she would try to find Emma’s friends and fellow students herself while Roberto was away.

“I might be able to come back in four or five days. Can you hold on by yourself until then?”

“Of course. You don’t really need to come at all.”

“Jennifer—”

“Do what you think is best. I have to go.”

She hung up. Already regretting her behavior, she reached for the phone and called him back to apologize but changed her mind and hung up after she heard the first ring. She knew she was wrong, but on another level, she felt better. It wouldn’t kill him for her to stay mad awhile longer, and it helped her. She didn’t want to waste time dealing with relationship issues between her and Mark. She had work to do for Emma today.

She went downstairs for some breakfast before calling Julia. The dining room was relatively empty. A few men and women in business suits sat alone at tables, and she noticed one woman with two little girls sitting nearby. The children—she reckoned they were about four and seven—were quarreling. She remembered when Emma and Lily were about that age. How they fought with each other! Emma had taken the birth of a sibling hard. She had so loved being the first and only child and was loath to share anything—her toys, her room, and especially her mother’s attention. She was fine at first, even being protective of her baby sister and urging her mother to pick her up if she cried. But as soon as Lily got old enough to start wanting to play with Emma’s toys, or break Emma’s Lego creations, or sit on Jennifer’s lap, Emma rebelled. After that, there was open hostility, and although they occasionally played together when neither had a playdate, most of their interactions were competitive and explosive. It was different when Eric was born, because by that time, Emma had resigned herself to not being an only child. In fact, she had taken it upon herself to mother him. She begged to let him sleep in her room and showered him with little presents, including her collection of stuffed animals. Mark had joked that Emma was actually sending Lily a message: “You see, I don’t hate
all
my siblings. Just
you
.” As they grew older, though, that relationship changed, and by the time Emma left for Spain, the girls were good friends.

The two sisters had stopped bickering, busying themselves with the coloring books and crayons their mother had handed them.

Jennifer ordered a continental breakfast with a basket of rolls, orange juice, and coffee, and ate a muffin when it came. Then she went back to her room to call Julia.

The message light on the room phone was flashing, and she picked up the phone to discover that she had missed two calls. Hoping that one of them was from Roberto, she hurriedly played the messages back. They were both from reporters—one from
El País
in Madrid, another from
Le Figaro
in Paris. They each left a number and asked her to call back. It had begun. She erased both messages and called Julia’s cell phone.

Julia’s voice mail picked up and Jennifer left a message asking her to call back. She figured Julia was probably at class and wondered if she should go to the university and try to meet her. But it seemed senseless—she didn’t know what class she might be attending, or even if she was actually there. She decided to wait for Julia to return her call. She felt restless and anxious and didn’t know what to do to pass the time. She tried calling Roberto again but was once more greeted by his voice mail. She called José but was told he was at a meeting. She hesitated, then called Mark on his cell phone so she could leave a message without waking him again.

“Mark, it’s me. I’m sorry about before. Of course I want you to come and to come as soon as you possibly can. I’ve been rattled by everything that’s been going on lately, but I know we can handle it best together. Call me later, when you’re up and have a minute, okay?”

She tried to read the rest of the paper but couldn’t concentrate and finally grabbed her bag and went downstairs. There was no point just sitting in her room and waiting, she thought, so she left the hotel and walked over to the university. It was a beautiful day: hot but not humid, with the bright sun illuminating the multicolored flowers, whose scent perfumed the air. How she would have loved it here under different circumstances. Even now, even after the shock of today’s newspaper story, she felt her spirits lift just by stepping outside.

She was lucky; she spotted Julia as soon as she entered the university’s courtyard. She was walking with a group of friends, chatting and laughing, carrying her books in front of her. It looked as though class had just let out. Jennifer called out to her and waved and Julia caught sight of her. After a slight pause in which Jennifer thought a flicker of reluctance crossed her face, she waved back, excused herself from her friends, and joined her.

“Hi, Mrs. Lewis. Are you looking for me?”

“Hi, Julia. I am, actually. I’m sorry to take you away from your friends.”

“That’s all right. I want to help Emma any way I can. A friend gave me a ride out to visit her. I wrote to her and she asked the prison for permission to let me in. It was so depressing. She seemed okay, but it was awful seeing her in jail with all those tough women. She’s trying to be brave, but she looked so alone.”

Jennifer sighed. “I know. But she’s not. She has all of us. When did you see her? We saw her a few days ago, and I haven’t been told when I can go again.”