Part 7 (2/2)

Eaton and Dorothy had lived on Old Burgess Way for thirty-five years. Their brick home had white columns and shutters, black doors and wrought-iron detail, five bedrooms, six bathrooms, and a salt.w.a.ter pool. Though there were times in recent years when the place echoed, they wouldn't have dreamed of selling.

Eaton liked being with those who shared his values. He wasn't the richest or most prominent on the street, but he didn't have to be. A historian and best-selling author, he much preferred to blend in. Book signings were difficult for him in that regard, comprised as they were of total strangers. The cla.s.s he taught at the university was another matter. Here were serious, talented students, mostly seniors as intent on gaining behind-the-scene tips on writing about history as they were into history itself. Blessed with a love of the past and a faultless memory, Eaton could talk spontaneously about most any time period in American life.

As for the behind-the-scene tips, this was easy, too. It was his life. Granted, connections opened doors, and he had them, as most of these students did not. His forebears had played a role at every stage of American history. Indeed, each of his books included the cameo appearance of at least one of them. That was the single common element in his body of work, eight books to date. And the ninth, due out in five short weeks? In it, Clarkes played the lead. One Man's Line traced the history of the family as it wove among luminaries, gaining in prominence and wealth with each successive generation. The focus was history. This was, after all, what Eaton was known for. But the time span was greater than that, say, of his book on the demise of the League of Nations. And the personal element was strong, offering intimate details of the lives of his early ancestors.

”The printer just delivered a sample of the book-party invitation,” Dorothy reported, coming toward him from the library door. ”I don't think it's right, Eaton. It doesn't have the dignified feel I want.”

She put it down on the desk. Sitting forward, Eaton immediately saw the problem. ”The ink color is wrong. This is blue-gray. We want green-gray.”

Dorothy frowned at the sample. ”Well, if that's all, it isn't as bad as it could be. Still, they'll have to send this back and have it redone, and if the envelope liners match this blue-gray, they'll have to be reordered, too. By the time they get it right and print them up, we'll be at the deadline for mailing. There's no more room for error.”

Eaton didn't want to hear that. ”We should have let my publisher do it.”

”But they did an awful job last time. These invitations go to people whose opinions we value. Would you show up at the University Club wearing a bargain-bas.e.m.e.nt suit? Absolutely not. You like presenting yourself a certain way, and the invitation to your event is no different. This is the start of your tour, it's on your home turf, and it's important. Did you call Hugh?”

In a measured way, Eaton asked, ”Did Hugh call me?”

It was a rhetorical question. The phone had been ringing since they walked in the door. If any of the callers had been Hugh, Dorothy wouldn't have asked. No, the calls would have been from people hearing of the birth of Hugh's child. Thinking about that put Eaton on edge.

He had two sons. While Robert was traditional, agreeable, and, Lord knew, successful, Hugh was the one most like Eaton, and not only in looks. Both were athletic. Both were intellectually creative. Both had chosen fields outside the family field and excelled.

If Eaton had a soft spot, Hugh occupied it.

”Where is Mark?” he barked.

”You sent him home,” Dorothy answered quickly, defensively. ”You left him a note before we went to the hospital, don't you recall? You said we were celebrating a new baby, so there wouldn't be work today, and I'm not sure what work there is now, anyway, Eaton. He's your researcher, and the book is done.”

”He's my a.s.sistant,” Eaton corrected, ”and, yes, there is work still to do-interviews to complete, speeches to outline. It used to be that all you had to do when you toured was sign your name to books. Now they want a speech. They want entertainment. Did I give Mark a paid day off?”

”I don't know, but if you did, it's done, and it was not my doing, so please don't yell at me.”

Eaton quieted. He couldn't be angry at Dorothy. Hugh's folly wasn't her fault.

”Did you call him?” she repeated, albeit with deference.

Eaton didn't reply. Rather, he sat back in his tall leather chair and looked at the books that surrounded him, floor to ceiling, shelf upon shelf. Like his neighbors, these books were his friends. The books he had auth.o.r.ed himself sat together on a side shelf, clearly visible, though in no way singled out. While Eaton was proud of each one, they wouldn't have existed without those that had come before.

One generation led to the next. Wasn't that the theme of One Man's Line? Early reviews were calling it ”eminently readable,” ”engrossing,” ”an American saga,” and while Eaton wouldn't have used the word ”saga”-too commercial-he agreed with the gist. Ancestral charts appeared at various points in the book, growing more elaborate with the years. They were impressive and exact.

”Eaton?”

”No. I haven't called.”

”Don't you think you should? He's your son. Your approval means the world to him.”

”If that were true,” Eaton remarked, ”he wouldn't have married the woman he did.”

”But did you see how pale and tired he looked? Yes, I know he was up all night, but he didn't plan for this to happen. They had no indication that her father was African American, and maybe he isn't. Maybe it came through the grandmother's side. Call him, Eaton.”

”I'll see,” Eaton said dismissively.

But she was dogged, stronger now. ”I know what that means, it means you won't, but this is about a child, Eaton. She's a living, breathing human being, and she has at least some of our genes.”

”Does she?”

”Yes, she does.”

”You're too soft.”

”Maybe, but I love my son. I don't wish him hurt, not by her and not by you.”

”Dorothy, he basically told me to jump off a cliff.”

”He did not.”

”He did. It was right there in his eyes. You weren't close enough. You couldn't see.”

”He was upset. Goodness, if we were upset seeing that child, after all the months looking forward to it and now fearing that something's amiss and not knowing what to think, imagine what he's feeling.”

”What about us? We were looking forward to this baby. Every single one of our friends knew how much. So. Tell me who called.”

Dorothy brightened. ”Alfred called. And Sylvia. And Porter and Dusty-they were on two extensions, talking at the same time, so I could hardly hear.

”How much do they know?”

Her brightness faded. ”Only that it's a girl. And Bradley. Bradley called.”

Eaton's head buzzed. ”And how did Brad know? Robert.” He let out a breath. ”Does that boy know the meaning of discretion?”

”Oh, Eaton,” Dorothy said with resignation. ”If not from Robert, Brad would have heard it from someone else. This won't remain a secret for long.”

Eaton knew that and was annoyed. ”What did Hugh expect marrying her? I said this back then, and I say it again now-she may well have married him for his money.”

”Oh, I don't think-”

”Of course you don't. You don't want to admit Hugh made a mistake and, besides, she knit you the afghan you wanted, which you interpret as a sign of affection, though it may not be at all. The thing about marrying someone so different is that you never know what drives them.”

”If it's only about money, why does she work? She could be lunching with friends, or spending the day at the spa, for G.o.d's sake. If it's only about money, why does she make the effort she does?”

Eaton snorted. ”Effort? Please. What she does isn't work. She drives from house to house visiting people who are either lazy or lack taste, and then she trots off to the Design Center, likely as an excuse to buy things for her own house. She certainly doesn't work like Hugh does.”

”But she earns money. And she isn't the only wife who works. Look at Rebecca Boyd. Look at Amanda Parker.”

”Look at Andrew Smith's daughter and the Harding girls,” Eaton countered. ”They don't work. Dana could be doing things to help Hugh in his career. She could be doing charity work. She could make important contacts for him through that.”

”But he represents criminals.”

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