The Final Judgment by Richard North Patterson

“Whatever your differences, Caroline, Betty has been a good mother. And because of it, Brett is a good person—”
    “And one is, after all, only as good as one’s mother.” He did not flinch. “You can be cruel, Caroline. But I never felt that. Not then, and not now.” His hand fell to the side, and then his voice gentled in entreaty. “You will help her, won’t you?” Caroline gazed at him. “By staying,” she finally answered, “or by leaving.”
    “Stay, Caroline. Please. I’m asking you for peace. Only for a time, and not for me—or Betty. But for her.” He stood straight again. “I know my granddaughter, in a way you never can now. Most of all, I know she’s innocent.”
     
     
CHAPTER THREE
    At the door of the house, Caroline paused, picturing the young woman inside. Silent, Channing Masters opened the door, and Caroline entered her father’s house. She stopped in the living room, hands jammed in her pockets, looking about. All was as she remembered—the antique furniture, the Chinese carpets, even the smell of things from another time. In the foyer was the grandfather clock, made in the 1850s. Oil paintings of ancestors hung in the living room, portrayed in the heroic convention—a general, a senator, a lumber magnate, a clergyman with beetling eyebrows. Her father’s books remained in his library: the original Kipling and Poe, complete editions of Dickens and Henry James, Pliny’s letters. It was where he had always read to her. What was she doing here ... ? Slowly, Caroline walked to the dining room. Her family had eaten every meal at this same polished mahogany table, on china drawn from the beveled-glass cabinet. After Betty had left for Smith, and then Caroline’s mother had died, for a few months there had been only the two of them—Channing and his youngest daughter, dining alone, discussing his work or her studies or the news of the day. It was more than conversation, Caroline remembered. It was a tutorial in politics and human nature and how they intersected, with lessons drawn from a scale as large as history—Jefferson, the economics of slavery——or as small as the village of Resolve, the foibles of its affairs and its citizens laid bare by Channing’.s discerning but not uncharitable eye. Caroline had basked in it. All that she had wanted then was to settle here as a lawyer, to follow her father’s path as far as she could. On the eve of her departure to boarding school, at Dana Hall, Caroline could feel his loneliness, read the sadness in her father’s eyes. Grasping his sleeve, Caroline asked him again if she could stay. He shook his head. “They will attend to your education now,” he said. “Better than I or any school nearby. Children do not always live to please their parents, or parents to please themselves .... “ It was that, more than anything, that had made her wish to please him. He was standing next to her, Caroline realized. The house felt empty. Softly, Caroline asked, “Where is she?”
    “Her room’s upstairs.” Caroline did not turn. “Which one?”
    “Yours.” Alone, Caroline walked to the staircase, still feeling her father’s gaze. She paused, hand on the rail. Turning her head, Caroline faced the music room, imagined her mother, sitting at a piano that was no longer there. Even then, before Caroline knew how it would end, her mother had seemed miscast—febrile, high-spirited, too mutable and vivid for this place. Caroline remembered her mother planning trips they somehow never took, until she simply stopped; recalled how her parents began to argue over politics. Nicole had conceived an unreasoning passion for Adlai Stevenson and then John Kennedy, both anathema to her Republican husband. Barely an adolescent, Caroline had sensed this conflict as a metaphor for a conflict too deep to be spoken easily: her mother’s desire to leave a life that never quite seemed hers. She had begun to notice nights when her father grew remote. When her mother, retreating to the music room and
    the