Free The Last Day by John Ramsey Miller Page B

said.
    “Nothing to it. Just a short conversation with a friendly aviation employee I have on my Christmas list, followed by a computer search. I'll call after the meeting to let you know what happens.”
    Ward hung up and his eyes came to rest on the calendar on the counter. He saw that Natasha had marked the anniversary of Barney's death with a red circle. He wondered why she'd have to mark the date to remember that day. While she hadn't mentioned anything to Ward, he couldn't help wondering what she had planned to do on the anniversary.

SEVENTEEN
    When headlights illuminated the backyard it was eight- twenty Ward was in his kitchen and had poured a Scotch to help obscure the memory of his afternoon visit with his mother, who hadn't spoken to him for the hour he'd been there. The disease had about run its course,reducing her to a slow- breathing mannequin lying in a bed staring at the ceiling.
    Standing at the sink, he noticed the glasses still there from the night before, and Natasha's orange juice glass from her morning jolt. Thinking he should put them in the dishwasher, he was struck by the fact that he'd put his expensive Riedel glass, designed specifically to allow for the appreciation of fine Scotches, rim down in the sink. He never did such a thing. No, he didn't recall putting that glass in the sink the night before, but he always set glasses base down, especially those, to prevent chipping the delicate rims. He wondered if Natasha had done it without thinking, but that was not like her. If she touched it, she would have only done so to put it into the dishwasher.
    He heard Natasha's car door slam shut out in the garage, followed by the sound of the garage door's motor engaging. When Natasha came in, Ward was drying the clean glasses with a towel. He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Pinot Grigio, pulled out the cork, and poured some into her glass.
    “How was your day?” he asked her.
    “Not real good,” she answered, fingering herway through a stack of unopened mail he'd left on the counter.
    “Generally or specifically?” he asked.
    “I had a session with Dr. Richardson this afternoon.”
    He handed her the glass of chilled wine. “And did the shrink make you feel better?”
    “No. But I appreciate your genuine concern.”
    “I didn't mean anything, but if he doesn't make you feel any better, why do you keep going to him twice a week?”
    “You can take one of the sessions.”
    “Did he tell you again that I'm in denial?”
    She glared at him reflexively for a second before looking away.
    “Have you eaten?” he asked, changing the subject.
    She shook her head.
    “Good,” he told her, handing her the glass. “I'll whip us up a little something.”
    She frowned. “Like what? Peanut butter on rye?”
    “How about pasta with garlic butter and a delightful Caesar salad?” Ward had already checked the fridge when he had been trying todecide if he had the energy to make himself dinner.
    “Sure,” she said, smiling quizzically. “You make the salad while I boil the water.”
    “You don't trust me to boil water?” he asked. He gave her a reluctant smirk. “God, you have an impeccable memory, Natasha.”
    “How about because you make a great salad,” she replied, a smile gracing her face for the first time in days.
    Twenty minutes later, Natasha and Ward were seated at their dining table with the lights dimmed. Although he'd brought the bottle to the table, her wine was untouched.
    “How was your day?” she asked, taking a mouthful of her salad and chewing slowly.
    “I had lunch with Gene,” he told her.
    “Did you?” She looked down at her plate as she rolled linguini onto her fork delicately.
    Ward took a sip of his Scotch, savoring it before swallowing. He wasn't hungry. “He told me you're willing to settle with Lander. He seemed to think you'd sign a nondisclosure agreement.”
    Natasha set her fork down. “I don't want this dragging out for years over that one