Free The Last Secret by Mary Mcgarry Morris Page B

land in San Juan at ten thir—”
    “So, show me what you've got,” he interrupts. It is a habit both brothers share, asking a question, then growing bored with the answer. Ken's suggests a certain boyish distraction, while Oliver only seems rude. At first, it took her a long time to warm up to Oliver. But now his brusqueness is also his saving grace. Always to the point, he never leads anyone on.
    “I thought a piece by each of the hospital's board members. Pictures of the newest units, labs, whatever.” She stands over him,handing down the sample layouts. “I thought something from a nurse, say, and a lab technician, a housekeeper, EMT, all the different viewpoints on—”
    “Kenny's doing good, huh?” He looks up over the smudged half glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
    “What do you mean?” she says sharply.
    “Just that.” He shrugs. “We had lunch. He seemed a hell of a lot more engaged, I thought. That's all.” He shuffles through the papers. “He had me worried there for a while.”
    “How's that?” She passes him more sheets.
    “Oh, I don't know. For a while there he just wasn't tuned in, you know?”
    “What do you think was wrong?”
    “Ah, who the hell knows. Probably the same cobwebs, same treadmill we all get stuck on.” He glances up, frowning, rolling his hand. “Where's the ads? You gonna run this on love or something?”
    “They're just mock-ups.” She gives him four more. “I mean, nobody's even gone out yet.”
    He looks over her proposed ads, nodding, muttering. “Cheap bastards,” he says when he comes to the companies he doubts will buy space. He reaches beside his chair and brings up a bottle of scotch and a glass, cloudy with amber rings. He fills the glass, sips it warm, no ice. He asks about her dates for getting the supplement in on time, then raises his glass. “It's your ball. Run with it.”
    “You sure now?” She's not surprised. The trick is to answer Oliver's questions before he asks them, then tunes you out.
    “Sure I'm sure.” He reaches down for another glass and pours it half full. “Bon voyage!”
    “Bon voyage!” The long burning drink makes her eyes water and her nose run.
    Oliver is telling her about today's phone call, complaining about the recent
Chronicle
photo of state senator Bob Gallewski. In it, Gallewski, with tumbler in hand, looked dazed, thick-featured, open-mouthed, and if not intoxicated, certainly slow-witted. His campaign manager, Abby Rust, is demanding they run a better one. “‘But, Abby’I said, ‘if I do that, next thing I'll be running photo retractions on the bake-sale ladies and the Eagle Scouts.’” At the thought of it, Oliver laughs, refills his glass. “Before and after editions.”
    “You've got to admit it's a dirty trick,” Nora says as she moves about, kicking socks into a pile, lining up shoes by the door, stacking weeks of newspapers and magazines. “It's like another kind of power you have over someone.” She hangs his suit coat over the back of a chair. “One nobody can really call you on, it's so insidious.”
    “As conscience of the people.” He hoists his glass. “However self-appointed.” Then takes a drink.
    “What if it was me? Suppose Ken and I were in a messy divorce, what would you do?” She is stacking his CDs on the cluttered table next to him.
    “What I usually do in domestic matters.” His eyes lift slowly to hers. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
    “Ollie,” she begins, then catches herself He despises conversations like this. Get too personal and he'll walk away. The hell with it. She can't keep up the façade. This pretense of a normal life is destroying her. It takes too much energy. More than she needs to talk, she wants Oliver's help, though hasn't the slightest idea what form that might take. Not financial and certainly not emotional, for that is beyond Oliver's ken. What she wants is to stop hurting.
    “You knew all about it, didn't you?”
    “What do you