The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [111]
Her eyes close with his painful struggle for words. “Oh, Ollie, I know. I know. It's not your fault. In a million years, it's not.”
When Stephen arrives later in the day she pretends to be surprised and pleased. He pretends to be sorry, embarrassed for just dropping in on her like this. But he wanted to tell her in person, and privately, that if there's anything she needs, anything he can do, whatever it is, he'll be there for her. Anytime, day or night. Anything, he says, squeezing her hands, peering into her eyes with his usual withering intensity. Time to call a lawyer, she thinks, already knowing his mission, to put out another fire. As Oliver's most trusted envoy, he's surely been sent with a generous offer. She'll be well taken care of as long as she goes quietly, doesn't put up a fight, doesn't embarrass anyone. Without asking, she opens the liquor cabinet: whisky neat, as always. How lovely, she looks, absolutely lovely, especially in that sweater, he says with a sigh of relief as he follows her into the study, drink in hand. With such dark hair and fair skin, she should always wear violet. And black, too, he's always admired her in black. His mother used to wear a lot of black. He remembers that, he says, settling into the oversized leather chair by the stone hearth. She sits in the smaller chair, awaiting the terms.
“I used to think it was my father's abandonment. You know, that she felt like a widow or something. And so I asked her once. I told her I thought she'd feel so much happier if she'd only wear bright colors. ‘But I am happy’ she said. ‘And I'm sorry, to break the news to you, Stephen, but, you see, men prefer me in black,’” he explains, in a breathy imitation of his mother. His exuberant laughter is always unsettling, a surprise from such an ascetic.
They pick their way round the minefield. Pleasantries first: Chloe and Drew are doing well. And though she doesn't say so, they seem almost relieved. It's only now that they're older, Stephen admits, that he enjoys them. Not that they weren't always very well behaved, he says, but he's just never known how to talk to little ones. Well, anyway, he sighs, thank goodness for the warmer weather and longer daylight. Actually, this has been his best winter yet. Well, his least depressed one, that is. Light therapy, an hour every morning, it's been amazing, the difference.
The usual coughing, sniffling mess, he replies when she asks how Donald is. Red-nosed, wadded tissues everywhere. Allergies. As soon as the trees start to bud, his misery commences, from now until November. Of course, two farty old Labs in the bedroom don't help. They discuss various treatments, Stephen's new car, another Audi, the paper's dwindling ad revenue, ever-shrinking circulation, her dismissal of Jessica Bond, which delights him. Right now she's doing something on the entertainment page, but if it were up to him, he'd fire the ditz. Simple as that. One more nail in the coffin. Well deserved and long overdue. “And the next head to roll, his princess in circulation,” he says with a lift of his glass, and it's a moment before she realizes he means Sheila Nedderman, Ken's old paddle tennis partner. Typical of Stephen, needing to put a vile spin on Ken's kindness. Desperate for a job after her divorce, Sheila pestered Ken for months. The calls came night and day.
“His princess? Oh, come on, Stephen, please. That's not even funny.”
“I know. I never did understand the attraction. The big poufy hair, oooh!” He cringes. “But a hound's a hound. Or so they say.”
“Stephen!” She looks at him. “I don't want to do that. I'm not going to start looking under every rock. I mean, after all, the children. He's their father. I'm trying to respect that. It's hard, but I have to.”
His mouth puckers. He is incapable of hiding his feelings. Part of the reason he was never a practicing lawyer, or heterosexual,