The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [27]
“Why're you mad at me? What'd you want me to do? Break up your family?”
“No.” She's crying again. “It's just … I'm so hurt. I feel so alone.”
“But you're still together, right?”
“Barely.”
“What do you think, I just sat idly by? Of course I didn't. I tried. I did the best I could.”
“What? What did you do?”
He takes another long drink. “I told him what an asshole he was. What a loser. I told him you were the best thing that ever happened to him and I wasn't going to be party to anything that would destroy that.”
“Party to anything, what do you mean?”
“Just that.”
For days this conversation replays in her head. All she can conclude is that Oliver regards her as some kind of crutch for Ken. Take away the crutch, his brother goes down. And maybe it's true. Maybe that's what did it, what's still keeping them together. Her strength, something Robin lacks. That's what Oliver was trying to tell her.
aturday, 5 a.m.: Chloe is staying at her friend Jesse's house. Drew will be at Johnny Hale's while they're in Anguilla. The limo has been idling out front for fifteen minutes.
“What's the holdup?” Ken calls up from the front hall.
She can hear voices, the door opening, then closing as the driver carries their luggage down to the car.
“Nora! C'mon!” Ken calls.
Down in the driveway the trunk bangs shut. Fully dressed, hair blown dry, makeup on, she sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the deep molding around the two-over-two panels on the door painted Luster Pearl. Two years ago this room was done over. How important the color seemed then; after all, it was their bedroom. The cut-glass doorknob glitters as it turns.
“Jesus, Nora. We're going to be late.” He gestures back over his shoulder. “Why're you just sitting there?”
Imagine that, she thinks, looking at him fresh and trim, pressed khakis, lavender Polo shirt, so eager, ready for a good time. As always. Just another vacation, winter getaway, that's all. Recharge the batteries. As if nothing has ever happened. Walk out that door and they'll be the same two people they've always been. Ken's good at that, better in his role than she's ever been in hers. Theater, that's what this is, living theater.
“Nora?”
“I'm not going.”
“What do you mean? What're you talking about?” He lifts his hands in astonishment.
“Nothing. Because what on earth would we talk about?”
“We'll … we'll relax. Get away from … everything.”
“Can you do that? Really? Because I can't. I don't know how. I keep trying, but I can't. I can't sit beside you on a plane, or on a beach, or in a hotel room, or a restaurant. I can't.”
“What do you mean you can't?” He's trying to sound understanding, but she sees the utter panic in his eyes.
“I can't pretend.”
“I don't want you to pretend. That's not what this is.”
“What is it, then?”
“We need to get away.”
“Why? What good will it do?” She stares up into his lean, boyish face. “I can't. Not now.”
“What, then? You won't talk to a counselor.” He leans close, voice faint with the one thing she hasn't heard before, fear. “What're we going to do? We've got to do something.”
“Then you talk to me, Ken. You listen to me. Answer my questions. Even if they hurt. Answer them! I can't do this in front of someone. You know I can't. It's … it's too damn degrading.” And with that he turns and walks downstairs. Certain he's leaving without her, she watches from the window. He speaks to the driver who laughs. They remove the suitcases and golf clubs from the trunk. As he tips the amused driver, she imagines the repartee. Women, always changing their minds at the drop of a hat. Corny, but not from Ken. Part of his charm, to be so hip yet endearingly old-fashioned. And then, as if from high on the helm of his wrecked ship, he gives his departing rescuer a brisk salute.
Her sense of time is skewed. It's like losing a basic faculty, taste, smell, touch; everything seems unremarkable. A week has passed and yet there's not