The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [42]
Annette's thick dabs of oil give her subjects not just texture but a depth that is sensual yet still precise with certain details. The paintings are beautiful. Maybe her best work, Nora thinks as Stephen and Donald come through the door on the other side of the gallery. She notices that Stephen and Ken merely nod at each other. Stephen wanders off, leaving Donald to talk to Ken, who keeps glancing past him.
“Look at that. The roses,” Christine McGuire says to Bibbi Bond and Nora. They are admiring a portrait of two barefoot girls in gauzy blue dresses, sitting on a stone bench. Behind the girls is a latticed arbor and, interestingly, Nora thinks, not the usual profusion of roses but a single arched vine. “The thorns, they look so sharp. You can even see dew on the petals, little beads.”
“She's got such an eye,” Bibbi says, tilting her head this way and that. For years Bibbi has been a docent at the MFA.
“And still, other details, they're kind of hazy. Like, unfocused,” Christine says.
“Impressionistic realism,” Bibbi declares with covetous authority. “It's her way of controlling the viewer's perspective. Taking you from the glint on the roses to the light in the girls' eyes.”
Nora slips away from the women. She has lost sight of Ken. Strange for so small a place. Probably in the men's room or outside having a cigarette. In the past he was a social smoker, one or two with a drink, but he never wanted the children to know. Lately, though, he has started smoking at home, not in the house, but outside in the driveway or on one of his nighttime walks, which he says help him sleep better. In the morning, she sees him through the window, cigarette already lit as he backs out of the garage.
In the far corner, his back against the wall, Oliver is talking to three men. He is often waylaid like this when he goes anywhere, because he is so rarely seen in public. Rumpled and wild-haired as ever, but at least he's making the effort. Only Annette's show has been able to lure him from his hermetic existence. And then, right before Nora and Ken left to pick him up, Oliver called to say they should go on without him. His back was acting up and he didn't see how he could be on his feet all night. He asked Nora if she'd be sure and tell Annette what happened.
No, she told him. Absolutely not. Not only was it his responsibility, but it was unfair of him to ask her.
“It's getting worse,” Ken said when she got off the phone.
“What?”
“The agoraphobia,” Ken said, and she was stunned. She'd never thought of it as a psychological condition, just another of her brother-in-law's quirks.
“Who told you that? Oliver?”
“Nobody,” Ken said quickly. “Pretty obvious, though, don't you think?”
Once again, she realizes how little credit she gives Ken, especially lately. His sensitivity was what had first attracted her to him. For all his party boy bonhomie, he cares how people feel. Cares deeply. Sometimes too deeply, she thinks with the dull ache swelling in her chest. Cared how Robin felt, but not about her, his own wife. His own children. No! No, she can't keep doing this. Get tough, take charge, be strong, she is constantly reminding herself lately.
They were going out the door when Oliver called back. Could they pick him up? He'd just taken three ibuprofen.
“Yeah, and two quick Johnnies and a cologne shower,” Ken muttered when his brother Oliver climbed into the back of the car, the reek of florid booze forcing them to open the windows. The entire ride, he and Ken never spoke to each other.
The crowded gallery is growing noisy. Nora has to step closer to hear what Annette is saying. “Thank you for getting Ollie here. Did you have to hog-tie him?” Annette smiles over her glass of wine, the same deep ruby as her lipstick and long dress. She continues to grow even more beautiful in her maturity. Handsome, with the fine laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, the dramatic streaks of white through her black hair, and her keen-eyed scrutiny.
Oliver seems to be