The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [43]
“You captured something. In each one of them. Their … trueness. Such an amazing skill. It must be so hard. Or do you look at someone and just know?”
“Sometimes,” Annette says, throwing her head back with the sure, haughty confidence Nora finds fascinating, yet so bewildering when it comes to her relationship with Oliver. “It's quicker with children, they're so much more open.”
“What about Oliver? Has he ever sat for you?” she asks too quickly, embarrassed by the feint of the old reporter in her.
“God, no. Oliver? Someone else's vision of him? That'd be like losing the last vestige of control.”
“I never thought of it that way. But … well, maybe you'd know,” she blurts. “Is everything okay with Oliver? Lately, he just doesn't … I don't know, I mean, he and Ken …” The words trail off.
Annette stares at her. “I probably shouldn't say this, Nora. It's not my place. But I know them too well, the brothers. And no matter what happens, neither one really wants to be free. Of the other, I mean.”
“Well, that's not such a bad thing, I guess.”
“No. Not unless you're caught in the middle,” Annette says, then smiles past her with the gallery owner's bustling approach. “Speaking of portraits, Nora, I'd love to do yours. Would you ever let me?”
“Oh. I don't know. I guess so.” She is bewildered, but with the owner hovering can't very well ask Annette what she meant by being caught in the middle. “I'd trust your vision. Sure!”
“People always think you're so reserved, don't they? Maybe even unapproachable. But I see vulnerability and depth,” Annette says, her eyes taking Nora's. “And you won't be used. By anyone, will you?”
“So I'd be a challenge, then.” Lighthearted as she tries to sound, a tremulous neediness hangs in the air. Its voice, hers, pleading, Help me! Please!
Annette smiles. “I would hope so,” she says, and Nora's face smarts. Acutely conscious of all the voices and laughter in the room, she feels stranded again, and foolish. Roland apologizes for interrupting, but the writer for American Arts is here and wants to meet her. He leads Annette through the buzz of admiring patrons.
Nora wanders into the next gallery. In here are Annette's smaller paintings. Floral compositions, small landscapes Nora pretends to study while she wonders who Annette thinks is caught. Herself? Nora? Or Stephen? Yes, it must be, their cousin with his token share in the paper, 10 percent to Oliver's and Ken's shares, forty-five each. She moves on to the serving table. She dips a broccoli floret in the gummy white dressing, then a celery stalk, carrot sticks. She's hungry. Chloe and Drew are at friends' houses. She'll find Ken and suggest they stop at Braddock's Grille after the show. They both like it there and it'll be dark and just noisy enough to fill in those painful silences, when each knows exactly what the other is thinking. Even if it's only small talk, at least it'll be a start. Better than this constant strain. This man she thought she knew. Like living with a stranger, but worse than that. The insurmountable problem here is that each knows the other too well and, in the knowing, has fouled all common ground.
Of the three this next gallery is the smallest. A few people mill by the door, none of them Ken. She returns to the main gallery but can't see him.
“Excuse me,” she says quietly to the elderly man leaving the bathroom. “I'm looking for my husband. Would he be in there?”
“Hardly, my dear,” the man says, with a twinkle of amusement. “It's a one-horse stall.”
“Nora!” Claudia Trekkle says, brushing cheeks. “I was just at Sojourn House, the other day. It was my first time, and oh my God, I couldn't get over it! All those poor women and their sad little children, I don't know, it just got to me. What is going on in this world? I blame the Internet, and all this freedom of speech, and everyone doing their own—”
“Excuse me, Claudia. I'll be right