Gail Bowen - The Brutal Heart

“I won’t be answering,” Keith said. “This was my last campaign, Jo.”

“Finally going to let the big guys buy you off with a Senate seat?”

Keith took out a pack of Rothmans and placed one, unlit, between his lips. “Even the Senate beats what’s ahead for me. I’m dying, Jo. I only have a couple of months left. The other carotid artery is almost blocked. I’ve decided against surgery – the outcome is uncertain, and what happens after the surgery is hell. My cardiologist, who happens to be an old poker buddy, said if he was in my spot, he’d just enjoy the time he had left.”

I took his hand and we watched the raindrops slide down the windshield. “I’m so sorry,” I said finally.

“Don’t be,” he said. “I’ve had a good life, and I don’t have many regrets. I’ve missed some chances, notably with you, but even that worked out for the best. You and Zack appear to have caught the brass ring.”

“We did,” I said. “And I wouldn’t have had the confidence even to reach for it if it hadn’t been for you.”

“How so?”

“You were the first man in my life who didn’t make me feel I was a disappointment.”

“Did Ian make you feel that?”

“He didn’t mean to, no more than my father did or Alex did, but they all had a way of making me aware of my shortcomings.” I rubbed Keith’s hand. “Somehow you managed to convince me that I was worth being with. And I hung on to that when I met Zack.”

“Well, that’s something, isn’t it?” he said.

“It was for me.”

By the time we pulled up on the street beside the hotel, the rain had stopped. When Keith got out of the car, I did too. He looked at me questioningly. “I’m going to walk you to the front door,” I said.

The steps leading to the lobby were brightly lit and a doorman was waiting to spring to attention if a guest approached. Halfway up the block, I stopped. Keith stopped too. We moved towards each other and embraced. Our kiss was deep and lingering – a farewell kiss, sweet with unexpressed words and deeply felt emotions. “That was nice,” Keith said.

“It was,” I said. “I’ll drive you to the airport tomorrow.”

“That would be nice too,” Keith said.

I touched his cheek. “I’m going to miss you so much,” I said. Then I turned, walked back to my car, and drove home, weeping, to my husband.

Zack was in our bedroom watching the election results when I came in. He beamed when he saw me. “Hey, you were terrific, but you weren’t on air enough.”

“Did you call the network to complain?” I said.

“Better than that – I phoned in a bomb threat.”

“That’s my boy,” I said.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks. It’s been a long night.” I started undressing. As I took off my dress, Zack saw that I was wearing a black slip that he particularly liked. He wheeled close to me and rubbed my arm. “What is it about you in that slip?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But as soon as I realized the effect it had on you, I ordered two more exactly like it.”

Zack gave me a searching look. “Let’s call it a night, Ms. Shreve.”

“Want me to leave on the slip?”

“You bet.”

I went into my bathroom, creamed off the pancake makeup, brushed my teeth, and tried a smile. It wasn’t convincing. I got into bed and moved close to Zack. “So what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Keith’s dying,” I said.

Zack flinched. “Jesus. How long does he have?”

“A couple of months. Apparently, he could have surgery, but even his cardiologist says it’s not worth the agony.”

Zack kissed my hair. “I’m sorry, Jo. Really. Keith seems like a good guy.”

“He is,” I said. “And I’m grateful to him. He taught me a lot.”

Zack’s grip tightened. “Then I’m in his debt.”

“So am I,” I said. “Let’s make the most of it.”

When I turned on the radio the next morning, it was clear that much, including which party would govern us, remained undecided. There would be many, many recounts. For days, the air would be filled with talk of uncertainty and chaos. Hand-wringing economists would muse about financial repercussions, and earnest academics like me would fret over the long-term implications of political uncertainty. Once again, we were on the brink. But as the dogs and I started along the levee beside the creek, I knew that nothing essential had changed. The creek still flowed, the ducklings still swam behind their mothers, the birds still sang. My morning would unfold as all my mornings did – in a secure world with people I loved. Then I thought of Keith, waking up alone in a hotel room, catching his flight back to Ottawa and the chrome kitchen where he never had a meal, missing this glorious day, missing so much, and my throat tightened.

Zack was on the front porch taking the morning papers out of the mailbox when we got back. “The porridge and the coffee are ready, but you had a couple of calls you might want to return before we eat: Mieka called – everything’s fine, but she needs a favour – and Jill Oziowy called – nothing’s fine and she needs a favour.”

“Give me five minutes,” I said.

Zack undid the dogs’ leashes and looped them over the hook by the door. “How does Jill function with that level of anxiety?” he said.

“She works in network television. I think her level of anxiety is a requirement.”

I went into the kitchen, poured myself a mug of coffee, and dialed Mieka’s number. “How’s everything in your kingdom?” I asked.

“So far, so good,” Mieka said. “Madeleine found that hideous rapper hat that I hid at the back of her closet, so she’s happy. Lena invented a new kind of cinnamon toast, so she’s happy, and Sean invited me out for dinner at the Creek Bistro Friday night, so I’m happy.”

“I thought cinnamon toast had already been invented,” I said.

“Ah, but Lena used chili powder instead of cinnamon. She also used about a cup of organic brown sugar.”

“Sounds tasty,” I said. “And you’re giving Sean a second chance?”

“Why not? I like him, and he asked very nicely. He said this would be a dinner between friends to celebrate his junior partnership. Mum, he’s so excited. He just worships Zack.”

“Don’t we all? So you’d like us to stay with the girls Friday night?”

“If you can. Sean’s picking me up at seven.”

“We’ll be there,” I said.

Jill must have read my number on call display because she started in before I even said hello. “Okay, here’s the pitch. My boss wants Ginny Monaghan as the lead segment on this week’s Here and Now. Problem is Ginny’s not talking to the media. Can you get her to talk to us?”

“I won’t even try,” I said. “Ginny’s a friend, and she’s been through enough.”

“She’s also an adult,” Jill said testily. “Why don’t you let her decide for herself?”

“I’ll call her and give her your number. She can take it from there.”

“Tell her that I’m a terrific person and that we’re not planning to exploit her.”

“I’ll tell her that you’re a terrific person,” I said.

There was a long silence. “Or used to be,” Jill said. “Did I sound like a maniac just now?”

“You sounded like somebody who’s headed straight for the top at NationTV.”

“That bad?”

“That bad,” I said. “Jill, why don’t you quit? You don’t need the money. You hate your new boss. Bryn’s in university. The world’s your oyster.”

“I’m allergic to oysters,” she said. “By the way, your proposal for another instalment of Issues for Dummies has been green-lighted. How soon can you get something to me on your ‘Women in Politics’ piece? We have a listening with marketing Friday afternoon.”