The Brutal Heart

CHAPTER 15

In a TV studio on election night, the real pitched battle is not between political parties: it’s between television’s need for scripted precision and the stretches of blank time when nothing happens except the counting of votes of citizens who live in five and a half different time zones. That year, NationTV’s strategy for goosing the interest level during these wastelands was an innovation the network called “The Pulse.” On election night, the atrium of the shining glass building would be open to the general public whose reward for staring at large screens filled with an endless procession of politicos would be the opportunity to offer on-air comments when nothing better was going on. When I arrived at five o’clock, the joint was already jumping. I picked my way over the cables snaking across the atrium floor and entered the doors that led away from the public space into the working studios and the makeup room.

Like a six-year-old awaiting an unwelcome haircut, Keith Harris was poised on a stool, staring glumly at his mirrored reflection while a bored young woman tucked a towel into his collar to keep makeup off his shirt. I positioned myself on the couch behind him so we could see each other in the mirror.

“I didn’t know you were part of tonight’s festivities,” I said.

“I’m a last-minute substitution,” Keith said. “The officially sanctioned spokesperson for the party is sleeping off a massive bender.”

“How’s it going?” I said.

“Our turnout in the Maritimes is heavy – good news for us this time out – because our party has actually treated the Maritimes decently. Quebec is Quebec. We can’t count on much there. Voters in the 905 belt around Toronto are trooping out, and the clowns we have masterminding our campaign are convinced this gives us cause for celebration. They’re wrong. There are more tract houses than century homes in the 905 area these days. Besides, living in a century house is no longer a guarantee that you vote the way grandpa did. Too soon to tell abut the 416 vote, but there’s no reason to think we’ll do well. Torontonians think our rhetoric is stale, and they don’t get the social conservatism. That puts them in step with many other Canadians. If Ginny were leader, it would be a different story, but as it stands, we will not do well in the Greater Toronto Area.”

“You really think Ginny could have brought in the GTA vote?”

“I do,” Keith said. “But it’s a moot point, isn’t it?”

The young woman with the pancake makeup was working magic. Keith’s pallor was gone; he looked as if he’d just come back from two weeks in the sun. “Stop talking, please,” the young woman said. She patted under his eyes, dusted his shining pate with powder, ran a comb through what was left of his hair, and whipped off the towel. “You’re done,” she said.

Keith smiled at her pleasantly. “You have no idea how right you are,” he said.

The young woman motioned me into the chair, and within minutes the crow’s feet around my eyes were barely discernible, my cheeks glowed with health, and my lipline was smooth. Miracles all around.

“Want to go out in the atrium and take the pulse of the people?” I said.

Keith shook his head. “Nah. Let’s sit in the green room and eat NationTV’s Cheezies.”

The evening began slowly, as election nights always do for Western Canadians. Until the polls closed in Saskatchewan and Alberta, our role was to watch and wait. But during the watching and waiting, some intriguing patterns were developing. As Keith had predicted, his party was doing well in the Maritimes, and Quebec, as usual, was carving out her own destiny. A heavy vote in the 905 was usually good news for the Tories, but tonight significant numbers of voters were apparently shifting to the middle. The Tories weren’t losing seats, but their margins of victory were razor-thin. People in the area surrounding Toronto were voting like the Torontonians many of them had been until they moved to the burgeoning towns that ringed the city.

By the time the Saskatchewan and Albertan results started coming in, the three national networks were declaring that Canada was headed for a minority government and that the party controlling the government would be decided in the West. Alberta would be in the Tory column, but Saskatchewan and British Columbia were question marks. It was a night for caffeine and chewed fingernails, but there’d be no chewed fingernails in Palliser. By early evening, it was clear that Ginny Monaghan had lost the riding to the NDP’S sacrificial lamb, Evan Shattuck.

Ginny didn’t prolong the agony. When word came that she had arrived at the Pile O’ Bones Club and was about to concede defeat, the network producer signalled me over. The network was picking up Ginny’s speech live and wanted commentary.

As always, one picture was worth a thousand words. Tonight, there was no need to pull back the divider between the two banquet halls. Milo had done his best to cluster Ginny’s supporters in front of the cameras, but defeat has a way of thinning a crowd.

Keith and I were seated side by side watching the monitor, and as Ginny came to the podium flanked by her slender, long-limbed daughters, his breath was ragged. I shot him a worried glance, but we were both wearing lapel mikes, so his only reassurance was a companionable wink before we both turned back to the monitor.

Ginny’s speech was short and gracious. She thanked all her opponents on a hard-fought race, congratulated Evan on his victory, and then launched into her remarks.

“Winston Churchill once said that the Chinese ideogram for ‘crisis’ is made up of two characters: one means ‘danger,’ the other ‘opportunity.’ When the final votes are counted, there’s a strong possibility that Canada will have a minority government and we will not head that government. The danger for our party is all too apparent. This crisis could bring out the worst in us. We could waste the next months in recriminations, accusations, and backbiting. That’s one option. But as Churchill reminds us, there’s another response to crisis. We can see this crisis as an opportunity – a chance to rebuild, to reach out to all Canadians: people of colour, people who are white, gays, lesbians, bisexuals, straights, Muslims, Jews, Christians, Buddhists, agnostics, atheists, those who are pro-choice as well as those who are pro-life. We can say to all Canadians, ‘We are the real party of the people.’ And we can mean it. Thank you for allowing me to represent you all these years.”

The applause at the end of Ginny’s speech was perfunctory. The red light on the camera in front of Keith and me came on. In my earphone, a disembodied voice said, “So, Joanne, is this the end for Ginny Monaghan?”

“No,” I said. “That was a thoughtful speech – people will remember it.”

“You don’t believe her husband’s murder has put an end to her political career?”

“No,” I said. “Jason Brodnitz’s death was a tragedy. Tragedies happen. Obviously, Ginny’s first priority now is her family. But when she’s ready to make plans, there’ll be many options open to her.”

“Including politics?”

“Including politics,” I said.

“You think the electorate will forgive her?”

“There’s nothing for them to forgive.” I said.

The next question was directed at Keith. It was a reworking of the question about Ginny’s future, and Keith’s answer was articulate and incisive.

When the red light went off, I gave him the thumbs-up. “Nice answer,” I said.

“Remember what Eugene McCarthy said about politics?”

“Eugene McCarthy said a lot of things about politics.”

Keith nodded. “True enough,” he said, “but I’ve always had a particular fondness for this observation. McCarthy said ‘Politics is like coaching football. You have to be smart enough to know how the game is played and dumb enough to think it’s important.’ ”

“And you’re fond of that quote because…?”

Keith’s laugh was short. “After all these wasted years, I’m still dumb enough to think it’s important.”

For the next hour, Keith and I sat on the set, waiting. He made some phone calls and took some phone calls – notably one from Ginny. Before he rang off, he said. “Well, if I don’t see you before I leave, take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch.” Then he turned to me and said, “Ginny and the girls are going back to the lake. She’ll call you in the morning.”

“Sounds like you’re not going to be around much longer either,” I said.

“I’ve got my ticket for the three-fifteen flight tomorrow afternoon.”

“That was sudden.”

“Not really. My job here is done. I wasn’t successful, but there’s nothing I can do to change the results. Besides, there’s a big meeting tomorrow night in Ottawa.”

“Are you going to be in trouble?”

“No. You were right about Brodnitz’s death. Tragedies happen. Besides, what are they going to do, fire me?”

“You don’t seem very worried.”

“I’m not.”

When it finally became clear that the answer to the election would come in Alberta and British Columbia, the network producer thanked us and waved us off.

“The party’s over,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“We’re still wearing pancake makeup.”

“Everyone will assume we’re people who matter.”

“We are people who matter,” Keith said.

He took my arm and we ran through the rain to my car. Keith was breathing heavily by the time we got there.

“So where to?” I said. “We could go back to our place for a drink, or would you rather get back to your hotel?”

“Let’s just sit here for a moment and enjoy the peace,” Keith said.

“Fine with me,” I said. “Give us a chance to talk.”

“About what?”

“About what’s next for you. Ginny’s speech was stirring, but we both know the knives are already out for your leader. In the next couple of weeks, the boys and girls who want to replace him are going to be knocking on your door.”

“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.”

“I take it that a listening is what we used to call a meeting.”

“You take it correctly.” Jill said. “So how soon can I have something to pitch?”

“Friday noon,” I said. “And it’s not going to be great. There’s been a lot going on.”

“Give that lady a cigar. Guess why you got green-lighted? We’ve got some dynamite footage of Ginny.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“But you’re okay with using Ginny because it’s your project?”

“No, I’m okay with using material about Ginny because she understood from the outset this program was going to be about how women in politics were treated differently from men.”

“Strike two,” Jill said.

“Actually, that was strike three,” I said. “When I called, you didn’t even bother to say hello.”

“So, are you counting me out?”

“Never,” I said. “Jill, remember what you used to say to servers who gave us lousy service in a restaurant?”

“ ‘Why don’t you try to find a job you actually enjoy?’ ”

“It’s still good advice,” I said. “I’ll have the story on Ginny to you by Friday noon.”

Zack and I had our breakfast on the deck alone. Taylor was on the decorating committee for the Farewell, and they were meeting that morning to scope out the gym. When I carried the breakfast tray out, the papers were stacked neatly by my plate. “Let’s ignore the news.” I said.

Zack reached over, took the three newspapers in hand, and dropped them on Taylor’s empty chair. “What news?” he said.

He chortled when I told him about Lena’s cinnamon toast but frowned when I mentioned the babysitting Friday night. “I’m in Saskatoon,” he said. “I’ve got that dinner for Morton Lamb, the judge who’s retiring from the bench at least ten years too late. I thought I told you.”

“You did,” I said. “I forgot. Anyway, it’s not a problem. I’m fine with the girls on my own.”

“I’m not fine,” Zack said. “I’d rather be with you and the kids than listening to poor old Mort bleat on about back in the day.”

“It’s only one night,” I said. “If you get back early enough Saturday morning, we can go to the lake.”

Zack poured us coffee. “I’ll get back early enough.”

“Hey, guess who Mieka’s going out with Friday night?”

“Jack the Ripper.”

“Sean.”

“I thought that was off.”

“This is just a friendly dinner to celebrate Sean’s junior partnership.”

Zack sipped his coffee. “I’m glad that didn’t end on a sour note. Delia and I were talking the other day about trying to get some of the fun back into Falconer Shreve.”

“You could start a bowling team. Join a league.”

Zack raised an eyebrow. “A bowling team of lawyers? Now that’s a scary thought. Wouldn’t you feel guilty putting me in a situation where Margot could aim a fourteen-pound bowling ball at me?”

“Not if I could watch,” I said. I poured cream on my porridge. “So how does your day look?”

“Not bad. I’m in court this morning, then I’m going to meet with my client, the gynecologist, who is suing her gynecologist over a tubal ligation that ended up with my client giving birth to the nastiest baby I’ve ever seen. I have three-quarters of an hour to scare the shit out of the fifteen-year-old son of the president of Peyben because his dad thinks the kid is headed for serious trouble and he’d rather pay up front than foot the bill when the kid is tried as an adult. After that, I’m going to try again to find Francesca Pope, then come home and work on my speech honouring Morty Lamb.”

“Zack, do you think you should get the police to look for Francesca? She brought those bears over last Thursday. It’s been five days.”

“Too long,” Zack agreed. “But the cops are the last resort. Francesca’s terrified of authority figures. If I can’t find her myself, I’ll get the investigators Sean hired to look for her. They must have women working for them.”

“Francesca doesn’t like men?”

“She’s easier with women.”

“But she reacted so badly to Ginny.”

“Guess Francesca just doesn’t like Ginny,” Zack said. “Oh, one other tidbit: Debbie Haczkewicz called when you were on the phone.”

“Have the police come up with something?”

“Not that they’re telling me. Debbie was pretty tightlipped, but she didn’t press me at all about Ginny so I have a feeling the cops may be closing in on someone.”

“But you don’t know who?”

“Don’t know and don’t care, as long as it’s not my client. And more good news: the reason Debbie called was to tell me Bree Steig is back in the land of the living. She doesn’t remember anything about the circumstances of the beating. That’s not unusual with head injuries. In a way, it’s a blessing. Anyway, Bree’s going to be all right.”

“Can she have visitors?”

“I’m sure Debbie will put you on the list. Do you want to talk to Bree?”

“I just thought I’d take her some flowers.”

“You’re probably the first person who ever has.”

“That’s why I’m going to take them,” I said.

Zack pushed the dish of cashews towards me. “Have a fistful, on the house. One good deed deserves another. So what else do you have on the agenda today?”

“I’m going to persuade Keith to have lunch with me before I drive him to the airport, and I’m going to call your new junior partner and ask him to talk to me about his impressions of Ginny’s campaign. He might have something I can throw into the mix.”

“And you might find out if his intentions towards Mieka are honourable.”

“That too,” I said.

I spent a couple of hours in my office having a go at the first draft of my proposal, then I stopped by a florist on 13th Avenue. I chose a spring bouquet for Bree and started looking around for a congratulatory bouquet for Margot. I’d settled on an arrangement of stargazer lilies when I remembered Margot telling me that Zack’s invariable gift to women he was dumping was a nice note and a hundred bucks’ worth of flowers. I paid for Bree’s bouquet and walked up the street to a shop called the Embroidery Works. My aim was modest, a T-shirt, but when I walked inside, I knew that this was my lucky day. On a sale rack by the door was a single yellow and maroon satin bowling shirt. I took it to the clerk, told her what I needed embroidered on it, asked her to courier the finished shirt to Margot’s office, paid, and left triumphant. I was still aglow with self-congratulation when I put my key in the ignition to drive to Regina General. Some days, I just had all the moves.

Bree had been moved from intensive care to one of the wards, but she was in a private room with the door locked, and the nurse at the station asked for my ID before accompanying me down the hall and letting me in to see her patient.

She was propped up in bed. There was a large bandage across the top of her skull and an intravenous tube was taped to the vein of her left hand. Without makeup and wearing her skimpy blue hospital gown, Bree Steig looked much younger than she had the evening I met her at Nighthawks. She was hard at work on a colouring book opened on the tray in front of her.

Her face brightened when she saw the flowers. “Are those for me?”

“They are,” I said.

“Pink and purple, my favourite colours. Can I hold them?”

I moved her tray aside and handed her the vase. She sniffed the flowers and beamed. “I feel like a bride.” She giggled. “Bet I don’t look like a bride, except maybe the Bride of Frankenstein.”

“You look fine,” I said, and in truth, she did. The hectic glitter was gone from her pale eyes, and her skin had lost its sallow cast.

She lowered her voice. “I’ve been eating,” she said confidentially.

“So you’re feeling better?”

Her eyes scanned the room, then she leaned towards me. “I’m fine. I really am fine. I’m just not telling the doctors and nurses.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m safe here. Could you take my flowers? I’m supposed to finish colouring my picture before lunch.”

“So the colouring book is therapy.”

“They’re worried that I’m not focusing my mind. My mind is exactly the same as it was before I got hit on the head, but I don’t want them to know that, so I just keep colouring.”

“So you do remember what happened that night?”

“I remember everything.” Bree’s eyes were sly. “I don’t know his name, but I could pick him out.”

“Tell the police. They’ll arrest the man who attacked you, then you’ll be safe.”

The scorn in the glance Bree levelled at me would have curdled milk. “Right,” she said. “Could I have my table please?”

I slid the table back in front of her, and she picked up a crayon and began colouring in the ball gown of one of the indistinguishable Disney princesses.

“Bree, you can’t stay here forever.”

She cocked her bandaged head. “Do you have a better plan?”

“No.”

“Thanks for the flowers. I think the pink ones are the prettiest. What are they called?”

“Tulips,” I said.

“Tulips,” she repeated. Then, with the tip of her tongue extended catlike from between her teeth, she returned to her colouring.

Keith and I didn’t manage a last lunch. There were many loose ends from Ginny’s campaign that needed tying, and in the absence of the candidate, Keith stepped in. I picked him up at Ginny’s constituency office, and we barely had time to make it to the airport. On the drive, we talked about Maddy and Lena. I told him about Lena’s variation on the theme of cinnamon toast, and he told me that when he was a child, his mother had pencilled faces on each of the family’s morning boiled eggs and he missed it still.

“Next time you’re here, we’ll have you over for breakfast. Lena will do the toast, and I’ll draw the face on your egg.”

“Next time,” Keith said softly, but we both knew.

As I turned towards the airport parking lot, Keith touched my arm. “Don’t bother parking. Just pull into the five-minute zone over there. If I’m going to catch my plane, I have to make tracks.”

I took his hands in mine. “This is no way to say goodbye.”

He brushed my cheek with his lips. “For us, it’s the only way.”

I popped the trunk, Keith went around to the back of the car, took out his laptop and suit-bag, and headed towards security. He didn’t look back.

Sean Barton had agreed to meet me at his office at four o’clock. As I stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the fifteenth floor, I caught sight of myself in the mirrored walls. What I saw was not encouraging. I’d chewed off my lipstick, my hair needed attention, and the coffee I’d bought at a drive-through after Keith disappeared into the terminal had leaked onto my skirt. When the elevator doors opened onto the hard-polished perfection of the reception area, I felt like a woman who’d arrived at the wrong party. But Denise Kaiswatum had a way of making everyone feel that they were in the right place.

“Sean is anxiously waiting, but if you’d like a moment to freshen up, here’s the key to Zack’s bathroom.”

“Thanks,” I said, pocketing the key. “I’ll need more than a moment. Could you let Sean know I’m here, and I’ll be along?”

“Will do,” Denise said. She opened her desk drawer and found a container of instant spot remover and held it out to me. “Interested?”

“Very,” I said.

Denise handed me the tube. “Zack’s at home, you know.”

“I know,” I said. “I wish I was there too. It’s been a long day.”

Sean was sitting on the edge of Denise’s desk when I came back. He jumped up and offered his arm. “Can I get you anything before we start, Joanne?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “So, are you still in your old office?”

“Nope. Moving on up. Come have a look.”

I followed him down the corridor to the office next to Zack’s. He opened the door and stood aside so I could get a clear view. It was impressive. The room was probably half the size of Zack’s, but a floor-to-ceiling window gave it great natural light, and it had been decorated with surprising inventiveness for a business. The walls and furnishings were in complementary shades of brown and taupe, but the ceiling was a bracing asparagus green.

“What do you think?” Sean said.

“I love it. Who did the decorating?”

“I did,” he said.

“That colour on the walls is gorgeous. I’ve been looking for a brown that shade for our bedroom at the lake. What’s it called?”

“Moleskin,” Sean grimaced. “Terrible name, I know, but I went through a hundred decorating books till I found exactly what I wanted.”

“You were just named partner a few days ago,” I said. “How did you find the time?”

“I’ve always known what I wanted,” he said. “It was just a question of waiting until I got it.”

“Well, congratulations,” I said. “On being patient, on the partnership, and on the decorating. I’m going to send Zack around to take notes.”

“Please do,” he said. “Right now, just make yourself comfortable.” He pointed to a reading chair covered in café au lait leather. “That particular chair is very restful.”

“Another time,” I said. “If I settled into that, I’d never leave.”

I walked over to his desk and pulled out the leather client chair. His framed law school diploma was on the seat. I picked it up. “You don’t want to lose this,” I said.

Sean coloured and grabbed the diploma from me before I’d had a chance to really notice anything but the date.

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I said.

“Zack says if you need to have a diploma on your wall proving you’ve mastered the law, you’re in the wrong business.” he said tightly.

“You’re a partner now. Put whatever you want on your walls. Besides, you know Zack. He doesn’t care what you do with your office. All he cares about is that you love the law the way he does.”

Sean’s eyes met mine. “The only thing I’ve ever loved is Falconer Shreve,” he said. His face was blank; it was clear he had no idea how much he had just revealed. I felt a chill. “Let’s talk about Ginny’s campaign,” I said.

“It was like everything else,” he said. “Just a series of trade-offs.”

“I thought you believed in Ginny.”

“Not really,” he said. “But I needed leverage to get what I wanted at Falconer Shreve.”

“Ginny was just leverage?”

Sean’s baritone was smoothly reassuring. “Everyone is leverage, Joanne. You invest in a person, hoping that the potential return from your investment is great. Sometimes it is, but sometimes people disappoint us. When we realize that our investment is worthless, it’s time to move along.”

“And that’s what happened with you and Ginny?”

“Among others,” he said.

I thought of how Sean had suddenly spurned my daughter. “So what do you do when an investment doesn’t pay off?” I asked.

“Like any other investor, I cut my losses,” he said. “Now, let’s talk about the future. I can’t tell you how excited I am to be part of the Falconer Shreve family.”