The Last Secret Read Online Free Page B

of various topics, which became uncomfortable at times, with Ken the easy target of Stephen's sarcasm.
    Once again last night Ken didn't come to bed. He said he'd fallen asleep watching television. This morning when she asked what was wrong, was he still upset with his brother, he turned quickly in the doorway and said it was a lot more complicated than just Oliver. He was backing out of the garage when he called and asked her to meet him tonight at five so they could talk.
    “Come on back in. We can talk here,” she said, watching his car inch down the driveway, cold sweat rising on her back. They hadn't made love in weeks. Months, really, since there was any real passion between them. Maybe longer. Just middle-age doldrums, her friend Robin said once, assuring her that every couple goes through it, which Nora was relieved to hear. Ken was always the better lover, but for a while now, she's felt his impatience, his eagerness to get it over with, so he could read, watch television, brush his teeth, anything. He blames his back yet somehow manages to play racquetball twice a week. Saturday night after a wonderful dinner out and two bottles of wine with Bibbi and Hank Bond, she locked their bedroom door, telling himhow she'd spent the entire evening aching for him, for every inch, every part of him. He wouldn't have to move a muscle, just lie down, she'd take care of every single thing, she promised as she unbuckled his belt. He muttered something. What? He was tired. Well, that's why, she laughed, her tongue in his ear as she unzipped his fly. He moved her hand away. He'd better go down and take some Maalox, his stomach was killing him.
    “Drew's still there,” he said this morning from his car.
    “So? Besides, he's in the shower.”
    “I can't. I'm running late.”
    “Well, why in the office, then? Why there?” He usually couldn't wait to get away from the paper. And never stayed until five.
    “I have a meeting right after.” Had he sighed?
    “So, when you come home, then.”
    “We need to talk.”
    “Why? What is it, Ken? Tell me. Tell me now.” In the silence she could feel it. The old fear. That night, that man, so long ago. So, he knew, he finally knew.
    “I'm just not myself.”
    “You're depressed.” Please let that be it. Please, she implored someone. God.
    “Yeah. I guess so. Or something like that.”
    “Well, that happens, honey. But the trouble is it just never happens to you, so now that it has you don't know how to cope. Right?”
    “I don't know,” he said softly.
    She parks next to his car. Funny, she thinks, hardly any snow on it, but the usually gleaming black sports car is mud-spattered and skirted in road salt. Clothes are piled on the front seat, pale blue cotton sweater, yellow blazer, polo shirts. Summer clothes. Probably cleaned out his locker at the club, to bring them to the cleaners. Ken cares how he looks. Always has. Like his mother. A beautiful woman, Addie, with jet black hair and bright eyes. Their daughter, Chloe, has her grandmother's dark silken hair and the same gritty laughter that sent men tripping over curbs and bumping into doorways, trying to see the source of that marvelous voice.
    Chloe, she thinks, unlocking the back door that leads to the editorial offices. She's in trouble again. That's why Ken's been so preoccupied and troubled. The worst came last year: Chloe and herboyfriend Max Lafferty holding hands in the family room while Max informed them that he and Chloe were getting married. Everything had been figured out, he said, brandishing his spiral notebook of lists. He would finish high school, of course, and then go on to college for his journalism degree. Chloe would work and he would, too, summers and vacations, and the baby would be in day care. They hadn't told his parents yet, but he knew they'd do their best to help. (Mr. Lafferty was a mailman with twin daughters in college.) Plus, Max added, listing the baby as a dependent would look even better on