The Brutal Heart

“But he is part of this family,” I said. “Ginny’s presence here is strategic. Falconer Shreve Wainberg and Hynd is showing our little corner of the world that the firm is behind Ginny Monaghan all the way.”

After the obligatory few minutes with Zack and Angus, Ginny moved towards my elder son, Peter, who’d taken charge of the barbecue. Peter would rather have been pecked to death by a duck than make small talk with strangers, but he beamed as Ginny chatted and peered with interest at the boneless prime rib roast turning on the spit. Clearly, she hadn’t lost her touch.

She hadn’t lost her sense of timing either. Peter was only the stepson of a senior partner in the law firm representing her, so she didn’t tarry. She did, however, take her leave with the charming reluctance I’d seen in other skilled politicians who knew how to make voters feel they would have stayed forever had pressing commitments not called them elsewhere. As it turned out, Mieka and I were Ginny’s pressing commitment, and as she made her way across the lawn towards us, Mieka braced herself theatrically. “Batten down the hatches,” she whispered. “It’s our turn to be seduced by power.”

Ginny was not a beauty, but at a shade over six feet with a body blessed by good genes and constant training, her powerful physicality had made her equally appealing to both genders. When I held out my hand to her, she took it with the firm, dry grasp of a politician at the top of her game.

“It’s good to see you again.” I said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Joanne Kilbourn. I interviewed you for a TV project I was working on.”

“Of course,” she said. “Political Women and the Media. We talked about whether the landscape had shifted and the media had begun treating female politicians the same way they treat men.”

“And the answer is…?” I asked.

There was an edge to her laugh. “Only in our dreams,” she said. “But given my widely rumoured political demise, it might be time to revisit your topic.”

“You’re prepared to do another interview?”

“Why not?” she said. “I may be finished, but my old coach always told us you can learn as much from a loss as you can from a win. Now, let’s talk about something that matters.” She turned to Mieka. “Sean tells me that basil dip you’re holding is amazing.”

Mieka held out the tray. “Decide for yourself.”

Ginny spooned the appetizer onto a cracker and took a bite. “God, that is good,” she said. She popped the rest of the cracker into her mouth and fixed herself another. “Do me a favour, Mieka. Keep the dip close.”

“I have a few dozen other things I should be attending to,” Mieka said, offering the tray. “What happens to the dip from now on is between you and it.”

“In that case,” Ginny said, “I’m going to pour myself another drink and sneak into the bushes with this. I’m tired of introducing myself to people who’ve just finished telling a joke where I’m the punchline.”

I slipped my arm through hers. “Stick with me,” I said. “I’ve never been able to remember the punchline to a single joke.”

That afternoon, people I’d known for years surprised me with their reaction to Ginny. A month earlier, they would have been falling over themselves for the chance to chat up the woman who might become the next prime minister; now they were coolly courteous, making only the briefest eye contact and moving on after a perfunctory greeting. Ginny was stoic, but I empathized. My late husband had been a politician, and I knew how it felt to realize you were going to lose an election.

When Ed Mariani came across the lawn towards us, my spirits rose. Ed was the head of the school of journalism, but despite a lifetime of teaching students how to deal with people determined to reveal the best and conceal the worst, he was optimistic about his fellow beings. There was something else. By a coincidence that proved, once again, that the gods are puckish, Ed and Ginny were wearing silk garments in the same shade of buttercup. Ginny’s dress was designed to reveal an athlete’s toned limbs, and Ed’s shirt had been custom-made to hide his considerable girth. As I introduced them, Ed beamed.

“Clearly, we’re cut from the same bolt of cloth, Ms. Monaghan. I’m Ed Mariani, and I’ve wanted to talk to you for ages. Is your dance card filled?”

Ginny’s voice was husky and mocking. “It’s your lucky night, Mr. Mariani. Not a soul at this party wants to dance with me.”

“In that case, let’s find ourselves a table for two and get acquainted,” Ed said, and when he offered his arm, she took it. Ginny Monaghan had never been a woman who needed rescuing, but as I watched her being led to safety by her portly knight, I was relieved that chivalry was not dead.

When we sat down to dinner, I invited Ginny and Ed to sit with Sean and our family and one of Zack’s partners, Kevin Hynd. Like all the partners in Falconer Shreve, Kevin and Zack had been friends since their first year of law school, but five years earlier, obeying an instinct that told him the law was not enough, Kevin had walked away. His trek had taken him through Bhutan, India, Nepal, Tibet, Mongolia, China, Vietnam, and Thailand. I hadn’t known Kevin before his journeys, but Zack said he had returned a changed man: purged of ambition, focused on using the law to attain a greater good. Angus, who at twenty-two believed the law was the greater good, thought Kevin was a flake. So, I’m certain, did Sean, who made no secret of his ambition. Mieka, however, who was twelve years older than her brother, knew about quests. Hers had led her to leave her marriage to search for answers at the very point when Zack and I, after years alone, decided the answers we sought could best be found together. Add Ginny Monaghan, who had been so confident of her ability to climb to the top that she hadn’t checked her footing, and Ed Mariani, who had found true contentment with his partner, Barry, for a quarter-century, and the conversational possibilities were wide-ranging. Given that we were celebrating a birthday, it wasn’t surprising that we soon settled on the topic that mattered to us all: happiness.

It was good talk: spirited and inclusive, but by the time the last scrap of prime rib was eaten, a topic even more pressing than happiness presented itself. The temperature had begun to drop; the stillness that comes before a storm settled over us, and the family dogs skulked towards the basement – a sure sign that falling weather was on its way. Mieka had handled more than a few outdoor parties, and as we headed in to get the dessert, she eyed the low dark clouds rolling in. “Time to move inside?” she asked.

I glanced back at our table. Another of Zack’s partners, Blake Falconer, had joined the group. Angus was telling a story. When he steered clear of the legal information sluicing down the new neural pathways from his brain, my younger son was a funny guy, and everyone, including Blake, who had seemed preoccupied all evening, was enjoying him. After Angus finished his story, Zack clapped him on the shoulder and gave one of his deep, full-body laughs.

“Let’s take a chance and stay outside,” I said. “Zack’s having a great time.”

“I thought he always had a great time,” Mieka said.

“The last couple of weeks have been difficult.”

“Because Sean’s case hasn’t been going well,” Mieka said, and her face was troubled.

“It has nothing to do with Sean,” I said. “Zack’s been a lawyer for twenty-five years. He knows that no one wins every case.”

“Then what is it?”

“Zack’s having a hard time dealing with Ned Osler’s death.”

“That’s the old lawyer who shot himself,” Mieka said. “Sean told me about it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Second mention of Sean in ten seconds,” I said.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Mieka said. “He came over to the house with some papers for me to sign about the divorce, and we talked a little. Actually, we talked about Zack. Sean was worried about him too. I guess suicides are always hard.”

“Ned Osler’s death was particularly sad,” I said. “His wife died last year. Apparently theirs was a great romance, and Ned didn’t want to face his last years without her.”

“So he chose his own time,” Mieka said thoughtfully. “Sean said he didn’t have a family.”

I gave my daughter an appraising glance. “Third mention of Sean – not that I’m counting.” In the distance, thunder rumbled. “Time to get the cake,” I said.

Mieka frowned. “Are you sure about this?”

“No, but everybody’s having fun. I don’t want to spoil the mood. Let’s take a chance.”

“Hey, you take a chance the day you’re born. Why stop now?” Sean Barton’s voice was decisive. “I have now officially contributed my two cents’ worth. I’m here on a champagne run – a mission of mercy for the dry and