The Brutal Heart Read online

  “Well,” I said.

  “Well what?” Zack said.

  “She isn’t what I expected. She looks like a girl out of a locket – very sweet and innocent.”

  “I guess that’s why her billing rate was the same as mine,” Zack said dryly.

  “How many clients did she have?”

  “I don’t know. She told me once she kept it to three clients a day, and her bookings were two hours minimum. Plus, she warned me against counting on a weekend date because she was often away with clients from Friday to Sunday.”

  “At $500 an hour,” I said, “Cristal must have earned serious money. Why would she blackmail Ned for $10,000? That would be small potatoes for her.”

  “Good question,” Zack said. “And I guess now we’ll never know the answer. There are a lot of things we’ll never know.”

  I looked at the photo again. Unexpectedly, I felt my throat tighten. “And a lot of things Cristal will never know,” I said. “When I was thirty-four, I had two children and no idea at all of who I was or what I wanted out of life.”

  Zack winced. “Jo, I already feel like a shit about this. If hauling my ass over a mountain of broken glass would make you feel better, I’d do it, but this is just making us both miserable. Cristal doesn’t have anything to do with the life we have now.”

  “I know,” I said. “But she isn’t going to go away.” I poured us both coffee, folded the paper so I wouldn’t have to see Cristal’s photo, and turned to another front-page story about the impact Jason’s withdrawal of the custody suit would have on Ginny’s political fortunes and on those of her party. Despite everything, it was absorbing reading.

  For much of my adult life I had been involved in electoral politics: first as the candidate’s wife, later as an activist, finally as an academic. I had managed campaigns, cooked turkeys, knocked on doors, hosted coffee parties, and sat in drafty halls enduring endless windy speeches. I’d hated almost every minute of it. I knew people who came alive with campaigns. They were addicted to the adrenalin rush of picking up the paper every morning and looking at poll numbers; they relished the gossip and thrived on trying to guess the shifting whims of the electorate. I found the process frightening and exhausting, but because I believed in what our party was doing, I stayed in. In mid-life, I came up for air, took a hard look at the party my family and I’d given our lives to, decided either it had changed or I had, and I walked away.

  Now, I was back in – at least as a spectator. That morning as I left for the strategy meeting Ginny’s campaign manager had called, I automatically assessed her chances in the upcoming election. I knew Ginny’s federal riding, Palliser, intimately. It took in the southwest corner of Regina and the territory extending to and including Moose Jaw. It was a prosperous area and politically volatile, seesawing back and forth between the parties of the right and the left with the outcome often determined by fewer than a hundred votes. Until news of her ugly marital difficulties surfaced, Ginny had seemed unbeatable, but the jokes and innuendo had taken their toll. Despite the fact that she’d worked her constituency hard and delivered on her promises, the party’s internal polling on the night before the hearing opened showed Ginny trailing the candidate for my old party. Jason’s abrupt change of heart about custody of his daughters would stop the hemorrhage of votes from her campaign, but as I pushed the security buzzer in the lobby of her condo, I knew that the meeting ahead would be dominated by one question: was Ginny’s career salvageable?

  Ginny herself met me at the door. She was wearing running shorts and a tank top, and her hair was damp with perspiration. “Perfect timing,” she said. “I got in my run and I’m just about to hit the shower. Have you seen the papers?”

  “I have.”

  “Then you know that I used your line about staying home with the kids last night because that’s where I belonged. My campaign manager said it made him want to blow chunks, but he thought it was effective.”

  “That’s a start,” I said. “I don’t imagine that he’s thrilled to have me here this morning.”

  “Ignore him,” Ginny said. “But an old friend of yours is coming, and he is thrilled that you’ll be here.”

  “Who’s the friend?”

  “Keith Harris. When he called from the airport to get my address, I told him about our agreement. I thought if he had concerns, we should deal with them up front, but he was delighted. How do you two know each other?”

  “Remember that line about politics making strange bedfellows?” I said.

  “I’ve heard it two or three hundred times,” Ginny said dryly.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Anyway, Mieka was married to Keith’s nephew, and Keith and I were on a political panel together for a couple of years.”

  Ginny cocked her head. “I had a feeling there was more to it than that.”

  “There was,” I said.

  Ginny raised an eyebrow. “That must have been interesting.”

  “It was,” I said. “For a while.”

  A young man in khakis, a black T-shirt, and a Blue Jays ball cap came out of the kitchen. He had a newspaper in one hand and a half-eaten Crispy Crunch bar in the other.

  “Milo, this is Joanne Shreve,” Ginny said. “She’s going to be with us till E-Day. Joanne, my campaign manager, Milo O’Brien.”

  Milo’s smile was not pleasant. “So you’re the Trojan horse.”

  Ginny’s voice was wintry. “Back off, Milo. Joanne’s here at my invitation.”

  “You’ve already screwed up once, Ginny,” he said. “And it may cost us this election.”

  Ginny shot him a look that would have curdled milk, but it bounced off her manager. “Are you sure we can trust her?” he said.

  “I’m standing right here, Milo,” I said. “Why don’t you ask me?”

  He turned his eyes on me. They were a startlingly bright blue. “All right, Joanne Kilbourn-Shreve, can we trust you?”

  I met his gaze. “Yes,” I said.

  Ginny laughed. “There’s your answer, Milo. I’m going to shower. You and Joanne get acquainted.”

  Milo crammed the rest of his Crispy Crunch bar in his mouth and headed down the hall. I followed him into the kitchen. The room was bright and attractive, but like the rest of the condo it had the unused quality of a show home. It even smelled new. Milo went to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair with the elaborate courtesy of a waiter in an overpriced restaurant, and gestured to me. “Madam?” Then he pulled another Crispy Crunch bar from his pocket, peeled back the wrapper, took a bite, sat down, and began talking on his cellphone.

  Somewhere in the apartment a phone began ringing. It stopped and then began again. Milo didn’t move. I took out a notepad and pen and began making notes. Milo narrowed his eyes at me and kept on talking. In fifteen minutes, Ginny was back. She was dressed in a pullover and slacks and talking into a portable phone. She nestled the phone between her ear and her shoulder, took a bran muffin from a paper bag on the kitchen table, and continued fielding questions from her caller.

  Left to my own devices, I studied Milo. He had a wild kinetic energy that kept him constantly in motion: drumming on the table with his fingertips, tapping his foot, rolling the wrapper from his Crispy Crunch into a ball, and tossing it towards the wastebasket. All the while, he was wheedling, cajoling, cursing, and threatening the luckless souls on the other end of his cell. The purpose of his endless stream of calls was no mystery. The party had written Ginny off and moved her workers to other, more winnable ridings. Milo was giving it his best shot, but I knew from experience that once the workers had been moved, it was almost impossible to get them back. If Milo hadn’t been such a putz, my heart would have gone out to him.

  When the buzzer rang from the lobby, Ginny was in the middle of yet another interview. She gave me a beseeching look, and I walked over, pressed the entry pad, and went to the hall to wait.

  Keith Harris was older, thinner, and more drawn than he had been the last time I saw him. With his laptop case slung
over his shoulder and his suit-bag hooked to his forefinger, he looked like a traveller at the end of a long and unsuccessful business trip, but as always, he was gallant. He stepped inside, dropped his luggage, and held out his arms. “May I kiss the bride?”

  “No longer a bride,” I said. “Zack and I have been married a year and a half, but I’m still me, and I’d welcome a kiss.”

  “Good,” he said. The kiss was warm but not passionate: a kiss between loving friends. When it ended, Keith stepped back and looked at me. “Marriage obviously agrees with you.”

  “It does,” I said. “We’re very happy. And you?”

  Keith shrugged. “Getting by.”

  Milo came out into the hall, pocketed his Crispy Crunch, and shook Keith’s hand. “God, am I glad to see you,” he said. “Did they arrange any accommodation?”

  “No. This trip was a last-minute decision.”

  Milo’s young face creased with anxiety. “But you are staying?”

  “As long as I’m needed,” Keith said.

  “Thank God. I’ll call about a hotel room. Smoking, right?”

  Keith sighed. “Nope, I’ve quit yet again. Doctor’s orders.”

  Milo had no interest in other people’s doctors. “Okay, nonsmoking,” he said. “Keith, we’ve gotta pull this out. If Ginny wins, we win it all. But we need people.”

  “Then we’ll get them,” Keith said evenly.

  Milo’s nod was solemn, but halfway down the hall, he did a little side kick of happiness.

  I turned to Keith. “Looks like he’s glad you’re here,” I said. “By the way, is Milo certifiable?”

  Keith chuckled. “Everybody in this business is. But he gets the job done, and as you know, a political campaign is not exactly Plato’s symposium.”

  As if to underscore the point, when Keith and I walked into the kitchen, Ginny had her head in the refrigerator. She was still responding to interviewer’s questions and still trying to put together her breakfast. When she heard Keith’s voice, she turned, waved, then reached in and extracted a litre of milk. She answered a question about her sex life, opened the milk, sniffed, made a face, checked the best-before date, and poured the milk down the sink. Milo watched the action and gallantly offered Ginny the rest of his Crispy Crunch. By my count, it was his third since I arrived.

  Keith poured himself coffee and sat down at the table. “Okay, the fun’s over,” he said. “Milo, where are we?”

  “No longer beached on shit creek,” Milo said. “The custody thing helped big-time.” He chomped his bar. “Two problems: time and bodies. E-Day is fourteen days away and the only volunteers we’ve got left can’t leave home without their Depends or their nitro – sorry, Keith.”

  Keith made a faint gesture of dismissal, and Milo barrelled on. “Anyway, we need a media blitz, but the ads Ginny’s got now are shit – worse yet, they’re generic shit. Ginny’s gotta go for specificity. If she’s gonna win Palliser, she needs to get our core group of Christian family-values wackos to the polls and she needs to appeal to the spoiled brats with the renovated houses in Old Lakeview and the Crescents. That means the campaign needs bodies and it needs new ads, and that means money quick and on the table. Again, and for the record, I think we can win this thing, but we have to move fast.”

  Keith handed him a list of names and numbers. “I drew this up on the way out. Call and tell them to be on the next plane.”

  Milo glanced at the list. “Half of these people are from Ontario.”

  “From safe seats in Ontario.”

  “It’s going to cost serious money to get them out here.”

  “Elections are about serious money.”

  “True enough,” Milo said. “I’ll find me a little corner and start dialing. What about the media buys?”

  “Get what you need. We’ll cover it.”

  Ginny ended her call, flicked off her phone, and joined us.

  “So, how’s it going, kiddo?” Keith asked, and I could hear the affection in his voice.

  Ginny went over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Better now that you’re here,” she said. The moment passed quickly. She straightened up and went to the chair opposite him. “Jason’s withdrawal seems to have shifted the winds. When the custody question hit court, there was a sense that where there was smoke, there was fire. For the last few weeks the smoke’s been hovering over me, but now, Jason’s the one under suspicion.” She picked up the muffin she’d buttered ten minutes earlier and took a bite. “There’s speculation that my ex has a few nasty skeletons in his closet,” she said carefully.

  Keith cocked his head. “Does he?”

  An odd expression flickered across Ginny’s face. “Everybody does,” she said tightly. “But when it came to the girls, Jason was always on the side of the angels.”

  “No use letting that get out,” Keith said. “We did some polling last night, Ginny. Character is still an issue for you.”

  Ginny looked at her muffin with distaste. “This tastes like gerbil droppings. So how do I deal with the fact that the good people of Palliser think there have been too many men in my bed since Jason and I split up?”

  Keith turned to me. “Any thoughts?”

  I raised my hand in a halt gesture. “Uh-uh,” I said. “I’m here as an observer.”

  “If you weren’t an observer, how would you handle it?” Keith asked.

  “I’d get Ginny on Jack Quinlan’s radio program. Everybody listens to it, and he’s sympathetic to your side. He’ll let Ginny deal with the character issue head-on, but he won’t kill her with it. Apart from that, put her into as many soft situations as you can: arrange for photos of her at daycares, old folks’ homes, women’s shelters. Show that she has a heart and remind people that she has a record supporting programs for women and kids and seniors. Also have her spend as much time as possible with her daughters between now and E-Day.” I extended my hand, palm up to Keith. “Now, give me a loonie for anything I suggested that you didn’t think of.”

  Keith handed me a loonie. “There wasn’t anything, but it’s always fun listening to your ideas.” He turned to Ginny. “Why don’t you call Quinlan yourself? Tell him you want his show to be your first live interview since the custody was resolved.”

  “Jack does his show from Saskatoon,” Ginny said. “If I’m going to be on today, it’ll have to be a phone in.”

  “Uh-uh,” I said. “Quinlan likes face to face. Ginny, tell him you’ll fly up there this morning.”

  Ginny picked up her cell, called Information, punched in the numbers, and began talking. When she was done, she rang off. “The producer’s delighted,” she said. “So we’ll take the next flight up, and go live in the second hour.” It took her a minute to realize Em and Chloe had come into the room. She smiled at her daughters. “God, I’d almost forgotten you were here,” she said.

  The twins were identical, but I knew instinctively that the one who stepped forward and spoke was Em. “Probably best if you don’t say that too often till the election’s over,” she said. The girls exchanged a private smile. They were poised young women. The twin who’d spoken first performed the introductions. “I’m Emma Brodnitz,” she said. “And this is my sister, Chloe.”

  Keith nodded at them. “We met the last time I was here. I went to one of your basketball games. Let’s see,” he said, pointing to Emma. “You’re the shooting guard,” and he pointed to Chloe, “You are the point guard.”

  The girls exchanged glances. “You’ve got it backwards,” they said in unison.

  “Guess it’s lucky I’m not the one running for office,” Keith said. “This is Joanne… do you go by Shreve?”

  “Depends on the situation,” I said. “But Joanne is fine.” I shifted in my chair to face the girls. “My daughter Taylor is going to Luther next year, so we’ve been watching the Lions with interest. You had a great season.”

  “Did you get to a game?” Emma asked.

  “No. But I promise I’ll be a regular next year.”


  “Come tonight. It’s a charity game for Ranch Ehrlo,” she said. “Bring your daughter. We’re playing Sheldon. They’re solid, so it should be a good game.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I said.

  “Luther gym. Seven o’clock.” It was the first time Chloe had spoken. “Get there early if you don’t want to climb up to the top of the bleachers.”

  “How would you feel about your mother coming?” Keith asked.

  Emma’s tone was derisive. “Why not? It’ll be a great photo op.”

  Ginny ignored the slight. She walked over to her daughters and draped an arm around each of them. The three women – all rangy and athletic – made an appealing triptych. “Want me to ask Milo to make a run to the Great Canadian Bagel before school? Our choices here seem to be mouldy muffins and outdated milk.”

  “Thanks, but Chloe and I have a secret stash,” Em said. She opened the freezer compartment and pulled out a plastic sack of bagels. “Whole wheat and multi-grain. Want one?”

  “A multi-grain,” Ginny said. “Thanks.”

  Em offered the bag around. “Anybody else?” As the girls toasted their bagels and poured juice, the meeting continued. I took notes. When the girls were through eating, they excused themselves.

  “You don’t have to leave,” Ginny said. “You’re not in our way.”

  Emma’s expression was too cynical for a girl her age. “Sure we are,” she said. Then she and Chloe vanished.

  Quinlan Live was broadcast province-wide between 8:30 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. and rebroadcast at night. The tag for the show was, “Stop banging on your steering wheel. Call Jack.” Judging by the ratings, a lot of people did. For many years running, Jack Quinlan had been voted one of the most influential people in Saskatchewan, and for that reason and many others, it made good sense to announce Ginny’s political reentry on his show.

  We had twenty minutes to catch the plane for the forty-five-minute flight to Saskatoon. I called Zack on the way to the airport.

  “Hey, my lucky day,” he said. “A minute later and I would have been in court with my cell turned off.”