Public Secrets

…” He trailed off. He’d started to tell Brian he was sorry, but he doubted anyone really was. “See you around.”
“Right.”
Brian lay in bed a moment trying to imagine it. He had known Jane longer than anyone but Johnno. He had loved her once, and he had hated her. But he couldn’t imagine her dead.
Rising, he walked to the window. The sunlight hurt his eyes and churned the hangover up to blinding. Without thought, he poured out two fingers of whiskey and downed it. He was almost sorry that he couldn’t feel anything but the pain in his head, dulling now under the coat of whiskey.
She’d been the first woman he’d lain with.

Turning his head, he looked at the brunette sleeping under the rumpled satin sheets of his bed. He didn’t have any feelings for her, either. He was always careful to choose women who wouldn’t want an attachment, who would be as satisfied as he by a few nights of sex. The dark, dangerous, careless sex that had nothing to do with affection.
He’d made the mistake of choosing a woman who wanted more once. Jane had never let him get on with his life, let him fully enjoy what he had.
Then he’d found Bev. She’d wanted more too, but with her, so had he. My God, so had he. She had never let him get on with his life, either. Not once in seventeen years had a day gone by when he hadn’t thought of her. And wanted her.
Jane had shadowed his life by refusing to get out of it. Bev had ruined it by refusing to share it.
So he had his music, and more money than he had ever dreamed of. And he had a succession of women who meant absolutely nothing to him.
Now Jane was dead.
He wished that he could stir his heart, feel some regret for the girl he had known once. The desperate, eager girl who had claimed to love him above all else. But there was nothing to feel. The girl, and the boy he had been, had been dead a long time.
So he would call Emma. It was best that she hear it from him, though he doubted she would feel any true grief. When he had called her, and made certain she didn’t need him, he would go to Ireland. To Darren. And spend some quiet days sitting in the tall green grass.

Chapter Thirty-Four

A RE YOU SURE you’re going to be all right?”
“Yes.” Emma gave Marianne’s hand a squeeze as they walked toward the gate at LAX. “I’m going to be fine. I’m just going to take a few more days to, well, let myself settle.”
“You know I’d stay.”
“I know.” This time the squeeze of a hand wasn’t enough. Emma turned and hugged her. “I wouldn’t have been able to go through with this on my own.”
“Yes, you would have. You’re stronger than you think. Didn’t you cancel the credit cards, close the bank accounts, and have the accountant play hide the money?”
“Your ideas.”
“That’s only because you weren’t thinking of practical matters. I wasn’t going to see that bastard get a penny. I still think you should talk to the police.”
Emma only shook her head. She was just beginning to believe she might get her pride back. Involving the police, the press, the public, would only heap humiliation on top of humiliation.
“All right, not yet,” Marianne said, though she had no intention of seeing Drew waltz away unscathed. “You’re sure the accountant will keep his mouth shut, about where you are?”

“Yes. He’s my accountant after all. When I told him I was getting divorced, he went into action.” It was almost funny, if such things could be funny. “I suppose after dealing with boring trusts and such all these years, he was excited by a fat, complicated divorce.”
Divorce, she thought. It was such a huge word. Such a final one.
Marianne kept silent a moment while they walked. “He’s going to find out where you are sooner or later.”
“I know.” Instantly nerves replaced regret. “I just want it to be later, when I’m sure nothing he can say or do will make me go back with him.”
“See the lawyer,” Marianne urged. “Get it started.”
“As soon as your plane takes off.”
Marianne shuffled restlessly, then popped a Lifesaver in her mouth. It was getting so there was no place you could smoke in an airport. “Listen, Emma, it’s only been a couple weeks since—since we came out here. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay a few more days?”
“I want you to get back to your painting. I mean it,” she added before her friend could object. “When a Kennedy commissions your work, your reputation’s made. Go finish the