Authors: Gail Bowen
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.”
“I’m glad I caught you. I’m going to Saskatoon this morning. Ginny’s going to be on the Jack Quinlan show, and the campaign people have decided she’ll be more effective if she’s with him in studio. Anyway, I’m tagging along.”
“But you’ll be back tonight, won’t you?”
“I’ll be back by lunchtime. We’re flying.”
“Whoa. Are you okay with that?”
“No, but I should see Ginny’s performance first-hand.”
Zack knew I hated flying. “I wish I could be there, so you’d have a hand to grip.”
“So do I,” I said. “Promise me my martini tonight will be extra dry.”
“You’ve got it,” he said.
When we boarded the shuttle to Saskatoon, I felt the familiar clutch of panic. Keith looked at me closely. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Take my mind off the fact that I’m sitting on an airplane,” I said. “Tell me what’s been going on in your life.”
“Lately I’ve been paying for a lifetime of mistreating my body. Too many cigarettes. Too much booze. Too many late nights. Too much stress. Too much fast food. I’ve been spending a lot of time with my cardiologist.”
“But everything’s okay now?”
Keith shrugged. “I don’t want to waste our time alone together talking about my medical history. Tell me about Mieka and the girls. How’s the move to Regina working out?”
“Fine. They’re living in my old house, and it’s nice to watch another generation of kids growing up there. Of course, we love having them close. Mieka’s doing well. It took a while for her to figure out what she wanted to do. She thought about going back to school, but academics were never really her thing. She didn’t want to go back to catering because she hated being away from the girls, so she came up with a business plan that seems to be working.”
“So what’s the business?”
“It’s called UpSlideDown. Mieka took the money from her catering business, bought an old hardware store over on 13th Avenue, and redesigned it as a combination giant play area and coffee shop. The kids play, the parents sip coffee and chat, and everybody’s happy – especially Mieka because she gets to earn a very tidy income and spend time with the girls.”
“Good for her. And Taylor is still Taylor?”
“Taylor is magnificent,” I said. “We’ll have to get you over to the house so you can see for yourself.”
“I’d like that,” Keith said. “It’s good to know the Kilbourn women are thriving.”
“We are. And our men are doing well too. Angus is being vastly overpaid for a summer job with a law firm in Saskatoon, and Peter’s walk-in clinic is making as much money as walk-in clinics in the inner city make, but he’s content. How does Greg like Montreal?”
“He’s coping. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”
“I wish he were closer,” I said.
“It’s not easy being an ex-husband, especially when you still love your ex-wife. Greg thought a clean break was best.” Keith cocked his head so he could read my expression. “You don’t agree.”
“No,” I said. “But nobody asked me.”
“Or me,” Keith said. “Now, before we hit the big city, can you think of any questions that will poleaxe Ginny?”
“Quinlan’s good at cutting off questioners who make you want to dig out their eyeballs with a spoon,” I said, “but there are some legitimate concerns about Ginny’s priorities, and he’ll let them through. Ginny’s sex life is her own business, but the stories are out there. Even Taylor’s heard the jokes.”
Keith’s headshake was almost imperceptible. “Ginny’s been in public life long enough to be prepared for those. For anything she might not have considered.”
“There’s something about Jason that Ginny knows and isn’t telling,” I said.
“I sensed that too,” Keith said. “Any idea what the mystery is?”
“No. But this is Saskatchewan – there are only a million people in the entire province.”
“So you think somebody else will know the secret.”
“I do,” I said. “And I’ll bet they’re ready to tell.”
Over the years, I’d been on Jack Quinlan’s show a dozen times. The first time I’d been promoting a book I’d written about Andy Boychuk, a man who had been our province’s last best hope until he was murdered. Later, I’d been on air as an academic from the left whose views on the politics of culture, race, and land claims lit up the phone lines. Until lately, the studio for
Quinlan Live
had been so small and congested with old scripts, memorabilia, stained coffee cups, and junk that the host had to stand on his chair to see into the control room. But stellar ratings for private radio bring their own reward. The building that housed the new studio was charmless and functional, but the setting on the bank of the Saskatchewan River was prime.
Our timing was split second. We arrived at the top of the hour while the news was being read. Jack Quinlan came out to the reception area, greeted Ginny, and jumped back in mock surprise when he saw me.
“I’m here as an observer,” I said.
“Well, come in and observe,” he said. In the studio, he pointed Ginny to her seat, and offered me a stool next to his. “If you get bored, you can look out at the river. The view from here is spectacular.” He handed Ginny her headphones, picked up his own, and they were on the air.
Every phone-in show has its regulars: some have an opinion on every issue; some have a passionate opinion on one issue and feel compelled to share that opinion regardless of the topic under discussion. Quinlan’s audience was, on the whole, politically astute, but his regulars were predictable. As a caller from Elbow wound up for his well-worn joke about how Saskatchewan’s refusal to accept daylight saving time meant our province would forever be consigned to the Dark Ages, my eyes drifted to Jack Quinlan’s computer screen. I had time to read the message twice before he noticed the direction of my gaze and minimized the window. “
GINNY MONAGHAN DESERVES TO WIN. WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT, I’LL GO PUBLIC WITH THE TRUTH ABOUT HER EX-HUSBAND
.”
Jack glanced at me quickly, then went to the next caller. She was hostile. The next three callers were men – also hostile. It wasn’t Ginny’s morning. She was handling the enmity, but I could hear the tension in her voice. The fifth caller was a young woman from Regina who sounded as if she were reading from a script. She praised Ginny’s accomplishments as an
MP
, then dropped the bombshell. “Your accomplishment is even more remarkable,” the young woman said, “when one considers that while you were working for the people of this country, your ex-husband was living off the money he took from prostitutes in this city.”
The caller was cut off, but the damage was done. Ginny sat bolt upright and glared at Jack. He raised his palms to indicate helplessness and cut to a commercial. Ginny ripped off her earphones and turned to Jack. “Why didn’t you stop that girl?”
“I thought she was a plant from your party,” Jack said. “You’d had four rough calls. The girl was obviously reading. I figured she’d pitch you a soft question, and you could knock it out of the park while you caught your breath.”
“We have a family,” Ginny said. She was visibly upset, but it struck me that she didn’t seem surprised.
“We’re back,” Jack said. Ginny picked up her earphones and took the next call. From that point on it was smooth sailing, with more supportive than hostile callers. When the hour was over, Jack thanked Ginny for taking the time to come on his show, and Ginny responded with a gracious statement about how it was always a pleasure to have a chance to talk to the people of Saskatchewan.
Jack walked us out. At the elevator, he and Ginny shook hands. “You should know this isn’t the first time someone’s been in touch with that gossip about Jason,” Jack said. “I don’t expect you to tell me whether the rumour’s true, but you should know that it’s making the rounds.”
Ginny nodded acknowledgement. The elevator doors opened, and she stepped in, leaving the pertinent question unasked. Keith wasn’t so reticent. “So,” he said. “Is the dirt about Jason helping us?”
Jack stared at him coldly. “It explains why Ginny might have been seeking consolation elsewhere,” he said. “Is that what you need to win?”
“We use what we get,” Keith said, extending his hand.
“I guess Santa came early for you this year,” Jack said. He turned and walked back into his studio, leaving Keith’s hand outstretched and unshaken.
News about the enticing rumour passed along by Jack Quinlan’s mystery caller moved fast. By the time we got on the plane, Keith had made some calls of his own, and the pulse beating in his temple suggested his excitement. The reports were good. Ginny’s seat was back in the undecided column, and that meant there was the possibility of forming a government.
Ginny and Keith huddled together, conferring in whispers on the flight back to Regina. I sat next to a woman whose son had been in grade school with Angus, and we caught up on each other’s news. Time passed quickly, and I was surprised when the plane touched down.