Exclusive
“I’d take twenty years off my life for a cigarette,” he remarked as they were enjoying after-dinner coffee in his living room.
“You already have.”
“Oh. Right.” He was seated in his threadbare recliner, his breathing apparatus at the side of the chair. Plastic tubing fed oxygen from the portable tank directly into his nostrils.
Across the room, Barrie was relaxing on the sofa. She pulled her feet up beneath her and hugged a throw pillow to her chest. “I was with someone else recently who was having a nicotine fit. Someone you would never expect.”
“Who?”
“It’s confidential.”
“Who am I gonna tell? Nobody comes here but you.”
“You could have other friends over. You don’t invite anyone.”
“I can’t stand their pity.”
“Then you should join a support group.”
“Who wants to spend time with a bunch of sickies, sucking wind? Literally.”
“We’ve had this conversation before,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Let’s not do it again tonight.”
“Fine with me,” he growled. “Who’s the mystery smoker?”
She hesitated. “Our First Lady.”
His eyebrows lifted with interest. “No shit? Preinte
rview jitters?”
“No. That day we met for coffee.”
“Now that you’ve interviewed her one on one, do you still think she’s a dimwit?”
“I never thought that.”
He gave her a look. “You’ve called her that a dozen times, sitting right where you are now. Mississippi Belle. Isn’t that your nickname for her? You’ve described her as one of those women who never have an original thought, or pretend not to. All her opinions are formed by men, men she fawns over, namely her father and her husband. She’s vacuous and vapid. Have I left out anything?”
“No, that about covers it.” Sighing, Barrie absently traced the rim of her coffee cup with her finger. “That’s still my opinion, but I also feel sorry for her. I mean, losing your baby. Lord.”
“So?”
Barrie didn’t realize that she’d lapsed into a thoughtful silence until Daily’s question nudged her out of it. “So, what?”
“You’re gnawing your inner cheek, a sure sign that something’s on your mind. I’ve been waiting all evening for you to unload it, whatever it is.”
She could hide her feelings from everyone else, including herself, but never from Daily. When she was puzzled, or troubled, or otherwise stressed, he homed in on it with the inner radar that had made him an excellent newsman.
“I don’t know what it is,” she told him honestly. “It’s just this…”
“Itch at the back of your neck?”
“Something like that.”
“Probably means you’re on to something, but you don’t know what.”
Daily leaned forward in his chair, his eyes shining as brightly as those of a firehouse dog at the first clang of the bell. There was color in his cheeks, making him look healthier than he had in weeks, rejuvenated by the scent of a hot lead.