Read Gathering String for Free Online Page B

now, nearly laughing.
    “Yes.” With that one word, he knew he’d finally found her tender spot.
    He leaned back in the chair. “That’s damn hard to picture, you as a farmwife. You raising chickens and collecting the egg money?”
    “Very funny.”
    He tipped his cup at her with a grin and downed the last of his drink. “Going back to you and the big guy . . .”
    She groaned. “Oh, let’s not. Just to be fair, let me ask some questions.”
    “Hold it, let me fortify myself.” He leaned forward and poured one more splash into the cup.
    “Are you OK after leaving the Trib ?”
    He frowned. “I still love the work, but it’s different at Politifix. Good writing is fine, but it’s just not enough. Now I have to blog, I have to fucking tweet .” Only Sam could pack so much disdain into one word. “I’m supposed to personally engage with the community, create a dialogue. Jesus,” he snorted, “like I ever thought much of the readers. I sure as hell don’t want them as Facebook friends.” He shook his head. “Remember, Toughie, the day at the last Republican convention, when the protesters were outside and the police arrived? Things got so crazy you were shooting digital with one hand and video with the other, as the cops pushed us back behind the barriers. Remember what I said in your room that night?”
    She nodded. “That if the Trib would just buy me a pair of cymbals I could bang them between my knees as I ran and be a one-man-show.”
    “Yep. People coulda dropped money in your camera bag as they went by and the Trib would have made even more off your time. Well,” he sighed, “now I’m the street performer.”
    For a second she was quiet, and then she said, “Things changed, Sam, for all of us. I’m sorry about the Tribune. I know how hard you worked to get there. I know how much you loved it.”
    His face shifted, somehow the edginess turned inward. "You worked hard for it too. And they probably would have realized you were one of the best they ever had if I hadn't muddied the waters for you."
    She didn't know what to say to that. She'd long since stopped blaming Sam for her own choices. She shrugged the comment off and asked again, “But how are you?” He frowned, confused, and she explained, “Not your job. I mean your life. You stayed with her.”
    He balanced the letter opener over a finger, not answering right away. The only time Sam wasn’t quick with a word was when it came to his wife. Finally, it tipped and fell to the desk when he said, “I didn’t have anywhere else to go after you left. And then her mother got sick, breast cancer. It was a long haul.”
    “Did she … ?”
    “Yeah, dead. Not quite three months.”
    “I’m sorry. And Judith?”
    “Took it hard. It looked for awhile like the old lady might beat it.”
    “No kids?”
    He shook his head. “She still doesn’t want any, and I probably really don’t either. So . . .” his voice trailed off.
    “So, you didn’t leave. You don’t cheat any more. Does that mean things are …”
    “Flawed,” he finished for her, the cup at his lips.
    “Flawed?”
    “Means we’re pretty much the same as we always were. Except the disconnect is deeper now.” His eyes were sad. “How many times did I tell you that you had nothing to do with our problems?” Suddenly she didn’t want to probe any more, and the silence began to grow. Sam started to reach out to take her hand. Tess caught her breath, but his eyes went beyond her and narrowed. He pulled back and softly muttered, “Damn.”
    Turning to the long window, she saw Jack bounding up the front stoop, his key scraping in the lock. With a blast of cold air, he let the door slam behind him and flipped on the lights. She hadn’t realized how stuffy the room had become.
    “Ready to go?” He grinned at her, filling the room in his thick winter coat, his blond hair messy, and his face ruddy. “Sorry, I'm late.” Jack shot a quick glance at the man at his desk, and