“Tom,” she said, “I’ve worked for your father almost as long as you’ve been alive. Trust me when I say I won’t. He can’t fire me—nobody else knows how things work around here.”
“Besides,” Mrs. Foster said, “I’ll kick his butt if he gives her a problem about showing us this display.”
“Thank you, Mary Alice,” Tom said. He gave her a hug.
“I had to do it,” she said. “This charade has gone on far too long. Tom, your father got a little bent out of shape when you chose music over law as a career—”
“And my husband being the man he is, he couldn’t back down, right?” Cynthia said.
“That’s about the size of it,” Mary Alice said. She folded the photograph back in place, locked it, and returned the key to the desk drawer.
“Okay, sweetie,” Mrs. Foster said. “You can take us back to the hospital now. We’ll pick up my car later. Thank you, Mary Alice. I’ll keep you posted as to developments.”
In the parking lot, Mrs. Foster said, “Why are you driving this old thing?”