“Right,” Harris said gloomily. Forget the odd tidbits he’d saved for their collective amusement: the fiber supplements made from kudzu leaves; the permanent sunscreen. He remained in a state of perpetual astonishment at how efficiently the combined presence of his wife and her brother could transform a business he’d spent the better part of his life creating—a business whose success had attracted pollsters and politicians from every major party; that had bankrolled hand-painted Italian tiles, private schools, Ellen’s new olive-green Lexus and the gargantuan mortgage payments on the house occasioned by Moose’s legal debts—into a lousy, grubby way to make a buck. What are they doing that’s any better? he protested silently.