Before and Again

by Barbara Delinsky

  Letting the wheel slow to a stop, I smiled and sat back. I often carved designs into the bellies of my pots, sometimes combing through the wet slip with my fingers, sometimes with tools. I wasn’t one for precise symmetry, far preferring an irregularity that made each piece one-of-a-kind, but what intrigued me most was texture. Using any number of techniques, I could add clay or shave it off, shape it, carve it, or glaze it to create a texture with which the user identified. Teapots could be whimsical, joyful, solemn, serious, businesslike, or practical.

  It was rather like decorating a cake. At least, to me, it was. My mother had first built her business decorating cakes. I liked to think we were connected this way.

  Covering the body with plastic to keep it moist, I fashioned a spout, positioned it, and, after boring a dozen holes in the proper spot, scored it and slurried it to the body. The lid came next. I had just enough time to put a little bee knob on the top—pure whimsy, with honey scones—before setting the pot to dry and cleaning up.

  I took extra care with my hands. I would wash them again once I reached the Spa, but clay there would clog the pipes. Here we had two sinks, one to catch clay from the first wash, and a second for actual cleaning. I didn’t skimp on either. Once dry, even a trace of clay would be gritty against the human face, and I had three makeup sessions booked for today.

  Hands clean, parka zipped, I stopped only to give Kevin McKay a hug. Kevin owned the studio and, being soft-spoken, understanding, and gay, was as close to a boyfriend as I allowed. Turning away from the student he was helping, he held his clay-wet hands off for an arms-only squeeze. “Another teapot?” he whispered and let his raised brows ask the follow-up.

  Kevin knew me well. “Honey scones,” I whispered back and, drawing away to leave that thought here with my teapot, I made for the door.

  The stairwell leading to the street was cold, the March sun still too weak to chase off winter’s chill. I pulled on wool gloves and, once outside, climbed up into my truck without looking at the muck that spattered its side. Going through the car wash during mud season—like scrubbing the soles of my boots every night—was futile. I had learned not to make the effort. Besides, mud held a certain cachet. It gave me a sense of belonging. Every other local car looked like mine. Not that there were many right now. I saw several more New York plates and one each from Washington, DC, and Connecticut. Given the nature of Devon, this was normal.

  I drove slowly past stores that were chicly appointed, their goods in artful window displays, their names etched in gold across handsome headers of Vermont granite. They were open now, entertaining early weekend visitors. Bookstore, coffee shop, boutiques—all were doing a comfortable business, to judge from the movement beyond those window displays. Same with two art galleries and a silversmith’s shop. And the studio store? Some of the craftspeople who sold there relied on their earnings to live, and although I did not, the artist in me had enough of an ego left to like checking it out.

  But I was heading north. The studio store was on Cedar, which came in from the east as I had earlier. Since I had a booking at noon, I had to go straight now to the Inn. That meant continuing for another mile on the Blue Highway, a two-lane road named after the river it followed.

  First, though, came the small roundabout at the spot where South Main and Cedar met the Blue. At its heart was a war memorial initially built for the Green Mountain Boys who died in the Revolutionary War. It was an obelisk whose stone was updated too often for comfort, most recently to mark the death of a local Marine in Afghanistan. I hadn’t known him; he left town before I arrived. That made it easier for me to focus on the river birch, which was finally—exciting!—looking more alive at the obelisk’s shoulder. Maybe it was my imagination, born of a need for spring, but the curl of its bark was looser, the tiny buds on its branches fuller, and while it would be a while yet before leaves appeared, these signs said they would. There were times in the dead of winter when that was in doubt.

  Ah, and there was Officer Gill, parked as always in his black-and-white SUV at the spot where the three roads met. When I first came to town, I was convinced my probation officer had sent him to monitor me. In time, I realized he was watching everyone. Well, not always watching. He was usually playing Solitaire on his phone, but he didn’t need his eyes to know who was out and about. For Officer Gill, it was all about sound. Keeping a window cracked, he listened. He could recognize the locals by ear. Once he had come to know the sound of my truck, he raised a hand in greeting without bothering to look.

  In hindsight, perhaps he should have. Perhaps he should have wondered about those people in parkas and jeans who were wandering a little too casually around town with neither partners nor kids. Officer Gill knew that someone was hacking into school computers. The whole department did. But they had no clue how far the problem had spread until an hour before the Feds went public with it—though, in fairness, those agents walking our streets made no sounds that Officer Gill would hear.

  Should I have noticed them? For all my usual vigilance, either I was too focused that morning on transitioning from clay to makeup, or I had grown complacent, in which case I was as guilty as Officer Gill. Not that either of us could have done anything had we known. When it came to the media, we were powerless.

  I rolled to a stop at the crosswalk, mirrored his wave, and drove on. Once the stores fell behind, houses were increasingly spread out. They were large homes, a mix of Colonials and Federals owned by people who had either lived here forever or more recently moved up from the city with money to spare. These houses didn’t go cheap. They were set deeply back on large front lawns whose landscaping ranged from a few aged trees to the designs of a high-end landscaper. All was tasteful, even understated. And while those of us in town knew who owned what, tourists wouldn’t recognize names even if they had been printed on mailboxes, which they were not. Celebrities didn’t live on the main drag. Actors, financiers, retired politicians, bestselling authors—we had our share, but those with big names avoided the spotlight. Drawn to Devon for its promise of anonymity, they lived for the most part in smaller homes on the country roads that undulated through forest tracts.

  There. Ahhhhh. I could smell the Spa. It was in my mind, of course; I was still a quarter mile from the entrance, but thoughts of lemon verbena were triggered simply by the road sign announcing the turnoff ahead. It was a calming scent. From my first visit, my first interview, I knew I had to work here. The smell wrapped me in the kind of comfort I desperately needed.

  The road curved, and broad stone pillars appeared on the right. Beside them, elegant in its simplicity, was THE DEVON INN AND SPA, carved into Vermont granite and edged in the same gold as the signs in town had been. This sign was larger and had a quiet dignity to it. This one had come first.

  Turning in, I had barely passed under the covered bridge that crossed the river when the Inn took shape through the trees. Clad in stone, it sprawled over the hillside, defying the river much as it had when built in the late 1800s by a New York financier. It had been a grand summer home then, and while later owners tweaked its size and shape, the original stone structure had been the cornerstone for its final conversion into an inn.

  Final conversion? I had to smile at that. Was there ever a final anything when it came to The Devon Inn and Spa? It was forever being resized, rebuilt, redecorated, rewired, relit—all to keep it as stylishly decorated and technologically sound as the highest of high-end resorts. Edward and I had visited a few of those, so I knew what I was saying. I couldn’t begin to imagine the ongoing cost here. Apparently, neither had three previous owners. A fourth was about to take over, a group actually, but we didn’t expect anything drastic by way of change. Savvy investors knew not to upend a successful formula.

  Approaching now, I passed the gracious entry, with its stone pillars and well-groomed doormen. In its first transition from home to hotel, the main floor had been enlarged to allow for restaurants, meeting rooms, a ballroom, and a gift shop, all of which had bee
n enlarged and improved upon in subsequent years. Second and third floors rose wherever the escarpment allowed. These upper levels were shingled and designed with a riot of windows. Prudent pruning of encroaching trees maximized the effect. Whether reflecting sun from without or lights from within, the glass shimmered.

  The Spa trailed off the southernmost end of the Inn, where it could be reached by even the weak winter sun. It had skylights and a year-round, open-air hot tub that needed no piped-in music, with the bubble of the river so close. Tasteful landscaping offered privacy to those in the tub, but, as I passed by on this chilly day, security was enhanced by a wall of steam that rose into the trees.

  I parked head-in near remnants of a dirty ridge of snow, crossed the employees’ lot, and went inside. There was no imagining now. Thanks to candles, sachets, and scented oils, the smell here was pure. Add the flow of hushed music—yesterday a piano, today a bamboo flute, tomorrow perhaps a bouquet of strings—and the face of the Spa manager, which lit when she saw me, and had there been even a drop of honey-scone nostalgia left in me, it was forgotten.

  Joyce Mann had been one of the first people to befriend me when I arrived. Nearing sixty, she and her dove-gray bob were as calming as the rest of the Spa. The ultimate diplomat, she handled even the most difficult clients with ease, and though I was never difficult, I had arrived in Devon feeling lost. Sensing that, she had invited me to her home and introduced me not only to the most beautiful spinning wheel I’d ever seen, but to fresh produce at the Farm at Lime Creek, the no-kill shelter from which I subsequently adopted my pets, and the best Spanish tapas restaurant in the whole of central Vermont.

  Okay. Casa Bruno was the only place for tapas in central Vermont. But the food was good enough to warrant the exaggeration.

  Since Joyce was in the process of registering a pair of clients, I simply raised my brows in response to her smile as I passed. Minutes later, fresh navy scrubs on a nearby bench, I was in the shower with my hair wrapped in a towel and my face avoiding the spray. I had already done my makeup; I never left home barefaced. I would touch it up along with my hair, which I wound in a knot while I worked, but I knew from experience that my concealer would hold.

  The shower would add a dewy element. Dewy was good. Dewy was fresh.

  Dewy was also healthy, which was the goal of my noon client. Having been through months of physical mayhem, she needed to see a face in the mirror that spoke of hope.

  Hope is the future lined in gold, my mother used to say. I’m not sure who she was quoting, or whether she meant it in ecclesiastical terms, but I didn’t agree. Hope wasn’t the future. It was only a vehicle to get there.

  This client needed that vehicle. She was a cancer survivor. Having just finished a double-whammy of chemo and radiation, she was at the Inn with two friends for a celebratory escape. One look at her, and I saw vulnerability. She was feeling frightened, tired, and not terribly attractive. After a morning of manicure, pedicure, and massage, she wanted her makeup done while her friends did their hair. Her own hair wasn’t an issue; she wore a wig. It was a good one. I raved about it. But she did need help with her skin.

  After settling her into a chair, I pulled up a stool. Her check-in profile gave me the basics, but I was always curious for more. When had her chemo ended? I asked, and when she was fine talking about that, I asked how sick she had been, how she felt now, and how the morning’s spa treatments had gone. She relaxed as we talked, telling me her plans for lunch here at the Inn, an afternoon of shopping, and dinner at the steak place in town—all of which meant she needed makeup that would last more than an hour. Since she generally only used blusher and lipstick, I sensed she would feel gauche in anything heavy.

  Not that heavy is my style. I prefer a natural look. Like the deceptive simplicity of a teapot, it was actually more challenging. Anyone can pile on makeup for a dramatic effect, but applying it with finesse, particularly when there are blemishes to cover, takes skill.

  I learned that the hard way.

  I had never worn much makeup. Artists didn’t, and Edward had always loved that about me. But a naked face didn’t work at a black-tie event. So for those, I had gone to the woman who did makeup for my friends. I didn’t use her after the accident, couldn’t bear the thought of her telling the others I’d been in, which would have invited talk. Besides, Edward and I had stopped going out.

  But I needed coverage. I couldn’t bear looking at the naked me, and felt that the world was staring at me wherever I went. So I found a woman at Bloomingdale’s. Her counter was in a far corner of the cosmetics department, an afterthought to the Lancômes, Elizabeth Ardens, and Chanels. She was younger than I, but she had flair. I watched closely, and not only to learn how to apply makeup. Her face, her eyes, her way of assessing and refining fascinated me. She was an artist. I connected with what she did.

  The timing was right. I hadn’t been able to touch clay since the accident—too many memories, too many dreams suddenly lacking meaning, too many speculative looks from proprietors of galleries where my work was displayed. But I needed to touch something. Being tactile was in my DNA. So I immersed myself in makeup artistry. I enrolled in cosmetology school, took an accelerated course schedule, and finished in a record nine months. Once I completed the required number of training hours, I became licensed, and after that, did dual internships with representatives of two of the most prestigious makeup houses.

  Edward had called me obsessed, and I suppose I was. As a mother, I had been constantly busy; suddenly I was not. Add in all the other bad stuff, and I needed a distraction. Being a makeup artist was perfect. Not only was creativity involved in analyzing skin and applying makeup, but I could focus on other people, not myself.

  And now this client. I asked which features of hers she liked best and least, and showed her pictures of looks I thought she would like. To the tune of soothing spa sounds, we found a comfortable back-and-forth, and all the while, with my LEDs low, I studied her skin.

  Dryness was her major problem, possibly as much from winter as chemo, so everything I used had to be moist. I started with a gentle cleanser. Its purpose was as much to cool and soothe as to clean, and, though I would have normally used a scented one to blend with the smell of the Spa, I knew from other cancer patients that sensitive stomachs couldn’t deal with anything strong. I applied a light emollient, and when her skin absorbed that well, followed with a richer one. Had it been my own skin, I’d have used my fingers. Not only did fingers warm lotions and emulsify balms, but they neatly reached creases at the edge of the nostril and corners of the eye. New clients often had hygiene concerns, though, and while I washed my hands often during applications, sponges were safer.

  Using a small wedge, I dabbed color corrector into the shadows under her eyes and pressed the tiniest bit of powder there to set it. The moisturizer alone had done wonders for the redness on her cheeks, so I chose a stick foundation to even the color, then layered it with a liquid foundation and blended the whole with another sponge. Since her skin was naturally pale and her foundation color light, blusher had to be subtle. I applied a pale pink cream, set it with a dash of powdered blush, and stood back to assess. It was too much. I sponged off a bit, then a bit more, until the blush worked.

  She was a pleasure to work with, holding steady while I created eyebrows, closing her eyes when I brushed ivory cream on her lids, looking up when I drew the faintest, softest line along her lower lashes, not blinking through a round of mascara.

  That was it. I told her what I was doing and why, making sure she was comfortable with each step. If my challenge was to make her feel healthy, confidence was as important as anything I put on her skin. She had been following the progress in my mirrored wall, but given the way she sat straighter and smiled when I gave her a hand mirror at the end; the way she insisted on writing down the various steps; the way, at my suggestion, she spread moisturizer on her hands and patted it on the driest parts of her face for a final glow; I knew I’d succeeded. She li
ked her new face. It had taken her from recovering to recovered.

  My one o’clock wasn’t as pleasant. She was a bride-to-be who had come to the Inn with her fiancé for a tasting and now wanted a trial makeup session in advance of the wedding. In my experience, brides fell into one of two groups. Either they wanted to work with me for the best result, or they came knowing it all. This one knew it all. I felt it the minute I greeted her in the lounge. By the time we returned to the makeup studio, she had shown me a picture of her dress, which verged on being gaudy, and was telling me exactly what she wanted by way of makeup. Subtlety wasn’t it. She was the star of the day and wanted to stand out. To her credit, she had thick hair and okay features. But cat eyes with glitter lids to match the blue hydrangea in her bouquet? Hollows in her cheeks where none belonged? Angelina-red lips? My gut said to tone things down. Weddings at the Inn might be lavish, but they were tasteful.

  Right now, I said in a gentle attempt to sway her, makeup is heading in a less-is-more direction. You can be in the forefront of that. Your skin is naturally beautiful. If we put the accent on your eyes, we don’t want your cheeks and lips to compete. Soft is definitely the way to go with those.

  She didn’t want to hear that.

  What to do? When it came to weddings, my job was to make the bride feel beautiful, even if my concept of beauty didn’t jibe with hers. And then there was the commercial aspect. If the bride liked this tryout, she would hire me to do the entire wedding party, which would please the resort.