“There’s going to be a press conference later,” she said. “No doubt Griswold wants to get the biggest bang for the buck. And hell, Maggie, it’s not hurting the town. Guess where the press is staying tonight? The Inn.”
I knew what the Inn charged. Rates were up there in the stratosphere along with rates at the Spa. I would be surprised if the average reporter’s expense account allowed for the Inn—unless there was a press special going on—which would be a stroke of genius, come to think of it. Talk about generating goodwill.
By every other measure, this would be a PR nightmare for the Spa. Nothing good could come of illegal access to personal information that we had promised our clients would never, ever get out. The new owners couldn’t possibly be pleased. I wondered if Edward was the messenger who had to bring them the news. Best case scenario? They called him back to wherever they were and canceled the sale.
* * *
By the time Kevin called, my insides were a snake pit. Needing him, I answered with a quick, “Hey.”
“Devon is crawling with enemies.”
I barked out a high laugh. “Tell me.”
“What’d your friend do?”
“Absolutely nothing. Her son is the one in custody.”
Kevin snorted. “That little shit? If anyone’s the hacker, it’s Grace.” He and Grace had never hit it off. She was too drawn to straight men to allow for a friendship with one who wasn’t. Or maybe it was simpler than that. My therapist suggested she was jealous of my friendship with Kevin. I suppose she had cause.
“What else have you heard?” I asked. As focused as the pottery studio was, Kevin kept an ear to the ground. It helped that his significant other worked at the police department.
“Not much yet, but I was thinking you’d need company. Meet me for pizza?” We often did that, and if there was anyone who could help restore my balance, Kevin was it. But the pizza shop was on the police station side of town, which meant it would be loaded with media snoops, which Kevin must have realized as soon as he said it, because he followed up with, “Too exposed? How about One-on-Tap?”
One-on-Tap was a small, dark, locals-only place that served good beer and amazing burgers. Best, though, it was located in Pelham, on the far side of Lyme Creek, a safe two towns away. “Better,” I breathed.
“Seven-thirty?”
“I’ll be there.”
4
True to its name, One-on-Tap offered a single beer each night. The choice was always local and served by the keg. One might be subtle, another bold, citrusy, malty, or dark. I liked a few and only tasted others, but I always finished the burgers, which were made of Angus beef from The Farm at Lyme Creek.
Tonight, though, eating was the last thing on my mind when I entered the restaurant’s foyer and saw Kevin’s familiar chill-red cheeks, dark gold eyes, and pulled-back hair. Had I been able to cry, I would have burst into tears, which was what I had done several years before when the gentleness of those eyes said he would understand and I desperately needed someone who would. But I never cried now; I had run out of tears. I simply held him tightly for several heartbeats, before he took my hand and drew me to a booth. Leaving me there, he crossed to the bar—a freestanding oval in the middle of the pub, with tall stools on either side—and ordered beer and burgers for two.
Returning, he slid in across from me and unwound a puffy scarf that I knew, for fact, he had knit himself. He had barely pulled away the last of the mohair billows when he stuffed the fuzzy mass into his lap and looked me in the eye. “How are you, girlfriend?”
It wasn’t so much a question as a command, and my first thought was to tell him I’d seen Edward. But that would be giving my ex-husband’s appearance more weight than Grace’s crisis. So I reined in my thoughts and said, “I’d be better if Grace called. What have you heard?”
“Not much. Jimmy couldn’t talk. He said the station’s a scene.”
“Has Chris been formally charged?” At his blank shrug, I tried, “Do we know the victim?”
“I don’t. Was it on the news?”
“I couldn’t watch,” I said. “I checked the PD’s Twitter feed, but there was nothing.”
Kevin snorted. “If Griswold’s busy, forget Twitter. He can only do one thing at a time.”
“I thought Jimmy posted for him.” Kevin’s Jimmy was the techie of the pair. Gary Griswold might have hired a more conventional assistant—still called “secretary” in his department—if he hadn’t been fascinated with social media. Jimmy was an expert at that. It helped that his dark-rimmed glasses, Oxford shirts, and short-cropped hair gave him a conservative look. He was known in town as Jim.
Since I had met him through Kevin, who always called him Jimmy, and since I loved him for the way he adored Kevin, he would always be the softer, kinder Jimmy to me.
“He did,” Kevin answered, “until last week when he posted about the DUI that turned out to be Griswold’s cousin. I mean, it was part of the police report, which was what Jimmy was supposed to post, and he didn’t name the cousin, but people connected the dots, so Gary was pissed. He’ll have Jimmy posting again this week, you watch.”
“He can’t post Chris’s name. He’s a minor.”
Kevin shot me a dry look.
Fine. Everyone here knew exactly who was sitting at the station right now. Still, “Chris is fifteen. They aren’t seriously thinking of locking him up.” I tacked on a meek, “Are they?”
“Not if his mom and lawyer are there. But Jimmy’ll know for sure.” He glanced at the huge face of his watch, then again at the door. “He’ll be here as soon as he can get away, but he’s trying to show Gary he’s diligent.” Leaning forward, he said a gentle, “It was good of you to drive her into town.”
I didn’t bother to ask how he knew. This, too, was the kind of word that spread through Devon like oil. I had never been bothered before. Local talk here wasn’t malicious. It was news. An argument could be made that Devonites, being Devonites, simply kept each other informed. Still, I cringed on Grace’s behalf. She wouldn’t mind people raving about an amazing deep-tissue massage she had given. But the news being passed around now wasn’t that.
“It was the least I could do,” I said.
“Not fun, though.”
“No.” My chest tightened. Kevin was the only one who knew about my past, the only one who knew that I had caused two deaths. During my early days at the pottery studio, when I needed clay badly but could barely lift my hands, he used to find me alone at closing time, close to tears. On one of those days, the dam broke, and my sordid past poured out. He knew about the media frenzy, the conviction, the divorce. He was the only one who knew that I wished, time and again, that I had died in the crash.
The relief of sharing had been instant. But why Kevin? My therapist said that to make Devon truly mine, I needed to confide in someone here. But why this man, whom I had barely known at the time? Well, clay linked us. He loved its smell and feel as much as I did, loved the act of creation. More, though, right from the start we connected on a visceral level. I knew more about Kevin now than I did about anyone else in town. He had his own Achilles’ heel, so we balanced each other out. We loved each other for the total acceptance that allowed.
Kevin also understood my need for secrecy. Seeing my horror when everything first spilled out, he had taken a paper and pencil, written the names of his parents, their address and phone number, and said that if he ever betrayed me, I could betray him.
I couldn’t believe that in this day and age his parents didn’t know he was gay. Then I thought of my own parents and realized how it might be. Parents could be narrow-minded when it came to dreams for their kids.
Our beer arrived in heavy glass steins. It was a deep amber color with a thick head—an American Amber Lager, the whiteboard said—medium bodied, toasty malt character, only marginally bitter. I removed my gloves to cradle the stein, but my hands were like ice, and cold beer didn’t help, at least, not on the outside. Needing help on t
he inside, I grasped the thick handle, took a solid gulp, and put my gloves back on.
“Sit on them,” Kevin ordered.
I did. The warmth was instant. Thighs. Crafty Kevin.
“Talk,” he ordered next. “What were you doing between when I called and when you drove here?”
“Worrying,” I said. “I don’t think Grace has money for bail.”
“No one does—well, except you, because your then-husband was loaded—but that’s why they have bail bondsmen. So what were you doing an hour ago?”
Stressing about said then-husband? Nope. Not going there. Mentioning Edward would make him real, and, with any luck, he was on his way out of town.
“Worrying about Chris,” I said. “How can a fifteen-year-old deal with this?”
“Maybe better than you. He doesn’t see the big picture.”
“But he will. What then?”
“I don’t know, love,” Kevin said, seeming sad to let me down, which made me feel worse.
“Okay, after that, I went for distraction. UPS delivered stuff I needed for work—replenishments of the foundation I use at the Spa, disposable sponges, mascara wands. Some of it went in my closet. It stays fresher when I can control the storage. I combined the rest in one box to take to the Spa tomorrow.” I had a horrible thought. “The media is staying at the Inn. What if they come to the Spa? I mean,” I added with dread, “they will. It’s part of the story, isn’t it?”
“Don’t jump ahead. This may all end tonight.”
“We hope.” I pulled out my phone and checked the screen. “Nothing from Grace, but they’ve probably taken her phone. What’s happening, do you think?”
Kevin took a long drink, set down the stein, and ran a hand over the foam on his upper lip. “They’ll be waiting for the judge or the stenographer or the bondsman, or else it’s paperwork, and something always slows them down there, either the printer is out of ink or the scanner doesn’t work. It drives Jimmy nuts.”
“It drove me nuts, too. It’s like you’re in a spotlight that just hangs there, one minute becoming ten becoming thirty, and you’re totally naked and exposed to the world for what you truly are.”
“Not what you truly are. What someone alleges you are.”
“Same difference. If you’ve gotten yourself in this situation, you’ve done something wrong. It may not be all they say it is, but Grace was right, innocent until proven guilty doesn’t seem to apply anymore.” I took another drink and studied the foam streaks on the inside of the glass. I was vaguely aware of bar sounds, utensil sounds, and guitar sounds, all soft and relaxing, but focusing on them wasn’t easy with so many other disturbing thoughts.
Kevin knew. “What?” he invited gently.
“No. This shouldn’t be about me.”
“Come on, babe. How can it not be? You’ve lived this before.”
“Right, and I don’t want to do it again,” I blurted, giving in to my fear. “Devon is my safe place. I don’t want this happening here. Make it go away?”
He laughed. “I would if I could, but they’ve come to town in droves.”
“Why so many? I can understand local media, but why national?” But Kevin didn’t know any more than me. Resigned to that, I sighed. “Anyway, thanks for meeting me here. I couldn’t bear to see them.”
With an eloquent sigh, he glanced at the handful of stools that were filled at the bar. “Well, you’re safe in this place. Only locals come. The rest of the world barely knows it exists. If the owners get drift of a reviewer showing up—or worse a guide-book author—they dilute the beer and overcook the beef.”
“They do not,” I scolded. “That’d be professional suicide.”
“Why? No one local cares. We all know what we get here. Besides, how else do you explain it?” He tossed his chin toward a couple eating nachos at the bar. “The Gauthiers from Lyme Creek,” then a guy cradling a beer two seats down, “Jack Randolph and his daughter, who is going through a divorce bad enough that she had to take out a restraining order, Jimmy said.” He winked at someone on the far side of the bar and murmured to me, “There’s our local homophobe. It drives him crazy when I do that.” Leaning toward the aisle, he rose up several inches. “I see three moms in one of the back booths. They come to the studio sometimes, but it’s mostly just to play, I mean, no serious talent there. I’m telling you, you’re safe here. They’re all locals.” Eyes shifting slightly, he drew in a small breath. “Oooooo, not that one,” he cooed, seeming intrigued. “Who is he?”
Leaning around the edge of the booth, I followed his gaze, then whipped forward again. I sheltered myself in the center of the booth’s high wood back and reached for my beer. Not only had Edward not left town yet, but here he was in my favorite haven of a pub, which he had no business even knowing about. The fact that he did shot safety to hell.
I took one generous swallow, then another. With a finality born of resignation, I set the stein back on the table and said, “That is the new owner of the Inn.”
“The new owner,” Kevin breathed in wonder. Eyes glued to that back booth, he must have thought my upset had to do with having a new boss.
“Well, he’s not the owner owner,” I said, needing to qualify it for me as much as for Kevin. “He’s part of a group. Likely the one negotiating the deal.”
“He’s dishy.”
I was in no position to say. My judgment was colored by total dismay. “It’s dark back there. You can’t see much.”
“I see enough. He’s a far cry from old Ollie.”
“Most anyone would be,” I argued. The fabled Oliver Hamilton had been an imposing gentleman with white hair and mustache. Having elevated the Devon Hotel to resort status in the mid-1900s, he was considered the father of the present-day Inn and Spa. The life-size painting of him that hung in the lobby of the Inn remained the centerpiece around which any redecoration was done.
“This one’s still too old for you,” I said, which was absurd. Kevin was thirty, Edward forty-four. The age difference was nothing, but it was the first thing I could think of to say.
He continued to stare toward the back. “Not too old for you,” he hummed distractedly. “You’re what? Forty-three?”
I managed a weak smile. We often joked about my being older than Kevin, but his soul was my age, or so I’d always felt. He was sensitive beyond his years. Usually.
“Thirty-eight,” I said, “which you well know, having put that many candles on the birthday cake you baked me last month.” The cake had been an artistic confection, those many candles one more gesture aimed at taking my mind off my mother on the day that marked my birth.
Kevin slid toward the edge of the booth for what he likely considered a subtler view—just sitting there on the aisle, one hand around his beer, nonchalant as could be.
“Kevin,” I warned, but his gaze didn’t budge. Struggling to be cool, I said, “Please, don’t catch his eye. I know him.”
“Know him.”
“Don’t want him seeing me.”
“Good luck with that, honey bun. If he’s the new owner—”
“He’s one of many—”
“But he’s in Devon.” The wonder was back, along with sincere curiosity. “He could have eaten at the Inn. Why do you think he’s here?”
I might have shared the curiosity, if I hadn’t been so rattled. I conjured up a quick CALM—Surround yourself with positive energy—and took a deep, hopeful breath.
“Maybe he just likes beer.” I knew he did. Edward wasn’t a big drinker, but he loved an interesting brew. One-on-Tap might have, in fact, been why he offered to visit Devon for his group. Sure, the pub was our best-kept secret. But Edward had always kept an eye on beer blogs, of which there were many more now than when we had been married.
Kevin kept staring.
“Maybe,” I added, scolding, “he just wants privacy,” and reached across for his arm. “I’m serious. Don’t stare at him. The last thing I want is for him to come say hello.”
“He thinks I’m hot. There’s a connection.”
I sighed. There was no avoiding the truth. Closing my hand on his slender wrist, I gave it a shake. “If there’s a connection on his part, it’s curiosity about who I’m with. Kevin, that man is my ex-husband.”
His eyes shot to mine—bam!—his ruddy cheeks seeming suddenly more ruddy in the dim pub light. It was a minute before he put it together. “Edward? Edward is the new owner?”
“Not him. A group he represents. That’s what he does.” He usually worked with start-ups, and The Devon Inn and Spa was far from that, but if rumor had it and another expansion was in the works, investors were needed. Edward specialized in gathering groups of those.
“Did he tell you that?”
“No. Jay did. Edward was leaving his office when Grace and I arrived.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Nothing. We didn’t talk.”
“You haven’t seen him in how long, and you didn’t talk? No words spoken?”
“Kevin. We weren’t alone.”
“Still.”
I sighed. “I don’t know how long he’ll be here, but the sooner he leaves, the better.” Kevin remained quiet, waiting for more, but what more could I say? “So he’s definitely straight, and he’s definitely temporary, and anyway, you prefer blonds. Ah.” Saved by the blond who was sliding off his glasses as he picked up a beer at the bar and strode toward their booth. “Jimmy. Thank goodness. Sit.” He slid in beside Kevin, took a great gulp of beer, and set the stein down with a thunk.
“Mmmmm. I needed that.”
He grinned. Kevin used his own napkin to wipe the foam from Jimmy’s lip.
It was a sweet gesture, but I was moving on. “What’s happening, Jimmy?” I was eager to shift the focus. Edward’s being here sucked the control out of my life. How better to get it back than by immersing myself in Grace’s problems?
“The closest Federal Court is in Rutland,” Jimmy said, court being a slurred co-ut in the way that marked Jim Pratt a Dorchester boy, “so the kid had his initial appearance there, but he’s gone home with his mom.”
Before and Again Page 6