Before and Again

by Barbara Delinsky

  “You said I should get to know you. Tell me what you were thinking.”

  He unwrapped his sandwich, then sprawled back without touching it. His eyes met mine, shooting me into the past, but only briefly. The worry I saw there was all here and now. “I’ve done other on-site work since I left the firm, but nothing like this,” he said. “There are times I wonder if I’m up to the job.”

  “Of course you are,” I said.

  “There are so many details.”

  “Plus a hacking scandal you inherited. It’s trial by fire.”

  Coming forward, he picked up his sandwich. He stared at it for a minute before raising his eyes. “Why are you defending me? If I fail, I leave. Isn’t that what you want?” He took a bite.

  “Yeah, well, if you fail,” I reasoned as he chewed, “the Spa suffers, and the Spa is my bread and butter.”

  “You like working here?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the best part?”

  “The smell,” I said. “It’s soothing. And the people.”

  “Like Joyce Mann?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can see it. She’s warm and maternal.”

  She was a surrogate mother for me, which he was likely thinking but I did not want to discuss lest it lead to discussion of my own mother, which I really did not want. “I also like my clients. They need me.”

  His beard might be new, but his smile was the same. “You were always good with faces.”

  “This is different.” I rushed to put space between that smile and my current life. “Back then, I did poses, groupings, relationships. I took pictures and spent time analyzing them before I decided on an approach. There’s none of that now. My clients show up with their problems. The challenge is immediate, but so is the gratification.” I returned to the art on the walls. “What’ll you do with the foxes?”

  When he didn’t answer, I looked back at him. His brow had furrowed beneath those spikes of dark hair. He didn’t want me returning the subject to him? Too bad. I was here for a glimpse of who he was.

  I stared, waiting.

  Finally, the frown faded. He hitched his head toward the paintings. “Each time I make up my mind to move them, I start thinking of what I’d put up in their place, and nothing feels right. These are growing on me. I’ve never had foxes on my walls. They speak of the history of this place. Maybe if there were fewer of them, it wouldn’t be bad. Different is good.”

  Yes. Different was good. Wasn’t that what my life in Devon was about?

  Opening the plastic cup tucked in with my salad, I dribbled dressing on the lettuce, tossed it as best I could, and took a forkful. Rasher and Yolk made the best breakfasts, but their lunches were strictly utilitarian. The lettuce was crisp enough, the parmesan shavings fresh, the croutons crunchy. But the dressing? Not homemade. I had to tell Liam that.

  “Do you miss clay?” Edward asked, but I wasn’t letting him get off the hook.

  “Are you still in touch with Adam Walker and Tim Brown?” They had been his closest friends back when we were married. Likewise, I had been close to their wives—at least, until the accident. I understood that people didn’t know what to say when something as tragic as that occurred. But the truth went beyond headlines and shame. Those women had kids. I did not. The largest part of what we had shared was gone. We drifted apart.

  “Nope,” he said. “Not in touch. Says something about the quality of the friendship, y’know.”

  “That it was convenient.” Certainly with those women, I realized now.

  “Circumstantial. Shallow. But, hey, I withdrew as much as they did. After you left, I kind of, just, sheltered in place.”

  Shelter in place was a concept usually associated with mass casualty events. Lily’s death hadn’t been that. But it had been every bit as tragic, every bit as life changing. My chest tightened remembering that.

  “But you,” Edward said, “you’re still in touch with clay. Do you ever think about going back to what you used to do?”

  Pressing my fingertips to my breastbone, I took several breaths. When the tightness eased, I said, “Not now. I’m happy doing makeup. I like my friends. I like my home.” I paused, thought, said, “And I love my pets.”

  He seemed puzzled. “Why didn’t we ever get one?”

  Then and there, I wondered it, too. “I don’t know. We talked about it. But it was always a some-day thing. Maybe if—” If Lily had lived. I didn’t have to say the words for Edward to hear. I could see it in those silver-blue eyes.

  Telling myself to move on, I swallowed and forced a smile. “Lily wanted a rabbit.”

  “She had a dozen rabbits.”

  “Not real ones.” I poked at my salad. “I thought having a real one would be too messy—pellets and cages and all. I mean, what’s the point of having a pet if it’s locked up nine-tenths of the time?” My eyes held the salad. “I should have gotten her one.”

  “We were busy.”

  I looked up. “Too busy to make a little girl’s dreams come true?”

  “Little girls can’t have everything they dream about.”

  “Oh, come on, Edward. We’re talking about a rabbit. How much work could one little rabbit have been?”

  He let that one float, and took another bite of his sandwich. “Okay. We were too wrapped up in ourselves.”

  Feeling the start of stone inside, I tried to conjure a calming image—a gurgling stream first, then snow-capped mountains. When neither stuck, I studied one of the oils. But four frightened foxes fleeing dogs didn’t do it for me either. Seeking an alternative, my eye inadvertently skimmed over cartons that were tucked in the corner, half-hidden until you looked. Though the flaps were open, only corners of things showed. I couldn’t see if they were books or picture frames, but my gut said they were personal items, not the calming I needed.

  So I thought of my own Hex, Jinx, and Jonah. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a pet. They add a lot. It’s about unconditional love.” Which children gave, too. Which wasn’t a safe thought, either, but that didn’t prevent my middle from feeling the warmth of little arms. I sat straighter, but the arms only shifted to my neck, allowing the weight of a small body to curl in my lap.

  “Do you think about her much?” Edward asked in a quiet voice.

  My eyes flew to his. Off-limits! Not why I’m here! But my mind was already in the danger zone, and my silent screams didn’t erase the feel of her arms.

  He must have seen my panic, because he said a quick, “Okay. Tell me about Nina Evans.”

  Breathe, I told myself. Breathe slowly. A minute later, I was able to say a surprisingly calm, “Nina.” The name brought me the rest of the way back.

  “She calls every day,” he said. “She keeps asking me how it’s going—the job, the house, settling in—and can she do anything to help. The first time, I thought it was a Welcome Wagon thing. But she keeps calling, like she’s waiting, like there’s something I’m supposed to do back.”

  Well, there was a distraction. Amused, I stared at him, arched a brow, waited. When he said nothing, I tried, “And you can’t figure it out?”

  “No, I can’t. I’ve never met the woman. I need you to tell me.”

  His belligerence added to the humor. Nina and Edward? I couldn’t see it, but Nina apparently could. “She’s in her early fifties and looks good. She’s originally from New York, so she’s as sophisticated as you are. She’s our Town Manager, meaning that she’s in a position of power, and it sounds like she’s interested in you.”

  He had been sitting with his elbows on his knees, one hand holding his half-eaten sandwich. Now he drew back. “Interested.”

  “Well, I haven’t talked with her about it, but, hell, Edward, you’re the most attractive new thing to move to town in years.”

  Most men would have been flattered. This one was certainly aware of his looks—of course he was. I remember him combing his hair, shaving twice daily, frowning over whether this tie went with that shirt, checking t
he final product in the full-length mirror fronting our built-ins. There were times when he was so stealthy about the last that watching him was a hoot.

  Not only was he attractive, but he was successful, personable, and unattached.

  Right now, he was also impatient. “Is she a friend of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell her I’m not interested?”

  “How would I do that without giving away my relationship with you?”

  “Then—then just tell her you heard I had a ton of baggage.”

  “That’s no deterrent. Everyone has baggage.”

  “She’s older than I am.”

  So? I was thinking. Then it occurred to me that he still wanted kids, which might put Nina out of the running. And that was okay. Once past the humor of it, the thought of them together bothered me.

  Looking off, he scowled at one of the fox oils. When his eyes returned, they were narrowed. “Is she competitive?”

  “She’d have to be, to get as far as she did in New York.” Even here in Devon, when the opening for Town Manager had come, Nina had pulled out every stop. “So that’s a yes. Why?”

  “Does she compete with you?”

  “Why ever would she?”

  “Because you’re beautiful.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You were too skinny before. You look better now.”

  I wasn’t sure where he was headed, but it couldn’t be anywhere good. Talk about baggage? There was so much of it between us, and it was so dark, that I just couldn’t play games. He needed a reminder. I lifted my bangs to show him my scar.

  He stared, frowned. “Where is it?”

  “You don’t see it? Right here?” I let him look for a beat before dropping my hand and rearranging my bangs. “You never liked makeup.”

  “Not on you. You never needed it.”

  “That was before.”

  “Well, I never needed a beard before, so we’re even.”

  Pushing the salad away, I rose, went to the desk and etched my palm along its carved edge. “We’ll never be even.”

  From behind, came an angry, “Jesus, Mackenzie,” then, with more control, “Y’know, we can go back and forth about who’s to blame, but you’ll never convince me it’s all you. So stop it already. We both feel guilt. We both feel regret. We both need to see someone different in the mirror when we get up in the morning.”

  I turned. I wasn’t sure I could accept guilt on his part, but he clearly felt it. Nope, no actor, my Edward. There had been nothing staged about his wet eyes yesterday morning, and his fierce look now sealed the deal. He felt guilt.

  Since arguing further would have been pointless, I studied his beard. “How long have you had it?”

  “Three years,” he said. His voice was quiet. “I started growing it when I realized I needed a change.”

  “Did it itch?”

  “Growing? Yes.”

  “Take much work now?”

  “Less than shaving.”

  “And it makes you feel different?” Hiding a scar was a subtraction. A beard was an addition. So were my bangs, I supposed, but I wondered whether seeing the beard in the mirror helped.

  Actually, I wondered lots of things, only his eyes held mine, held mine, held mine with that irrevocably visceral pull. It had nothing to do with guilt or regret or grief, or any of the other emotions standing between us. I could raise any one of those, and it would instantly break the spell.

  Actually, the thought alone did it. I looked away. At some point, we would need to have that discussion, but I couldn’t squeeze it into an hour’s lunch and then go to the most public job in the Spa without my face betraying angst. Besides, I wasn’t sure I was ready to be so raw again, especially not with Edward.

  When he remained silent, I glanced over to see him frowning at his sandwich. After jiggling it for a minute, he dropped it on the wrapper, wiped his hand on his slacks, raised his eyes, and shifted the fight. “Are you closer to Nina than you are to Grace?”

  Back to the present. This was okay. Returning to the chair, I said, “No. I’m closer to Grace.”

  “Closer, how?”

  I lifted my fork, waved it in dismissal. “Girl stuff.”

  “Does she know about us?”

  “No.”

  “How do you have a friendship without sharing things like that?”

  “Easily. You have ground rules. I don’t ask about her past, she doesn’t ask about mine.”

  “But you know she came here from Denver.”

  “Chicago. It was Chicago.”

  “Not according to her file. According to that, she learned massage therapy in Denver. Her references were from a spa there.”

  This was news. But my marriage to Edward would be news to Grace, too.

  I forced a smile. “Glowing?”

  “Glowing. What kind of mother is she?”

  “What kind of question is that?” I asked, mildly offended.

  “A normal one.” Unapologetic, he reached for a take-out cup of fruit that had been hidden between the piles of papers and opened it. “Is she?”

  Before I could answer, he was forking red grapes into my salad and cantaloupe chunks onto his sandwich wrapper. Caesar salad for me, tuna sandwich for him, red grapes for us, cantaloupe chunks for him. And that quickly, the past was back. The grapes were for Lily, who had loved them since the very first time I had fed her one. I used to cut each grape into small pieces for her to gum up. Gradually the pieces grew larger. A whole grape bulging in five-year-old Lily’s cheek, taken with long, silky blonde hair and a mischievous look in those pale-blue eyes, was a memory to hold.

  Had she lived, she would have been ten. She would be eating not just my grapes but my salad, or maybe something else entirely, because she would be reading the menu herself. She would be brushing her own hair, and curling up with me in bed on mornings when Edward left early, writing me little notes, texting kiss-blowing emojis. She would be growing into a friend.

  “Maggie?”

  His frightened voice hauled me back, but my whole being hurt. Breathe, I told myself, even as I felt a heavy lid lowering on my insides. Needing to flee it, I quickly stood, looked frantically around, and made for the bathroom that I had wanted to see.

  It was spotless, if aged. The tiling was black-and-white checks that were cracked at spots. The sink was on a pedestal that spoke more of an earlier era than a current trend. The shower stall was dark inside, likely with a lone wall-mounted water head, no rain-head or hand-held. Fresh white towels hung from a vintage dowel, waiting.

  I sat on the closed lid of the toilet, put my elbows on my thighs and my face in my hands. Every shadow passes … every shadow passes … every shadow passes. I breathed in, breathed out. It helped that this small room smelled different. In addition to a dispenser of hand soap, the ancient glass shelf above the sink held a fragrance diffuser. Half a dozen sticks, beautifully splayed, gave off a subtle aroma. It was pine, not the lemon verbena I loved, but it was enough to relieve the worst of the weight filling my chest. It couldn’t touch the emptiness left behind, though.

  The door sighed, and muted footsteps crossed the tile. I was aware of him hovering and might have appreciated his indecision, if I wasn’t still seeing a ghost of that kiss-blowing emoji. When he drew me against his middle and held me there, I had no choice. I didn’t hug him back. But I didn’t pull away. Something was better than nothing when it came to deep loss.

  We stayed that way for several minutes. Each time I told myself to end it, I allowed for just a minute more.

  “I knew this wouldn’t work,” I finally said into his sweater. No pine smell here, just Edward’s clean, male one. The familiarity of it was nice.

  Same with his voice. “Maybe it is. Maybe this is what we need. I think about her a lot,” he said in an odd, soothing tone. “She comes to me when I least expect it.”

  My own voice was muffled. “Like when?”

  “When I’m having pizza. When I
’m walking down the street and a little girl with long blond hair skips past. When I see rabbits.”

  Mention of Lily always brought back the compression around my heart, but being focused on Edward must have diluted the emotion, because what came now was a bearable spasm. “When do you see rabbits?”

  “In the gift shop here. They’re soft.”

  “You squeeze them?”

  “Discreetly. Like I’m just picking one up to see how much it costs.”

  The image was funny. No, I decided, not funny. Sweet. And also familiar. I knew just where those rabbits were. They were tucked together in a bucket on a rotating stand that held buckets of donkeys, elephants, and giraffes.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I’ve squeezed those rabbits, too.” But that wasn’t what he wanted to know. He wanted confirmation that he wasn’t alone in missing Lily. “I’m usually good during the day,” I said. “She comes at night.”

  “Every night?”

  “Pretty much. She loves my pets.” Now, again, those pets were a lifeline, my link to the present. I drew back from Edward, but his hands were suddenly on my shoulders and when I looked up, our eyes met.

  There it was again, a look heated by pure chemistry. In that instant, I wanted nothing more than to stand up against him, wrap my arms around his neck, and lose myself in his mouth. But that would really open a floodgate on the past. It would invite a repeat of what had happened at his place. And in his office bathroom?

  “Nope,” I said, denying us both, “not going there.” When I stood, our bodies brushed, we were that close, but I quickly backed off and returned to his office.

  It was a minute before he followed. One look at his face, and I swore softly.

  He looked startled. “What?”

  “You need to be less transparent, Edward. Actually, maybe you do need a Nina.”

  “Nope, not going there,” he said, echoing me, and changed the subject with a curious, “You don’t cry. Why not?”

  He was the first one to ask. The first one. Because no one else knew. I was alone those nights in bed when it hit, and if I had been with someone, he would have thought me heartless and cold. That wasn’t a risk with Edward. He knew I loved Lily. And he’d already noticed my dry eyes, so if he was going to think less of me, it was done.