“I ran out of tears a couple of years ago,” I said.
“But you’re in pain.”
I nodded. “They tell me it’s like having a heart attack.”
“Like a panic attack?”
“No. I have chest pain.”
He processed that while I forced memory aside and deliberately ate a grape. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, my therapist called it. It hadn’t worked in the past, but maybe with Edward here, it would.
“Tea?” he asked.
“Actually, yes. Thank you.”
He crossed to the Nespresso machine. No, Edward couldn’t cook, but he always made me tea. Back then, we had a Keurig. The Inn had a contract—yet another contract—with Nespresso.
Returning, he passed me a mug. I lifted it to my nose and inhaled. “Vanilla Oolong?” I asked in surprise.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know Nespresso made Vanilla Oolong pods.”
“I did some work for a start-up that made them. They give me whatever I want whenever I ask. These just arrived.”
“Are you a tea-drinker now?” After he widened his eyes in an are-you-kidding way, I lowered mine and studied the clear amber liquid in its porcelain mug. Vanilla Oolong wasn’t offered during high tea at the Inn. He had ordered it for me, which was thoughtful and sweet, totally touching. I just wish he hadn’t. Kind gestures complicated things. Figuring out who I was—who he was—was hard enough without throwing a we in the mix.
He went back for coffee, but by the time he came back with his mug filled, I was no closer to knowing what to think. There was some solace in realizing he didn’t either, because he didn’t resurrect the tea-for-me theme, the chest-pain theme, or, thank goodness, the Lily theme, because the latter, especially, would have done me in. Once he was seated, he simply put his elbows on his knees, held the mug in both hands, and said, “Tell me about the Town Meeting.”
14
Town Meeting was a Vermont institution. State law dictated that it be held on the first Tuesday in March, and while there was always business to discuss, it was as much a social event, giving people reason to slog through snow or mud to be with others of like mind. We Devonites were just defiant enough to have voted—overwhelmingly—to hold ours on the last Wednesday of the month, though it was also a practical move. We didn’t like having to slog through snow, and by the end of March, the mud was drying. Besides, some of our most treasured members were snowbirds. This gave them more time to return, which they always did. Town Meeting was a reaffirmation of who we were. It was about self-identity.
Self-identity was a huge issue for me right now. In the life I’d built here, I was a makeup artist, a sculptor, and a friend. But that life had been hacked, broken into by two men I hadn’t invited. Suddenly, I was a sister and a whatever-it-was to Edward. I didn’t know how these roles fit into my life here, all the more so after Monday’s lunch.
My emotions were the problem. I wanted to deny them; denial was my thing. When someone hacked into your life, you shut them out. So yes, I could tell Liam he had two days to find a place to live. But I couldn’t shake the sense of family, that I thought I had shut out, but apparently missed, because I did like seeing him in my home. And Edward? I could demand he steer clear—could tell him that he stirred up memories too painful to bear. But seeing him brought good memories, too.
Besides, I could say whatever I wanted, but would my dreams listen? No!
Once upon a time, I had been a good sleeper. Then I became a mother and started listening for every peep from the baby monitor and, when the monitor was retired, from the room down the hall. After Lily died, I kept listening, hearing sounds that my therapist likened to the imagined pain of a severed limb. So I slept in short spurts, which meant that when I dreamed, those dreams were fresh enough to linger when I woke.
They were coming in droves again, and they were killers. Lily was in some, Edward in others. At times, I woke up struggling to breathe, when my only remedy was hugging whatever ball of fur lay closest to me. At one point Monday night, I even sat on the floor by my bed, pulling air into my lungs with my ear pressed to Jonah’s sweet heart, and, fooling neither of us, studying the green velvet box under the bed. I didn’t pull it out. I knew what was inside. Pandora’s box? No. It held no evil, just all-too-real pieces of the past.
Yes, Town Meeting would remind me of who I was now.
But so would clay. I arrived at the pottery studio Tuesday morning in the mood to make another teapot. My teapots always flew off the shelves, which made them a win-win for me—loved making them, loved sharing them. Unfortunately, thanks to Liam’s breakfasts, I wasn’t thinking of raisin croissants, pecan buns, or anything else from The Buttered Scone. With my brother never far from my laptop and nosy as ever, I had no chance to check my mother’s Facebook feed, which meant that Mom-as-muse was on hold.
That left a vacuum, which forced me to open my mind. Let go, enjoy life and celebrate, CALM told me, and, in theory, that captured the beauty of clay for me. Like clouds shifting in the sky, a mass being pushed around on my work bench could take on the shape of any little thing.
This day I did consciously let go, freeing my fingers to wander in, over, and around. I was once removed from it, watching with fascination as my hands formed a head and my fingers shaped its brow, eye sockets, and cheeks, before picking up tools to define a round eye, a slender nose, and long, wavy hair. The piece was small, barely four inches from crown to chin, but vivid.
“She’s a looker,” Kevin praised as he hunkered by my stool. “Lily?”
His voice, soft though it was, brought reality back. “Oh, no. No, no.” I studied what I’d made, only then identifying the model. “Maddie. She’s twelve. And she is beautiful.” No matter that I had sculpted only one side of her face. The other side didn’t matter. This was how I saw her.
“You haven’t done a person before. You should do it more.”
“Maybe,” I said but let that go, too.
* * *
It was harder to let go as I drove to the Inn, harder not to think of Edward and wonder whether he would come by or call. What I needed was a day of nonstop work, but bookings were sparse. I was therefore relieved when Joe Hellinger called and, grateful for direction, I drove straightaway to his office to consult with the parents of a high school junior who had totaled the family car and seriously messed up her face. Also in White River Junction, I was able to connect with a freelance makeup artist who was hawking a line of organic skin cream.
So I didn’t see Edward that day. Like a bug in my computer, though, his presence was felt in the form of updates to the Inn staff on the status of reservations and incentives designed to make up for the dip. He was both perceptive and proactive.
Liam was neither. Despite the tour I’d give him on Sunday, he showed no sign of leaving. I knew that he went out while I worked; his car was parked in a slightly different spot each time I got home. Based on his chatter, which filled my previously quiet cabin in ways that were alternately annoying and sweet, I knew he was meeting with designers and carpenters for the restaurant. But while he seemed to be mapping every market for miles around, he said nothing about finding his own place to live.
And how could I insist, given the cooking he did? Sunday night we had a hearty French onion soup with Gruyère rounds, Monday night beef bourguignon with a bouquet garni of heirloom carrots and herbs, and Tuesday night a Mediterranean fish stew. For Wednesday night, he was planning a skillet chicken cordon bleu with penne. But Town Meeting was that night.
“It’s potluck,” I said. “People bring casseroles and set them out in the social hall, so I’ll have dinner there.”
He made a face. “Mac ’n’ cheese?”
I smiled. “In Devon? Not quite. Potluck here is high-end—like risotto, Mexican chicken salad, and black bean soup. Snowbirds bring recipes back from Boca and Palm Springs. It’s pretty impressive.”
“Can anyone bring food?” he asked, a little too-casually. I could see
the wheels in his mind turning.
“Only locals. Guards will be at the door to keep out the press.” Just when it seemed the attention might be waning, another media figure showed up, and the People piece wouldn’t help. Even if it broadened to encompass computer abuse by teenagers in general, Devon remained ground zero.
Liam wasn’t thinking about that particular circus. His sights were focused. “Do I qualify as a local?”
“Only,” I warned with equal focus, “if you say nothing about my past. Do not breathe the name Mackenzie Cooper. Do you hear?”
“Yes, Mom.”
I refused to give him the rise he wanted. Rather, with poise, I said, “Trust me, I am not Mom. Mom would be calling you out for putting heavy-duty tires on your car and adding them to my tab at the service station. Oh yes, brother, they did call me about that. I also got a call from the wife of one of your carpenters, who happens to be in my book group and learned from her husband that my brother is in town, and since she is not known for reticence, it’s a safe bet that most of Devon knows by now.”
Bless him, he was undaunted, and the irony of that? Five years ago, being related to me was poison. That I had become an asset said something about how far I’d come.
So I was feeling content when he asked, “Then my bringing food tonight will be okay?”
“Only if it’s good.”
“Slam dunk there. I’ll double the amount I make.”
“Quadruple it, Liam. Actually, make it for several dozen, and you’re set.”
* * *
It was a stroke of genius. Liam was in his glory preparing dinner for a large number of people, running to local stores for food and serving supplies, getting to know the town in a way that would pay off tenfold. He introduced himself alternately as my brother and as the chef of the new French bistro, which I learned when I was barely through the stone-arched door of the church where Town Meeting was held. The fact that he modified his initial recipe didn’t hurt. His chicken cordon bleu roll-ups, held together with a delicate but sturdy puff pastry and sliced into easy-to-hold portions was the best-tasting, not to mention most beautiful dish there.
Typically, Kevin hovered over me at events like this, but when it came to the meeting itself, I liked sitting with Cornelia. Well ahead of the meeting, she would have pored over the agenda, which this year included not only making renovations to the elementary school, but funding a new fire truck, raising the police department budget, and allowing food trucks to park in the center of town during June, July, and August. Cornelia would give me a whispered commentary about each item that was alternately enlightening and hilarious.
This first hour, though, was social. I knew most everyone here, and while I saw some often, others had either been away for the winter, away just these last muddy weeks, or simply home with the flu, any of which reasons made me pleased to see them. If I’d wanted a reminder of what I loved about Devon, it was these people. They accepted me for who I was, right here, right now. Having never seen my scar, they had no idea it was there.
As promised, the press was barred from the church. I only wish the hacking scandal had been, too, because it was like one of us, slipping from group to group, at times waiting, at times butting right in. The latest news? Jay Harrington planned to file motions claiming that Ben Zwick and the media had fatally prejudiced the case against Chris. These motions would request disclosure of documents relating to media involvement, enforcement of the gag order, and dismissal of the charges entirely.
I figured the first and third were more feasible than the second, which, with the cat already out of the bag, was basically pointless. Others weren’t so sure, but the debate was interesting. Intelligence was another thing I loved about Devon.
So was sensitivity. Quiet and concerned, the conversation typically began with Chris. Too soon, it turned to Grace. Had she appeared, it would have ended. When she didn’t, there was speculation. Words like self-consciousness, embarrassment, and fear were bandied about.
But where is she? I was asked yet again. Like I knew? She loved Town Meeting, loved greeting friends with her big smile and her vibrant scarf, wild sweater, and spectacular hair. I knew that she’d had an afternoon meeting with Jay and had planned to come from there. But he arrived alone.
We figured, he and I, that she had lost her nerve.
I texted her, but got no response. She may still be working, I said to one friend and, to another, with resignation, She knows there’ll be talk.
Catching the last as he came alongside, Kevin murmured, “You don’t have to defend her.”
“If I don’t, who will?”
“It’s her job. She’s punting. Which is what you should be doing,” he advised.
“You say that because you don’t like her.”
“I say it, doll, because I like you.”
His deeper message wasn’t lost on me. Michael Shanahan might have been a fly on the wall, for knowing what I said and to whom. But hadn’t Kevin been the one, not so long ago, to tell me to do what I thought was right?
I was glancing back at the door, praying she was simply late, when Edward came through. He had left his jacket on the lobby rack and had come straight from work, to judge from his sweater and slacks. He was perfectly dressed. Other men wore versions of the same, though more often with jeans, and a few, like Kevin, were flamboyantly accessorized. There was nothing flamboyant about Edward, if you didn’t count his eyes. His sweater was burgundy, his slacks gray, his hair brushed back with just those thick spikes on his brow. Other men had facial hair, ranging from scruffy to full. Others were just as tall. But Edward stood out.
Forewarned should have been forearmed; I had known he would be here. But how to arm myself against Edward Cooper? I tried not to feel anything that might give me away, tried to ignore the quickening inside, and the worry. Meeting him in private was one thing, but the risk of betraying our connection amped up with this many people around.
Kevin squeezed my arm. “I got this,” he whispered and, divinely protective, strode toward the door. His back blocked the details, but body language was telling even from behind. I saw a greeting of some sort, then his hands were on his hips. Confrontation? I prayed not.
Nervous, I tried to disappear into my group, which was speculating on what the People piece would say and whether the media would be done with us then, when all eyes shifted.
“Hello,” said Edward from my shoulder, extending a hand, in turn, to the owners of those eyes. “Ned Cooper.”
Kevin had followed but refused to meet my gaze. After standing off for a minute, he turned on his heel and headed for food. Trusting that I would learn later what had been said, I tuned into Edward’s audience.
“From the Inn?” said one, not really a question.
“Not the best time,” mused her husband.
“I’ve seen you at the post office,” remarked the stage actress who, without makeup, looked plain. I did her face when theater connections came to visit, but in all else Devon, she preferred to go without. Noting my lack of reaction to Edward’s arrival, she shot me a curious glance.
“I already know him,” I explained. “He’s my boss.”
“Huh. Of course.”
“Am I interrupting?” Edward asked them.
“Absolutely not.”
“We were just talking about, well, hacking and all.”
“And it’s not gossip,” said the actress, almost in warning to the rest of us, lest we forget that Edward was not only Grace’s boss but an outsider. “We love Grace. She’s is one of us.”
“Hel-lo,” came a singsong voice and another proffered hand. “Ned Cooper? Finally. I’m Nina Evans. I’m glad you came.”
She looked wonderful, thank you, Maggie Reid. Since the Town Manager was also the Town Meeting moderator, she had visited me at three to have her confidence applied. While I worked, she asked about Edward, and when I had little to say, she dove into Liam. She knew he was my brother. Now she wanted to know how old he was, whe
re he had trained, whether there were other siblings, where we grew up, if my parents were still there. I would rather have talked about the night’s agenda, but Nina had never asked personal questions before, and, given that nothing about Connecticut or the name Reid would betray Mackenzie Cooper, I couldn’t think of a good reason not to answer, especially since I had stonewalled on the subject of Edward.
Tonight, her own sweater and slacks were professional, her wool Etro scarf powerfully New York, and her skin glowing.
Edward shook her hand, repeated her name as if he’d never heard it before, and smiled politely. He did nothing to suggest they had ever talked, and while he was gracious, I saw no particular interest in those silver-blue eyes.
Perversely, I was pleased.
That said, when Nina took his arm and insisted on introducing him around, I felt relief.
As soon as he was gone, our huddle shifted. The husband left, two other women arrived, and even from those who hadn’t met Edward directly, there was a flurry of He’s awesome, and Would you believe those eyes, and Grace should be here just to see him.
“She has seen him,” I said. “Remember where she works?”
“Will he fire her?”
“No.”
“Then he doesn’t blame her for compromising the Spa network?”
“She didn’t. Her son is the one who’s charged.” Not quite able to use the name Ned, I hitched my head after Edward. “He knows that,” I added and quickly wished I hadn’t. Anyone listening could tell that he and I had talked about Grace, which we would never have done unless we were friends, or so it seemed to me.
The good news? No one noticed. The bad? We seemed to have rounded a corner, and the tone shifted. I wanted to say it was an offshoot of curiosity, and, okay, I was supersensitive to criticism in situations like this. But the innocent Where is she? became the darker Where was she? And once aired, like the flu, it was contagious. This was on people’s minds, just as I’d known it would be. It was human nature to want to explain things, even to blame. The people here might be one step above, but they were human.
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