“Why not?”
For the first time, he seemed hesitant. “Because, whether you want to believe it or not, I do like Grace. Given a choice, she and I would have been more than just… well, more. She was the one who backed off. And sure, she hates me now—”
“Do you blame her? You went all out against her son.”
“It’s what I do,” he ground out, like he’d already said it a hundred times, then eased up. “What he did really screwed me up, and I needed to hit back. So I made headlines, but like I said, had I known at the start that it was Grace’s son, I wouldn’t have done what I did. I’m trying to apologize now. I’m trying to make things better. If I buy that woman’s story, it’ll be to bury it, but that doesn’t mean someone else from Grace’s past won’tgo to another journalist. I don’t know what that past is. She refused to talk about it. But if kidnapping was involved, that’s serious stuff. Kidnapping is a felony.”
The word shot to my gut. Michael Shanahan had used it too often for comfort. A quick glance, and I knew Edward was thinking it, too. Was Ben? Suddenly, I wondered what he knew about me. I sure as hell wasn’t asking. With a crack journalist, and Zwick was that, one question was a tip-off.
I had barely four months of probation left. To be anywherenearthe wordfelonywas crazy. But this was Grace. Until I knew for sure that she had done something wrong, I couldn’t abandon her.
“I think we should meet,” I told Ben.
“With Grace. It has to be with Grace.”
His vehemence made me edgy. “Why does that sound like a trap?”
“Maybe because you and most of the rest of the world think the media’s scum. But in this case, I’m not, Maggie.” He sounded earnest. Either he was a great actor, or he truly meant it. “Pick a place you want to meet. Your choice. Somewhere safe. I’ll be alone. I won’t have a recorder. I won’t write anything down. I just want to talk. With Grace.”
I wanted to buy into honesty here, because helping Grace was important. But it was only when Edward gave his approval by mouthing,My office,that I went ahead.
“The issue,” I said, “may be getting Grace to agree, but the chances of that will be better if we meet at the Inn.”
“When?”
I had to think quickly. The Inn was hosting a political conference that would keep Grace busy for much of the weekend. “Sunday afternoon at four.”
“Sooner. I can’t guarantee this woman will wait.”
“Sure you can,” I said, snarky maybe, but there it was. “She wants you. You’re the best buyer she’ll find. Promise her something. Lie.”
He snorted. “Thanks.”
“The office of the owner of the Inn is on the second floor. He and I will both be there.”
“And Grace?”
“That’s the plan.”
***
Panic. That was what I felt. I didn’t know what Grace faced; she didn’t know what I faced. But strange callers from the past who mentioned felonious crimes were dangerous for us both.
Not that I could do anything about it now, other than to take a long, deep breath and realize that if ever I was good at compartmentalizing, I had to do it now. So I closed off my fear of what Grace was involved with and any related role I might have, and used my mother’s impending arrival in Devon as a distraction from the sense that I had made a deal with the devil.
I pointed out to her a quaint shopping area on the outskirts of town, then a covered bridge that was painted red and glistened in the mist. I pointed out the police station and the Town Hall, both wearing bleached linen stone. A bit farther on, I pointed out the road to the pottery studio, and then, in the center of town, the shops where the three roads met. A quarter of a mile north, we turned at the broad stone pillars, passed the slab of Vermont granite, beautifully lit in twilight, that announcedTHEDEVONINN ANDSPAin gold, and proceeded under the covered bridge that crossed the river. For an instant, when the Inn materialized through the trees, I was swept back to my first evening sighting. The place was every bit as imposing when lit by tungsten as by the sun.
Edward drove past the stone pillars to the front door, stopping under the porte cochére so that my mother would have less far to walk. The drive hadn’t been as easy for her as she wanted us to believe. By the end, she was shifting often, clearly uncomfortable. Besides, the front entrance of the Inn, with its large doors framed in wood, was impressive in a classic Vermont way, and we did want to wow her.
Liam was waiting for us in the lobby. We had barely walked across the carpet logo when he came toward us, looking very Devon, in jeans, boots, and a tee under an open flannel shirt. His freckles were distinct,his hair combed. My mother stopped short when she saw him, and something about the startled look on her face suggested she was seeing my father in him, just as I had at first. The resemblance was uncanny tonight.
Once she passed the shock, though, he was a hit, and why not? He gave her a big hug, told her she looked great, asked about the drive. He was appropriately concerned about her hip without ever apologizing for his absence. In what I thought was a brilliant move, he had baked a batch of her fabled pecan sandies. This was not typically Liam. As a chef, he had always preferred entrees to desserts. I could never remember his baking, much less following one of Mom’s own recipes. The fact that he had today was an homage to her, as was his warning that his weren’t as good as hers.
My mother looked him in the eye. “You hate pecan sandies.”
“Not always,” Liam replied with just the right amount of deference. “You like them, which is all that matters.”
She was flattered, which as far asIwas concerned, was all that mattered.
