Oh yeah. Edward Cooper could communicate. Looking back, though, that wasn’t the veryfirstthing that had drawn me to him. Honestly? What had first drawn me to him when I saw him on the far side of the gallery that night were his looks. I liked tall, and he was that. I liked dark, and he was that, too. I only saw his back at first, but he stood straight with ease. And when he turned? He wasn’t handsome in the classical sense; his cheekbones were too high, his nose too thin. But the attraction was instant and as electric as those weird, wonderful eyes.
That night was a pivotal one. Once we hit the street, he took off his jacket and, without asking, draped it over my shoulders. The warmth, the smell, the gesture—I loved it, even knowing he’d take the thing back as soon as dinner was done. But he didn’t. I wore the jacket until we were in his downtown apartment, when it came off with the rest of our clothes.
The memory was vivid. Feeling it deep in my belly, I slowly and deliberately inhaled. On an equally deliberate exhalation, I forced myself to remember my last view of him as his wife. He wore a suit, but the tie was bland. His hair was combed, but limp. His eyes were shadowed, like mine, and the shoulders that had once seemed so broad now sagged under a burden too heavy to bear. He was going to work, but I had no idea whether he got anything done there, or even whether he actually went. I didn’t ask. We were closed down to each other by then. When he went through the door, he didn’t look back.
Nor did I. After the movers finished loading my things in their van that morning, I climbed into my new truck, headed for Vermont, and stopped thinking about the past.
His showing up now screwed that. It was the last thing I needed, on top of the rest of the chaos in town.
But I had a job, I had friends, I had a home of my own.
Focusing on those things, I consciously eased my hands, stretching the fingers of first one, then the other, until they sat less rigidly on the wheel. The scents of my new life were a drug. I drew them into my lungs, held them there, and released them—drew them in, held them, released them. With each cycle, my tension eased. It was callous of me, for sure. Edward was reduced to nothing, and Grace was going through hell, while I was starting to relax. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t go back. Justcouldn’t.
A vibrating came from deep in my shoulder bag. I didn’t imagine it was Grace or Jay—way too early, but as soon as I turned off the main road, I pulled over just in case. There were two texts, but they were from other friends. Word was spreading. I knew it would. Devon wasn’t into petty gossip, but news was news. Add Federal agents and the national media disturbing our calm, and there was bound to be talk.
Having none to share, I drove on until I reached the white post that marked Pepin Hill. There were no other cars on the road, but out of habit alone, I signaled before turning off and starting up. I didn’t smell the Spa here but rather woods, water, and mud. Lovely smells all, they reinforcedthe sense of distance that I had worked so hard to create. By the time I pulled up at the cabin, I could hear Jonah barking inside, which was another special sign of my new life.
The path to my door was free of slush, thanks to the job done during last week’s late-season snow by a plow guy who liked me. And UPS had come by. Several boxes were stacked at the door.
Nudging them aside with a boot, I had the front door barely open when Jonah bounded out, heading for the brush to do his business. He was a beagle and a small one, for the breed. Nearly twelve, his puppy years were well past, which meant he was okay being inside for large stretches of time. After nearly four years with me, he had grown even more okay with it. Though I still tried to get home in the middle of the day to let him out, he never seemed to suffer when I could not.
That said, I felt guilty watching his exuberance now. He ran into the woods and back for several minutes before making a slower, panting return to the cabin.
The cabin? My realtor had always called it that, so I did. But given that it had well-planed wood siding, a paneled oak door, and a gable roof covered, Vermont-style, with the best metal money could buy, calling it a cabin felt like a misnomer. It was really just a very small house, painted the same slate gray as the squirrels in the woods. The first floor, front to back, held an open living room, eating bar, and kitchen, while the second floor was split between a single bedroom and bath, and a loft. Driving me here the first time, the realtor had described it as rustic, perhaps to prepare me for the worst. She knew I was from a suburb of Boston, knew that the house I was leaving had every modern appliance built in, along with a wine cooler, a hand-crafted Italian backsplash, and radiant heat. By comparison, the amenities here were modest.
Modest suited me just fine. Modest I could handle.
Besides, there was an element of pride involved in owning something myself. Granted, the divorce had given me enough money to buy it, but, had it not, my art would have. This was my own place. I had never ownedmy own home before, having gone from my parents to college to nomadism to Edward.
Should I try to call him? Did he even have the same number?
Stacking the boxes on a bench just inside the door, I hung my coat on a hook above and was toeing off my boots when my cell buzzed again. Seeing the name of another friend, I was tempted to answer. Alexandra Smith taught at the local school and might have inside news. But something in me couldn’t go there yet, especially not with Hex and Jinx rubbing against my legs, one cat per leg, and vocal.
All three pets were from the shelter. I had adopted Jonah, because, as sweet as his face was, he was old, and old pets were hard to place. The problem with Hex and Jinx wasn’t their age, which was two, or their health, which was fine, but because too many people were superstitious when it came to black cats.
Having lost a child, which, as far as I was concerned, was the worst thing that could happen to a mother, I was past the point of superstition. Moreover, the comfort my cats gave was beyond measure. Snugglers both, they curled beside me when I was on the sofa and slept on my bed every night. I wished they were better with Jonah. They picked on him like he was a cat toy, and, good old boy that he was, he took it. His revenge, of course, was going out with me for walks and drives, neither of which the others could do without risk of escape and subsequent death-by-fisher.
My phone vibrated again. After a quick glance to make sure it wasn’t Grace, I set it aside. I stroked the cats head to tail, one hand per cat, until they slipped free and made for the kitchen. Jonah was already there, waiting patiently after expending his energy outside. I filled three bowls with the appropriate food and spaced them apart on the floor, then, while they ate, filled a glass from the tap. My well offered pure spring water—no labels, no plastic, no cost. As I drank, I picked up my phone and began thumbing the screen to see the latest posts.
I followed makeup artists. Some I knew personally, some only by reputation, but the pictures they posted kept me up-to-date on new productsand styles. I followed local restaurants and stores. I followed craftspeople. There was an amazing silk-screen artist whose posts alone were works of art.
I followed my mother, CNN, and the Devon PD, but none of those could distract me in a positive way, which was why I followed CALM.Some think that holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it’s letting go, I read now and couldn’t have agreed more. Sometimes, though, it was easier said than done.
Like now.
Whatwasthat noise?
I lowered the phone and listened in dismay as my pets alternately munched kibble and shuffled pellets to get their little mouths around more. They made the same sound every day, but it sounded different right now. That munch and shuffle, over and over, conjured the image of multiple cameras snapping multiple frames.
It was memory, of course. I hadn’t been near enough to the cameras today to actually hear them, but the knowledge that they were lying in wait was enough to bring it all back.
Distancing myself, I sank into the living room sofa, tucked up my feet, and looked at those new texts. Joyce wanted news; I texted back saying I had none. It occurred to me that Nina might. I was debating calling her when Alex phoned again.
“Grace Emory’s son?” she asked in hushed disbelief. “I thought it’d be someone from outside, maybe a parent with a grudge. But astudent?”
“How did you get his name?” I asked. Grace was right about the unfairness of that.
“They came for him at school.”
