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 ishe?”
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 evenknowingabout. 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 theownerowner,” I said, needing to qualify it for meas 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?Edwardis 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.
