“They’re used for privacy, Gracie,” I said, because I knew what she was thinking. Crooks used burner phones. But so did people who wanted protection from crooks. “I’ve used them.”
“When?” she shot back.
“When I was selling furniture on Craigslist and didn’t want to give out my personal number. Women use them for online dating.” My lawyer hadn’t had to give me one; Edward had done it. That was in the hoursimmediately after the accident, before the loss of our daughter had set in, before the anger, the resentment, the recrimination.
Grace said nothing.
Hoping that maybe, just maybe, what I said had helped a little, I added, “Are you sure I can’t stay?”
“I’m sure.”
“Will you call if you change your mind?”
“Yes.”
“Please. Even if it’s the middle of the night. I’ll keep my phone with me in bed. I’ll throw clothes on and drive right back here.”
She smiled sadly and, in a moment’s softening, said, “I won’t call, Maggie. I need to work this out myself. There’s nothing you can do.”
“Call. Or text. You have friends here.”
I thought I saw tears in her eyes and might have given her a hug if she hadn’t so quickly flipped the locks, opened the door, and shoved me out. I was wondering if she knew I would have put this off forever, when I was surrounded again, at which point wondering was pointless. Raising my hood against the cameras more than the cold, I kept my head down and rushed to my truck. When the occasional body stepped in the way, I either brushed it aside or went around it myself, and the whole time, the questions came.Does she have any comment—did she know what her son was doing—how long has she lived here—what does she say about the charges—is the boy suspended from school?They overlapped, repeated, and fought for my attention with increasing insistency, until I was in my truck with the door locked. Clutching the wheel for all it was worth, I backed around and, heart in my mouth, slowly, carefully, drove back down the narrow strip until the road opened and I could breathe.
***
Since Devon only delivered mail to houses in the center of town, I had to go to the post office for mine. Thanks to the media, I might have skipped it today. Driving under cover of darkness was different from drivingaround town in the light of day. I chanced it with the pottery studio, because the studio, clay, and Kevin were essential to my sanity. Besides, I went so early I practically opened the place.
The post office was something else. It was barely nine and full daylight when I left the studio, a chilly Friday under a glare of clouds that didn’t seem to know whether to come or go. And wasn’t that an appropriate metaphor for the twist my life had taken in the last day?
But I hadn’t been to the post office since Tuesday, and I had three bills with short turnaround times that needed paying before the weekend. I didn’t like being late with bills, and it wasn’t about the fees. It was about my credit rating—a.k.a., myrecord. I wanted it to be perfect. Our postmistress, Cornelia Conrad, encouraged me to go green and pay bills online. She claimed she did it herself, and that if an eighty-one-year-old could, I could.
Oh, I could. I used to. I just chose not to now.
And you trust the United States Postal Service?Cornelia asked with the wry smile that chided her employer without quite committing treason.
No. I didn’t. But my life now was about control. I liked seeing a bill in the flesh, writing a check, stamping an envelope, and dropping it in a slot. After living in the fast lane, slow held an appeal. Paying bills by hand took time; I had plenty. And then there was my mother, who said,See, feel, know,on a regular basis. She was usually referring to brownies, or some such baked good made from scratch rather than from a packaged mix, but the trinity also applied to makeup and clay. I liked using my hands, my eyes, even my nose. When makeup went bad, I could smell it. The primal quality of that gave me comfort.
Same with sliding payment of one bill, then another into the mail slot.
Oh, I did shop online. I loved Etsy and Gilt, but was also addicted to beauty forums like makeupalley and beautypedia. And products I used at the Spa? All cyber-bought and delivered to my door by UPS.
Besides, if I paid bills online, I wouldn’t have had cause to go to the post office, and if that was the case, I wouldn’t have found my book group or gotten to know Cornelia, whom I liked immensely. Exuding quiet confidence with her long spine, square chin, and wise words, she was a source of inspiration.
The post office was midway between the pottery studio and the Spa, so I usually stopped there on my way to work. Since I had an appointment at ten this Friday, I was earlier than usual. But the media had awoken. I passed vans in the center of town, even saw a reporter doing a stand-up in front of Rasher and Yolk. Pulling my scarf higher on my chin, I drove steadily on.
The sheer volume of vehicles in the post office lot nearly scared me off. But I recognized most of the plates, none of the vehicles had satellite dishes, and I suspected Cornelia would have sent the press packing if she smelled them around. Having spent her past life in Boston, she was savvy on that score. She was also protective of Devon.
Cornelia had no use for outsiders. Her great, guilty pleasure was reading the magazines she sorted. But I had seen her put downEntertainment WeeklyorTimeor even theABA Journal, which she claimed helped her follow crime shows, to quiet an unruly summer person with a quick, firm voice.
There were no unruly people now, just small groups of locals holding mail to their chests as they talked with each other. I could guess the topic of discussion. Not wanting to take part, I kept my scarf where it was and went straight to the counter.
A tall man in a heavy barn jacket, jeans, and boots was signing for several boxes from Cornelia. As I stood behind him, trying to be invisible to those locals, I studied the floor, then his jacketed back, then his hips, which were lean and moved with male efficiency as he shifted his weight.
The movement was subtle, barely a movement at all—but was suddenly, totally, improbably familiar. No matter that barn jackets were the coveringde rigueurof men in Devon, I should have known who it was from the get-go. That height, those shoulders, the butt so neatly gloved in jeans?
Thinking still, again, that Edward wasn’t supposed to be here. I was seconds too slow in moving. When he turned, his eyes—those shimmery pale-blue things—showed surprise, unsureness, maybe even guilt.
Good,I thought with a shot of defiance back at him. Heshouldfeel guilty. It was histurnto feel guilty.
