***
Big weddings didn’t book at the Inn for mud season. This time of year, there were no photo ops on the veranda or carriage rides through town, no rehearsal dinners in the pine grove on High Hill or chafing-dish brunches on the town green. There was no skiing, no hiking, neither sleigh rides nor hayrides. Other than a maple syrup tour, which depended on the flow of sap and was thus iffy, off-property activities were limited.
Therefore, March at the Inn was for corporate and philanthropic events, which was lucky. Weddings were more emotional. Had there been even a single one this weekend, we might have had a panicked bride, a bewildered groom, and parents who were alternately horrified, angry, or litigious on our hands. The main Inn computers, which were used for reservations and check-in, stayed in place, though government agents hovered, searching their contents at every lull. The Spa wasn’t so lucky. They had carted our computers off to parts unknown, leaving us grappling with a pair of laptops from the front office.
But press or no press, scandal or no scandal, the show had to go on. Members of a national women’s conference were checking in today. A benefactor was picking up the tab for massages, manicures, and makeup, so I was fully booked. That gave me a legitimate excuse not to meetMichael Shanahan for a quick coffee, much less lunch, and my Saturday was just as busy. From ten to six, I would be making up attendees of a cancer research fundraiser that was being held in the ballroom that night. This year, as in past ones, I was donating my time. My friend Joe Hellinger was a key organizer of the event. Even if I didn’t feel for the cause—which I did—I would have done it for Joe.
He was a doctor, though not a cancer specialist. Like so many others there that night, he had lost a loved one to cancer. In his case, it was his first wife. Others that day told me of parents or friends. For me, it was the grandmother whose green velvet box, tucked away in the dark under my bed, held the disparate threads of my heart.
In daily life, Joe was a plastic surgeon in partnership with the man who had done Grace’s first facelift. Though the two did all major procedures at Dartmouth-Hitchcock, just over the New Hampshire line, their office, like Michael’s, was in White River Junction. Since that was Vermont, I didn’t need permission, but could go there at will.
That first day, I had been waiting to drive Grace home from a post-operative appointment, when Joe emerged from an inside office with a teenaged girl whose face was severely scarred. I never quite knew what had drawn him to me, whether it was the fact that I didn’t avert my eyes, that the waiting room was otherwise empty, or simply that Joe was end-of-the-day tired, but he took a seat beside me, and we began to talk. It turned out his specialty was kids.
Mine was not. But I found that I could conceal a child’s bruises just as well as my own and was even more gratified doing it.
Joe didn’t call me often, but when he did, I shifted appointments and came. A time or two, I had even crossed the state line without permission for a last-minute consultation that I deemed worth the risk. Over the last thirty-six months, I had worked with burn victims, accident victims, and children with birth defects. Each one was worth it.
That said, I was grateful that since his event was this weekend, nothing would call me away. I didn’t want to leave the Spa. Michael was watching. The media was watching. Even, for all I knew, Edward was watching. Hecouldn’t barge in while I was doing makeup; my studio was off-limits for interruptions. But each time I finished one client, I had to walk through common areas for the next. I did not want to see him there—did not want to see him anywhere. He threatened the space that I had so painstakingly carved out for myself.
I resented that. He and I had to talk.
But when? I certainly couldn’t now, what with the Spa under attack, and not only because the media was waiting just beyond our doors, ready to pounce. Our clients had begun asking questions, so we were in flat-out defensive mode. I had already received three separate memos from Garrett on how to answer those questions or, more accurately, how to avoid answering them. His main strategy appeared to be evasion.
Edward would be proactive. But either he wasn’t yet in charge, or he was up to his ears doing damage control from some central-command post.
One thing was for certain. Given the threat to the Inn’s reputation, our security had to be twice as tight, our facilities twice as sparkling, our services twice as rewarding. We had to carry on seamlessly. For this, we needed all hands on deck, which was one of the reasons why Joyce—ever-calm Joyce, whose shiny bob swung by her chin with each turn of her head—nearly lost it when I told her that Grace wouldn’t be working.Shehadn’t told Grace to stay home, which her call to the GM, while I stood by, bore out. She didn’tcareif the resort was in crisis; this was not the way to handle it. She was fierce in Grace’s defense, going on about loyalty, unproven accusations, and bad precedents. Her most potent argument was that there were no massage therapists quite as good as Grace, certainly no last-minute ones who would be willing to work a full Friday and Saturday.
Joyce phoned Grace herself, and this time Grace answered. I knew she needed the money.
She showed up just in time for her first appointment, but had to be rescued from the parking-lot press by the firefighter now guarding the door. Once inside, she kept a low profile, moving from client to client withbarely a break. When I tried to talk with her, she held up a hand,later,but later never came. I tried to text her using the number she had called me from that morning, but she didn’t respond. I tried her that night and again Saturday morning. Nothing. I knew she was distracted, preoccupied, maybe even embarrassed, but if she shutmeout, who did she let in?
***
The press didn’t let up. When they were banned from the front lot, they doubled up in the back, which was definitely better for Spa guests, not so for employees. Whether coming or going, we had to run the gauntlet of reporters and cameras. Honestly? There were times when I hated Grace for that. Even when I was safe inside, I knew the press was lying in wait. They were a constant worry, which was good only in the sense that I had less time to think about Edward.
***
By Sunday afternoon, I was exhausted. I had been out late the night before with Alex and Jessa, knowing I needed sleep but needing the diversion more. I announced that discussing anything to do with Grace and Chris was off-limits, and they stuck to it for the most part. And I did loveGame of Thrones, although, in hindsight, the three episodes we watched weren’t the best. I immersed myself in them anyway and returned home for five hours of solid sleep, no dreams, then awoke to the knowledge that by midafternoon, life at the Spa would wind down. The women’s conference was done. All signs of Joe’s event had been cleaned up. Weekend guests of the Inn had checked out and left town.
There were a handful of late-afternoon appointments, but none were for Grace and, thank God, given how wiped out I felt, none were for me. I needed a lift, which was why I was in the lobby with Joyce when Grace headed out. She saw us, raised a quick hand, and strode on. She was with a man. A repeat client, he was her last of the day.
Coincidence,I told Joyce regarding the timing, though they went out the front door together and certainly looked like a pair. Her hood wasup, her curls hidden. The press might recognize her or not. Her being with a man might actually help hide her.
She wouldn’t,Joyce said, smooth hair brushing her jaw when her head swung to mine,not with everyone watching her.
I feared that she would. Grace liked men. They were her escape. I had always suspected she equated passion with adoration, and, confirming it to me once, she was unapologetic. She adored adoration. All her life she had struggled to find it, finally settling for little doses here and there.
Joyce didn’t know of the admission, but as she had done with me four years ago, now she sensed something wounded in Grace and seemed to want to talk about it. Since I was eager for a sympathetic voice, I agreed to take a ride with her to a yarn store she wanted to visit. Mud season was ideal for knitting, and although I didn’t do it myself, I regularly wore one of several pairs of socks Joyce had knit me. It was three in the afternoon when we left the Spa. The store was a forty-minute drive, but it was open until five. Tucking myself into her Subaru, I relaxed and let her drive, and even though nothing new came out about Grace—Joyce was clearly as tired as I was—it felt good to be with a friend. It felt good to be out of Devon, felt good not to be looking around for media vans or, nearly as bad, for Edward.
The yarn store was the messiest place I’d ever seen. Yarn was everywhere, although it apparently did have some sort of order, judging from Joyce’s conversation with the owner. All I saw was chaos. But the chaos was colorful and soft, the warren of small rooms toasty, and the background Simon and Garfunkel music that my mother would like, hence soothing to me.
By the time we left, I was feeling mellow, so when Joyce pulled onto the drive leading to The Farm at Lyme Creek, I had no problem. There were several cars in the lot. Parking beside a Jeep, she ran inside for a wedge of local cheddar. Since I needed none, I stayed in the Subaru, stretched out in my seat, and looked out over the farm. There was a bucolic ambiance here that appealed.
The fields were still fallow, but they had been tilled in advance of springplanting. The barns were newly painted, and the farmhouse, farther back, held a lopsided charm. The store itself was a rambling affair with a long porch for warm-weather chairs and bins of fruit. Attached to its hip was a bakery, where bread and rolls were baked fresh daily and, just beyond that, a greenhouse whose windows were opaque with steam. Herbs would be growing there now, along with the pea shoots whose leaves were a standard in March salads. Just this week I had seen ads for them, along with firewood, frozen steaks, and fresh maple syrup, inThe Devon Times.
The Devon Times. Not a comforting thought, that one. I wondered what Thursday’s issue would have to say about Chris Emory. Jack Quillmer, the paper’s owner and editor-in-chief, would respect the gag order and avoid mentioning Chris by name, but he couldn’t ignore the issue altogether and still keep his publication relevant. That left the possibility that he might mention Grace.
Five minutes into imagining the unpleasant scenarios that might result from that, I grew antsy and glanced at my watch. Joyce was a resource, which made her good at her job at the Spa but required being in the know. She might be talking with the farm’s owner, who typically worked the store on Sundays, about whether his cows had started to calve, what he knew about a new restaurant opening in Devon, or where he was filling his insulin prescriptions. They might talk for fifteen minutes. They might talk forthirtyminutes.
