“Mondays,” he said and, frowning, set a plate in front of me. “Maybe. That’s still TBD.”
“This looks amazing,” I had to say.
“I told you. I’m good.”
Overeager, I took a bite of the quiche, then bobbled it in my mouth until it cooled enough to properly eat. The wait was worth it. “You’re right. You’re good.”
Lifting a plate for himself, he straddled his stool sideways to face me. “What work do you have today?”
His blankness gave me pause. Given his closeness to Mom, who had wiped me clean of her life, he might be clueless. “Do you know what I do?”
“You sell makeup.”
“I don’t sell it. I apply it. I’m a makeup artist.”
“So you put it on.”
I glanced at our breakfast spread. “Like you sling hash? There’s more to it, Liam. An artist is an artist, whether she’s working with food or makeup. I studied to do this. I apprenticed, and I’m certified. I work at the Spa at the Inn.” I added a dry, “You know,thatInn from whichyourrestaurant will get most of its patrons?”
“I know the Inn, Maggie,” he snapped, then softened. “I knew about it even before Edward approached me, and part of his pitch was laying out the numbers, so I know high-end dinner fare will sell. Still, I expected something sleepy—I mean, hell, this is Vermont. But it’s been buzzing here lately. I saw you on TV, by the way—at least, I think it was you going into that woman’s house and then, this week, going into court?” He studied my face, and suddenly, in my own home, I felt exposed. “You look different from how you used to.”
I pressed my lips together, then nodded. “Older.”
“That, too.” His phone dinged. He pulled it from his pocket, took a quick look, slid it back.
“Did Mom see?” I asked, trying to be casual about it, like I didn’t care. But I did. I wanted to know whether she thought I was being a good friend to a good friend or was still associating with the wrong people.
“You on TV? I don’t know. I left a month ago.” He lowered his voice, inviting the inside scoop. “So, did the kid do it?”
When I realized no more would be coming about Mom, I said, “I don’t really know.”
“But you know his mother. She seemed shell-shocked. Definitely a looker, though.”
I wondered why men had to go with that first. “She also happens to be a good massage therapist.”
“You work with her.”
“We’re both at the Spa.”
“Does she work Sundays, too?”
I paused. “In what way is that relevant?” I dipped into my fruit. “Actually”—I relented, because the compote was warm, sweet, delicious enough to melt my pique—“she does. The best clients I get are the ones who come straight from her. They’re loose and relaxed. I should be so lucky as to have one of those today. My morning appointment is the guest of honor at a birthday lunch. I’m not sure what the afternoon one is.” I pulled out my phone to check and saw three missed calls. Two, plus a text, were from Edward’s cell.
Talk about the past rushing back? I hadn’t seen that number since the divorce. Funny that he hadn’t changed it, though with his work and all, he wouldn’t. I had definitely changed mine. The old area code would have given me away in two seconds flat. Edward must have gotten my new number from my file at the Inn.
The third call was from Grace, who had been so hard to reach that I returned it there and then, albeit in a low voice. “Hey.”
“Maggie.” She sounded winded. “Can you do my hair this morning?”
“Uh, I think so. I have a ten o’clock—”
“It’s at eleven. They changed it. I’m looking at the schedule right now. If you get here at nine-thirty we’ll have time. I know it’s mean of me to ask this on a Sunday, but I really, really need something done.”
Leaving the table, I turned away from Liam and quietly said, “Your hair looks great. You don’t need—”
“Want.Iwantsomething done.”
I might have argued that her current something was less than a month old and that too-frequent processing would hurt her hair. But how could I argue withwant? Wantinvolved emotional issues, and Grace, of all people right now, had a right to those.
