High-definition makeup was a no-brainer. She had already told me who her photographer and her videographer were. I knew both. Both used high-def cameras. The difference in makeup, I explained, was the ingredients. HD makeup contained things like mica and quartz, which sat on the surface of the skin to scatter the light and give the illusion of an even finish.
She liked that. Still, I began slowly, feeling my way along with the basics before proceeding to bronzer and brows. When she asked for more color on each, I complied, but with more brushing motion than actual deposit, and once I had done her eyes—yes, cat liner but modified, with pale-blue lids, a smattering of filler lashes, and navy mascara—she was so taken with them that she didn’t complain about the rest.
She wasn’t about to say that I was right, but I didn’t need her to. It was enough that she booked me for the wedding.
We took pictures of the finished product, using both her iPhone and my Nikon, so that we would have a guide to follow for her big day, and she left the Spa excited, which truly defined my goal when it came to handling brides.
Nina Evans, my three thirty, was no bride, but rather a local who was here in her capacity as Devon’s Town Manager. Like so many of us, she had a past. Originally from New York, she had risen meteorically into top management of a company whose president hired her, bedded her, and praised her to the hilt until the quarterly reports disappointed investors, at which point she became his scapegoat and was fired. Armed with acomfortable severance package, she had taken refuge in Devon, licking her wounds until boredom nearly did her in. When the position of Town Manager opened up, she leapt at it, and Devon was lucky to get her. Six years into her stewardship, the town prospered.
Nina was in her fifties. She had never told me exactly where, but neither age nor sophistication could erase the jitters she felt in advance of every major meeting. Her humiliation in New York had been public, and oh, I could identify with that. The key, here, was giving her confidence. She returned to me time and again because I did that—and I wasn’t just blowing hot air. Everyone had one feature or another that was strong. Nina actually had two.I just love your hair, I said truthfully as I wove the long waves into a cluster of knots at her nape.And here,her eyes, which were an unusually dark green,the tiniest line of amethyst at the corners will make them pop.
Totally aside from the aesthetics of heavy makeup, we both knew the danger of overdoing it; what worked in New York didn’t work in Devon. But Nina had lived in the city too long to go without. My job was to find the balance between a professional look and one that said,here is Devon at its competent best.
Her meeting an hour from now was about budgeting for renovations to the elementary school. With the annual March Town Meeting—cap T, cap M, open to the public and sure to fill the church nave—coming up fast, the Planning Board had to reach an agreement on what should be done, how and when, and at what cost, prior to presenting the plan to the public. This group consisted of a dozen local business leaders, all of whom had lived in town longer than Nina had, so she had to look like one of them, but not. A business suit wouldn’t do, since not even men here wore suits. Instead, she came to me wearing tailored wool slacks, a silk sweater, and a nubby scarf clearly recognizable as the work of a local knitter. She was armed with a briefcase of printouts to bolster her proposal and now simply needed a confident face.
There was nothing complex about Nina’s makeup. She might have done it herself if she had a girlfriend for the confidence piece. But shedidn’t know how to do girlfriends. Working in New York, she had never had time. Social activities had to be productive. Even here, in Devon, with me, she was marginally brusque. When I did her makeup, it was like a work lunch, woman to woman, without the food.
I knew the drill. She wanted concealer to cover mild rosacea, liquid foundation to even her skin tone, blusher blended lightly into her cheekbones, eyeliner so thin that it didn’t look like liner at all, those gentle amethyst corners, and a breath of mascara. Through it all we talked—about raising electric fees to pay for work on the school, about the recent sale of the Inn to a mysterious group, about the messy divorce that threatened ownership of the town’s leading realty company. Our tone was low and intimate, consistent with the reverent atmosphere in the Spa and its whisper-soft instrumentals. From time to time, a vibration came from Nina’s briefcase, but she ignored it until I finished. She had pulled out her phone and was frowning at it when my door abruptly opened.
2
Grace Emory was a massage therapist, one of the Spa’s most requested for her knowledge of muscles, the strength of her hands, and her quick smile. She was also a little zany, if only in ways a close friend would see. She painted her living room red on a whim, alternated beef gorging with juice cleanses, and, in the four years I’d known her, had surgically-tweaked her face twice.
We were visibly different. She stood five-four to my five-six, weighed one-ten to my one-twenty-five, and spoke in a higher voice. She had also lived in Devon for twelve years to my four. Since neither of us had been born here, though, we shared the bond that came from beingother.Grace was chatty, getting me going when I might have been still. But we never discussed the past. It was an unspoken agreement between us. Our friendship was about the here and now.
She was caring; when I was feeling down, she seemed to sense it and would pop into the makeup suite with fresh-brewed apricot tea. She wasimpulsive; if neither of us had bookings on a slow day, she dragged me to a movie, a restaurant, or a mall. She was shameless; when I needed a new roof, she called a one-time lover, who just happened to be the best roofer in town, and talked him down several thousand in price.
I was the more practical, certainly the more cautious of us—the one who turned off lights when we left a room, who double-checked our afternoon schedules before we left for lunch, who drew her past the pickup from which a wolf whistle had come. I drove her home from the hospital when she had plastic surgery and stayed overnight bringing ice and drinks, and making sure Chris got off to school on time. I had also done her makeup so that she could return to work sooner.
Grace Emory was a woman in search of herself. I knew about women like that firsthand. Searching for self implied either not liking who you are or wanting to escape who you’d been. I didn’t ask Grace which she was. I didn’t want her askingme—didn’t want to have to explain why, when given a choice, I made her drive, or why I wasn’t interested in dating, or why I vanished every year on the third of October and returned emotionally depleted.
Grace accepted me for me, asking questions no more threatening than,Think I should cut my hair?The Spa had dedicated stylists. But she knew I liked to play and was forever asking for help, whether it involved a straight cut, layers, curls, or an up-do. Likewise, color. Currently a brunette with auburn highlights, she was making noise about ditching the highlights and going dark. This day, her head was a riot of the long ringlets I had shown her how to create with pin curls. She looked stunning, if I didn’t say so myself.
At least, her hair did. The fact that she hadn’t knocked might have warned me, if I hadn’t instantly seen that her face was ashen. Saying nothing, she pressed a hand to her chest. Her eyes—brown today, although occasionally green, copper, or gold—held mine with an odd nonfocus as I approached.
Startled, I touched her arm.
“Chris just called,” she whispered. Chris was her fifteen-year-old son.When I tightened my grip, she said, “He’s been arrested.” Her voice shook. “They say he’s the hacker.”
I drew back my chin. “Excuse me?”
She didn’t repeat herself. The fear in her eyes said that I hadn’t heard wrong.
Too often in the last few months for it to be coincidence, local high school teachers had reported incorrect student grades showing up on their computers, hence the birth of hacker talk. But Chris Emory? I knew Chris. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body.
“That has to be wrong,” I said. “He’s only fifteen. He couldn’t—and even if he could, why would he? He’s a good student. He doesn’t need help with his grades.”
“There’s more,” Grace raced on, mildly hysterical now. “They’re saying he hacked into Twitter accounts of other people—people from outside Devon—likeour clients.”
I gaped at that. If the accusation was true, there was reason for hysteria. Our client list included some of the biggest names in New York. They came to Devon trusting that the world wouldn’t learn that the lead in a Broadway hit had very little hair of her own on her head, or that a tight end for the New York Jets liked having his toenails buffed. Their privacy was sacrosanct.
“Spa clients?” I asked, to be sure. Any kid could fiddle with school accounts and call it a prank. Fiddling with Spa accounts was a whole other thing.
Nina joined us. She was wearing her business face and used a low, firm voice to match. “That was Jason Gill. They picked up Chris at school.”
“Who’s they?” I asked in alarm.
“The FBI.”
