“Not judging—”
“Yes,judging. He thinks I sleep around too much, like I go from one man to the next, and they all look the same. He thinks I’m screwed up, so it’s okay for him to be screwed up, like he can fool with computers and play at being someone else. And I’ll never know, because I’m not smart enough or I’m too busy chasing men or working so I can send him to Montreal with the hockey team or buy him the high-tops he wants or fill a prescription for the zit cream that isnotcovered by my insurance, but he was the one who complained that he didn’t have a girlfriend because of acne. He thinks I kept him from the one man he wants to know, and who in the hell was I to do that?”
“Has he actually told you these things?”
“No, but he’s thinking them, I know he is.”
I had stopped working again. Our eyes held in the mirror. Her outpouring was pure guilt. Right or not, a mother always blamed herself when something went wrong.
“But why?” Grace asked, pleading. “Everything I’ve done in the last fifteen years has been for him. I’ve tried to keep him safe. I’ve tried to make a good home. So I’m not perfect. Are you perfect? Is Joyce or Nina? Where’s the fairness of this? I’ve deliberately kept the men in my life out of his life. Isn’t what I do on my own time my own?”
“Not when you have a child.”
“How do you know?” she asked with just the slightest emphasis on theyou.
I might have taken offense, if I hadn’t known she was upset. “I saw it with my parents when I was growing up,” I said. My mom had eased into baking, but once The Buttered Scone took off, she struggled with the balance. Though my dad liked the money she earned, he was always after her to do more for and with Liam and me. There had been some serious arguments, bits of which we had heard and, of course, discussed between ourselves. Our parents would have been good candidates for marital counseling. Actually, my father could have used counseling himself. He was decidedly passive-aggressive.
With that thought, I asked, “Maybe Chris should see a counselor?”
She cleared her throat. “He already is, and if you think I’m thrilled about that, think again. The court makes him see a forensic psychologist. They’ve had one meeting of three. I’m losing sleep over what was said in that room.”
“He would never say anything bad about you.”
“Like he would never search my closet for some sign of his dad? Hell, yeah, I’d love to talk with someone, too. I’dloveto yell and scream about everything I did not plan. But I would never, never tell a counselor private things.”
“Why not? They’re bound by confidentiality.”
“And you believe they keep it?”
I considered my own therapist. “Yes. You wouldn’t have to see someone in Devon. Hanover has a ton of therapists—”
“No counseling. I’m telling you, Maggie, if it weren’t for Chris, I’d run away in a heartbeat, just disappear and reinvent myself.”
Hadn’t I considered doing the same thing? Granted, it was the nuclear option, so I was holding off. Still. Returning the brush in my hand to her hair, I asked, “Where would you go?” Dreaming was as good a way as any to soothe emotions.
“Another spa. Maybe Canyon Ranch. You know, the one in Lenox? I could go there in a heartbeat.”
I couldn’t. Edward and I had often visited friends with second homes in the Berkshires. We had even been there with Lily. The memories would be too strong.
“Not the Berkshires,” I said. “The weather is neither here nor there. Vermont winters are real winters, but if you want warmer, head south.”
“What about Florida? We could do Fisher Island.”
“We could,” I said, “but there the work is seasonal. Here, we’re booked year-round. How about San Francisco?” The weather there was moderate all year, and the spas were amazing.
“No.”
“Austin?” Texans loved spas, and Austin was a fun place. I could do Austin.
“No. Nothing west of the Mississippi.”
Her clipped tone implied it had something to do with her ex, and I didn’t ask. Leaning around one way then the other, I made sure I hadn’t missed even the smallest section, then applied the remaining color to what was soon a cap of goop swirled flat to her head.
“Virginia,” I suggested setting a timer. “There’s a Canyon Ranch at Hot Springs.” I could go there in a heartbeat. Hot Springs had history. Anything with roots appealed to me.
Except, those were someone else’s roots. Mine were here, now. I didn’t want to pick up and move to Virginia. Or Texas. Or California. I liked Devon.
“New York would be safe,” Grace said. “I could get lost in New York.”
