“Nope,” I said, denying us both, “not going there.” When I stood, our bodies brushed, we were that close, but I quickly backed off and returned to his office.
It was a minute before he followed. One look at his face, and I swore softly.
He looked startled. “What?”
“You need to be less transparent, Edward. Actually, maybe you do need a Nina.”
“Nope, not going there,” he said, echoing me, and changed the subject with a curious, “You don’t cry. Why not?”
He was the first one to ask. The first one. Because no one else knew. I was alone those nights in bed when it hit, and if I had been with someone, he would have thought me heartless and cold. That wasn’t a risk with Edward. He knew I loved Lily. And he’d already noticed my dry eyes, so if he was going to think less of me, it was done.
“I ran out of tears a couple of years ago,” I said.
“But you’re in pain.”
I nodded. “They tell me it’s like having a heart attack.”
“Like a panic attack?”
“No. I have chest pain.”
He processed that while I forced memory aside and deliberately ate a grape. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, my therapist called it. It hadn’t worked in the past, but maybe with Edward here, it would.
“Tea?” he asked.
“Actually, yes. Thank you.”
He crossed to the Nespresso machine. No, Edward couldn’t cook, but he always made me tea. Back then, we had a Keurig. The Inn had a contract—yet another contract—with Nespresso.
Returning, he passed me a mug. I lifted it to my nose and inhaled. “Vanilla Oolong?” I asked in surprise.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know Nespresso made Vanilla Oolong pods.”
“I did some work for a start-up that made them. They give me whatever I want whenever I ask. These just arrived.”
“Are you a tea-drinker now?” After he widened his eyes in anare-you-kiddingway, I lowered mine and studied the clear amber liquid in its porcelain mug. Vanilla Oolong wasn’t offered during high tea at the Inn. He had ordered it for me, which was thoughtful and sweet, totally touching. I just wish he hadn’t. Kind gestures complicated things. Figuring out who I was—who he was—was hard enough without throwing awein the mix.
He went back for coffee, but by the time he came back with his mug filled, I was no closer to knowing what to think. There was some solace in realizing he didn’t either, because he didn’t resurrect the tea-for-me theme, the chest-pain theme, or, thank goodness, the Lily theme, because the latter, especially, would have done me in. Once he was seated, he simply put his elbows on his knees, held the mug in both hands, and said, “Tell me about the Town Meeting.”
14
Town Meeting was a Vermont institution. State law dictated that it be held on the first Tuesday in March, and while there was always business to discuss, it was as much a social event, giving people reason to slog through snow or mud to be with others of like mind. We Devonites were just defiant enough to have voted—overwhelmingly—to hold ours on the last Wednesday of the month, though it was also a practical move. We didn’t like having to slog through snow, and by the end of March, the mud was drying. Besides, some of our most treasured members were snowbirds. This gave them more time to return, which they always did. Town Meeting was a reaffirmation of who we were. It was about self-identity.
Self-identity was a huge issue for me right now. In the life I’d built here, I was a makeup artist, a sculptor, and a friend. But that life had been hacked, broken into by two men I hadn’t invited. Suddenly, I was a sister and a whatever-it-was to Edward. I didn’t know how these roles fit into my life here, all the more so after Monday’s lunch.
My emotions were the problem. I wanted to deny them; denial was my thing. When someone hacked into your life, you shut them out. So yes, I could tell Liam he had two days to find a place to live. But I couldn’t shake the sense of family, that I thought Ihadshut out, but apparently missed, because I did like seeing him in my home. And Edward? I could demand he steer clear—could tell him that he stirred up memories too painful to bear. But seeing him brought good memories, too.
Besides, I could say whatever I wanted, but would my dreams listen? No!
Once upon a time, I had been a good sleeper. Then I became a mother and started listening for every peep from the baby monitor and, when the monitor was retired, from the room down the hall. After Lily died, I kept listening, hearing sounds that my therapist likened to the imagined pain of a severed limb. So I slept in short spurts, which meant that when I dreamed, those dreams were fresh enough to linger when I woke.
They were coming in droves again, and they were killers. Lily was in some, Edward in others. At times, I woke up struggling to breathe, when my only remedy was hugging whatever ball of fur lay closest to me. At one point Monday night, I even sat on the floor by my bed, pulling air into my lungs with my ear pressed to Jonah’s sweet heart, and, fooling neither of us, studying the green velvet box under the bed. I didn’t pull it out. I knew what was inside. Pandora’s box? No. It held no evil, just all-too-real pieces of the past.
Yes, Town Meeting would remind me of who I was now.
But so would clay. I arrived at the pottery studio Tuesday morning in the mood to make another teapot. My teapots always flew off the shelves, which made them a win-win for me—loved making them, loved sharing them. Unfortunately, thanks to Liam’s breakfasts, I wasn’t thinking of raisin croissants, pecan buns, or anything else from The Buttered Scone. With my brother never far from my laptop and nosy as ever, I had no chance to check my mother’s Facebook feed, which meant that Mom-as-muse was on hold.
