That left a vacuum, which forced me to open my mind.Let go, enjoylife and celebrate,CALM told me, and, in theory, that captured the beauty of clay for me. Like clouds shifting in the sky, a mass being pushed around on my work bench could take on the shape of any little thing.
This day I did consciously let go, freeing my fingers to wander in, over, and around. I was once removed from it, watching with fascination as my hands formed a head and my fingers shaped its brow, eye sockets, and cheeks, before picking up tools to define a round eye, a slender nose, and long, wavy hair. The piece was small, barely four inches from crown to chin, but vivid.
“She’s a looker,” Kevin praised as he hunkered by my stool. “Lily?”
His voice, soft though it was, brought reality back. “Oh, no. No, no.” I studied what I’d made, only then identifying the model. “Maddie. She’s twelve. And she is beautiful.” No matter that I had sculpted only one side of her face. The other side didn’t matter. This was how I saw her.
“You haven’t done a person before. You should do it more.”
“Maybe,” I said but let that go, too.
***
It was harder to let go as I drove to the Inn, harder not to think of Edward and wonder whether he would come by or call. What I needed was a day of nonstop work, but bookings were sparse. I was therefore relieved when Joe Hellinger called and, grateful for direction, I drove straightaway to his office to consult with the parents of a high school junior who had totaled the family car and seriously messed up her face. Also in White River Junction, I was able to connect with a freelance makeup artist who was hawking a line of organic skin cream.
So I didn’t see Edward that day. Like a bug in my computer, though, his presence was felt in the form of updates to the Inn staff on the status of reservations and incentives designed to make up for the dip. He was both perceptive and proactive.
Liam was neither. Despite the tour I’d give him on Sunday, he showed no sign of leaving. I knew that he went out while I worked; his car was parked in a slightly different spot each time I got home. Based on hischatter, which filled my previously quiet cabin in ways that were alternately annoying and sweet, I knew he was meeting with designers and carpenters for the restaurant. But while he seemed to be mapping every market for miles around, he said nothing about finding his own place to live.
And how could I insist, given the cooking he did? Sunday night we had a hearty French onion soup with Gruyère rounds, Monday night beef bourguignon with abouquet garniof heirloom carrots and herbs, and Tuesday night a Mediterranean fish stew. For Wednesday night, he was planning a skillet chicken cordon bleu with penne. But Town Meeting was that night.
“It’s potluck,” I said. “People bring casseroles and set them out in the social hall, so I’ll have dinner there.”
He made a face. “Mac ’n’ cheese?”
I smiled. “In Devon? Not quite. Potluck here is high-end—like risotto, Mexican chicken salad, and black bean soup. Snowbirds bring recipes back from Boca and Palm Springs. It’s pretty impressive.”
“Can anyone bring food?” he asked, a little too-casually. I could see the wheels in his mind turning.
“Only locals. Guards will be at the door to keep out the press.” Just when it seemed the attention might be waning, another media figure showed up, and thePeoplepiece wouldn’t help. Even if it broadened to encompass computer abuse by teenagers in general, Devon remained ground zero.
Liam wasn’t thinking about that particular circus. His sights were focused. “Do I qualify as a local?”
“Only,” I warned with equal focus, “if you say nothing about my past. Donotbreathe the name Mackenzie Cooper. Do you hear?”
“Yes, Mom.”
I refused to give him the rise he wanted. Rather, with poise, I said, “Trust me, I am not Mom. Mom would be calling you out for putting heavy-duty tires on your car and adding them tomytab at the service station. Oh yes, brother, they did call me about that. I also got a call fromthe wife of one ofyourcarpenters, who happens to be in my book group and learned from her husband that my brother is in town, and since she is not known for reticence, it’s a safe bet that most of Devon knows by now.”
Bless him, he was undaunted, and the irony of that? Five years ago, being related to me was poison. That I had become an asset said something about how far I’d come.
So I was feeling content when he asked, “Then my bringing food tonight will be okay?”
“Only if it’s good.”
“Slam dunk there. I’ll double the amount I make.”
“Quadruple it, Liam. Actually, make it for several dozen, and you’re set.”
***
It was a stroke of genius. Liam was in his glory preparing dinner for a large number of people, running to local stores for food and serving supplies, getting to know the town in a way that would pay off tenfold. He introduced himself alternately as my brother and as the chef of the new French bistro, which I learned when I was barely through the stone-arched door of the church where Town Meeting was held. The fact that he modified his initial recipe didn’t hurt. His chicken cordon bleu roll-ups, held together with a delicate but sturdy puff pastry and sliced into easy-to-hold portions was the best-tasting, not to mention most beautiful dish there.
Typically, Kevin hovered over me at events like this, but when it came to the meeting itself, I liked sitting with Cornelia. Well ahead of the meeting, she would have pored over the agenda, which this year included not only making renovations to the elementary school, but funding a new fire truck, raising the police department budget, and allowing food trucks to park in the center of town during June, July, and August. Cornelia would give me a whispered commentary about each item that was alternately enlightening and hilarious.
This first hour, though, was social. I knew most everyone here, andwhile I saw some often, others had either been away for the winter, away just these last muddy weeks, or simply home with the flu, any of which reasons made me pleased to see them. If I’d wanted a reminder of what I loved about Devon, it was these people. They accepted me for who I was, right here, right now. Having never seen my scar, they had no idea it was there.
As promised, the press was barred from the church. I only wish the hacking scandal had been, too, because it was like one of us, slipping from group to group, at times waiting, at times butting right in. The latest news? Jay Harrington planned to file motions claiming that Ben Zwick and the media had fatally prejudiced the case against Chris. These motions would request disclosure of documents relating to media involvement, enforcement of the gag order, and dismissal of the charges entirely.
