Edward gave a short head shake. “How would he know? What would he see that would connect Maggie Reid to Mackenzie Cooper?”
“Uh, my face?” I asked in dismay.
“Hey,” came another voice from the door. It was my coworker, back from lunch. Much as Grace had done, he looked from Edward to me. “Am I interrupting?”
I forced a smile. “Of course not. Ronan, this is—”
“Ned Cooper,” Edward put in wisely. I couldn’t think of him as Ned in the best of times, one of which this was not.
“Owner of the Inn,” I managed. “Ronan Dineen, makeup artist,” I told Edward. “He’s helping me out today.”
“Thank you for that,” Edward said.
“Thanks for the opportunity.”
“Where do you usually work?”
He gave the call letters of a Burlington TV station. “It’s pretty quiet up there now.”
“Well, we’re grateful,” Edward said and told me, “You need lunch.”
“I’ll get an apple in the lounge.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.” CollectingPeopleandThe Devon Times, I handed them back. Asfar as I was concerned, they smelled up the room as badly as a hot pastrami sandwich would have done. I didn’t want them here.
Edward took the publications. He looked like he wanted to say something more but didn’t know what he could, with Ronan there. So he simply nodded and left.
***
And what could he say? I was right. My face was the problem. Only it wasn’t Jack Quillmer who connected the dots.
17
Nina Evans. I should have guessed it would be her. I knew she was interested in Edward. I also knew she was a product of corporate America, where being well informed was the key to success. In hindsight, I was surprised she hadn’t researched him before.
But Nina was the last thing on my mind when I left the makeup studio late Thursday afternoon. My phone was loaded with texts.Had I seenPeople? What did I think? How was Grace?None mentioned the piece inThe Devon Times, and while I feared the reprieve was temporary, I was relieved.
Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone.No Mom-ism this one, but a quote from Pablo Picasso that my art school friends and I used to laugh over. I wasn’t laughing now. I would have happily died not readingThe Devon Timespiece. Dealing withPeoplewas enough.
I tried calling Grace. The call went straight to voice mail. I was in thereception lounge, about to ask Joyce how much longer Grace would be working, when Nina rose from a sofa and hurried over.
“She’s been waiting,” Joyce whispered, adding a mouthed, “Sorry.”
Not your fault,I thought but didn’t say, because that quickly Nina grabbed my hand and led me to a deserted corner of the Spa store, where the only eavesdroppers would be organic skin cream and silk eye pillows.
I had no idea what she was doing. ThePeoplearticle wasn’t exactly a secret. I was unsettled when she began studying my features with intense curiosity, like she’d never seen them before, though it was true in a sense. I was the technician. When she was in my chair, the focus was her, not me.
The best defense is a good offense,my mother said each time she had to renegotiate her bakery lease. Her strategy usually involved threatening to move, and although fighting fire with fire didn’t work in the art world, I was daunted enough by Nina’s behavior to try it now.
I studied her right back, from the dark green eyes that had only smidgeons of eyeliner and mascara, and the faint splotches that weren’t quite covered by the makeup she’d cursorily applied, to the large claw clip that held back her thick hair. Capping the casual look, she wore a short parka, yoga pants, and sneakers.
My tit-for-tat didn’t seem to register as she continued to puzzle over my eyes and hair, and I had the sudden thought that she was comparing them to something else she had seen.
Like the picture of another woman.
No. NotPeople, I realized with a shock. NotThe Devon Times. Hell, not even Google.
