Before and Again Page 5

  Too late, I realized I was staring at it, at the pale-blue shirt that stretched fractionally with each breath, at the nearby lapel that was drawn into an elegant curve by the hand in the pocket of his slacks. Too late, I realized that we were facing each other.

  The silence went on a beat too long. Trying to make a joke of staring, I said, “You look very grown-up.”

  He snickered. “As in boring?”

  “No. I meant serious. Disciplined.” Even the hand that held his wine glass suggested it. Long fingers supported the stem while his thumb and forefinger cradled the bowl. But there, there, was a tiny betrayal. That forefinger tapped the bowl once, then again, like the discipline only went so far.

  I must have been staring again because he said, “Uh, oh, sorry, would you—?” He raised his glass and glanced at the server who was circulating with a tray.

  “No. But thanks. You’re not drinking yours. Not into champagne?”

  “Not into wine. Beer’s more my thing. I’m just trying to look the part.”

  “Of what?”

  “Knowledgeable art admirer.” He cleared his throat. “My business card says I’m a venture capitalist, but I’m not totally there. I’m working my way up. That requires looking confident.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  His lips lifted in a lopsided way, still not yet a smile, but sincere. “Not like you. You look bohemian through and through.”

  I wondered if I’d gone too far with the outfit. Maybe the top was too bare for proper Bostonians, or the many-stacked bangles were silly, or the cowboy boots clashed with the rest. “That bad?”

  “That good, no, it’s good. Do you live here in Boston?”

  “For a week now and then.”

  “And the rest of the time?”

  “Trying to figure that out.”

  “Where are you originally from?”

  “Connecticut. You?”

  “New Jersey. My dad’s a dairy farmer.”

  I smiled at that. I wouldn’t have guessed it, though he could probably say the same about me. “My dad teaches math,” I said to even us out. “He’s buttoned up, very into formulas.”

  “Which you are not.”

  “Which I am not.” I grinned at a friend who approached. A fellow artist, he wore his standard black T-shirt and jeans. For the occasion, he had added a scarf that my mom would call dashing but that I called simply the price paid for the honor of eating high-end canapes.

  “Hey, Mack,” he said and kissed both of my cheeks, then tossed a hand back at the room. “Is this cool or what?”

  “Very cool,” I said. “Uh, Ollie, this is…”

  “Edward,” said the tall man and extended his hand. They shook, which seemed to exhaust Ollie’s patience for nonartists, because as abruptly as he’d come, he turned and left.

  I was about to explain that artists weren’t always socially skilled, when Edward said, “Mack?”

  “Mackenzie. Edward? Ed? Woody?”

  “Just Edward. Tell me about your work.”

  I thought about how best to explain it to a layman. “I sculpt people, but in an interpretive way. I find a trait in my subject that I want to capture, and I sculpt the face to reflect it.”

  “Then, you make head shots? Torsos?”

  “Fragments of both. I’ve started doing family groups.”

  “Singly or together?”

  “Together. It’s the challenge of finding an overriding trait. Some families are cohesive, some are disjointed. Some are matriarchal, some are blended. I spend as much prep time getting to know the family as I do sculpting them. You must do the same thing with your work.” I paused. What I knew about venture capitalism could fit into one of my mother’s tiny pinch-of-spice cups. Cautious, I asked, “Don’t you?”

  “Oh yeah, I do.” He cleared his throat. “But hey,” he said with what might have been a smile, though it was small and tentative, “I’m not big on whatever it is they’re serving here, and I’m starved. I passed an Indian place down the block. It looked interesting, and it wasn’t packed, which may mean the food stinks, but at least it’d be quiet enough to talk.” He dipped his head, seeming a little unsure but genuinely hopeful, and asked, “Want some dinner?”

  Meals were incidental in my life. I had assumed that dinner tonight would consist of whatever I munched on here, but there was no reason to stay. I had come for my friend, and for the gallery owner, whom I had met several times and who I dreamed would show my work one day. I had already talked with both. There were lots of other people here I knew; we could talk about art all night. But I always talked about art. Venture capital was different. So was dairy farming. So, frankly, was a man who could talk easily and, despite his appearance, came across as honest and unpretentious.

  * * *

  Oh yeah. Edward Cooper could communicate. Looking back, though, that wasn’t the very first thing that had drawn me to him. Honestly? What had first drawn me to him when I saw him on the far side of the gallery that night were his looks. I liked tall, and he was that. I liked dark, and he was that, too. I only saw his back at first, but he stood straight with ease. And when he turned? He wasn’t handsome in the classical sense; his cheekbones were too high, his nose too thin. But the attraction was instant and as electric as those weird, wonderful eyes.

  That night was a pivotal one. Once we hit the street, he took off his jacket and, without asking, draped it over my shoulders. The warmth, the smell, the gesture—I loved it, even knowing he’d take the thing back as soon as dinner was done. But he didn’t. I wore the jacket until we were in his downtown apartment, when it came off with the rest of our clothes.

  The memory was vivid. Feeling it deep in my belly, I slowly and deliberately inhaled. On an equally deliberate exhalation, I forced myself to remember my last view of him as his wife. He wore a suit, but the tie was bland. His hair was combed, but limp. His eyes were shadowed, like mine, and the shoulders that had once seemed so broad now sagged under a burden too heavy to bear. He was going to work, but I had no idea whether he got anything done there, or even whether he actually went. I didn’t ask. We were closed down to each other by then. When he went through the door, he didn’t look back.

  Nor did I. After the movers finished loading my things in their van that morning, I climbed into my new truck, headed for Vermont, and stopped thinking about the past.

  His showing up now screwed that. It was the last thing I needed, on top of the rest of the chaos in town.

  But I had a job, I had friends, I had a home of my own.

  Focusing on those things, I consciously eased my hands, stretching the fingers of first one, then the other, until they sat less rigidly on the wheel. The scents of my new life were a drug. I drew them into my lungs, held them there, and released them—drew them in, held them, released them. With each cycle, my tension eased. It was callous of me, for sure. Edward was reduced to nothing, and Grace was going through hell, while I was starting to relax. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t go back. Just couldn’t.

  A vibrating came from deep in my shoulder bag. I didn’t imagine it was Grace or Jay—way too early, but as soon as I turned off the main road, I pulled over just in case. There were two texts, but they were from other friends. Word was spreading. I knew it would. Devon wasn’t into petty gossip, but news was news. Add Federal agents and the national media disturbing our calm, and there was bound to be talk.

  Having none to share, I drove on until I reached the white post that marked Pepin Hill. There were no other cars on the road, but out of habit alone, I signaled before turning off and starting up. I didn’t smell the Spa here but rather woods, water, and mud. Lovely smells all, they reinforced the sense of distance that I had worked so hard to create. By the time I pulled up at the cabin, I could hear Jonah barking inside, which was another special sign of my new life.

  The path to my door was free of slush, thanks to the job done during last week’s late-season snow by a plow guy who liked me. And UPS had come by. S
everal boxes were stacked at the door.

  Nudging them aside with a boot, I had the front door barely open when Jonah bounded out, heading for the brush to do his business. He was a beagle and a small one, for the breed. Nearly twelve, his puppy years were well past, which meant he was okay being inside for large stretches of time. After nearly four years with me, he had grown even more okay with it. Though I still tried to get home in the middle of the day to let him out, he never seemed to suffer when I could not.

  That said, I felt guilty watching his exuberance now. He ran into the woods and back for several minutes before making a slower, panting return to the cabin.

  The cabin? My realtor had always called it that, so I did. But given that it had well-planed wood siding, a paneled oak door, and a gable roof covered, Vermont-style, with the best metal money could buy, calling it a cabin felt like a misnomer. It was really just a very small house, painted the same slate gray as the squirrels in the woods. The first floor, front to back, held an open living room, eating bar, and kitchen, while the second floor was split between a single bedroom and bath, and a loft. Driving me here the first time, the realtor had described it as rustic, perhaps to prepare me for the worst. She knew I was from a suburb of Boston, knew that the house I was leaving had every modern appliance built in, along with a wine cooler, a hand-crafted Italian backsplash, and radiant heat. By comparison, the amenities here were modest.

  Modest suited me just fine. Modest I could handle.

  Besides, there was an element of pride involved in owning something myself. Granted, the divorce had given me enough money to buy it, but, had it not, my art would have. This was my own place. I had never owned my own home before, having gone from my parents to college to nomadism to Edward.

  Should I try to call him? Did he even have the same number?

  Stacking the boxes on a bench just inside the door, I hung my coat on a hook above and was toeing off my boots when my cell buzzed again. Seeing the name of another friend, I was tempted to answer. Alexandra Smith taught at the local school and might have inside news. But something in me couldn’t go there yet, especially not with Hex and Jinx rubbing against my legs, one cat per leg, and vocal.

  All three pets were from the shelter. I had adopted Jonah, because, as sweet as his face was, he was old, and old pets were hard to place. The problem with Hex and Jinx wasn’t their age, which was two, or their health, which was fine, but because too many people were superstitious when it came to black cats.

  Having lost a child, which, as far as I was concerned, was the worst thing that could happen to a mother, I was past the point of superstition. Moreover, the comfort my cats gave was beyond measure. Snugglers both, they curled beside me when I was on the sofa and slept on my bed every night. I wished they were better with Jonah. They picked on him like he was a cat toy, and, good old boy that he was, he took it. His revenge, of course, was going out with me for walks and drives, neither of which the others could do without risk of escape and subsequent death-by-fisher.

  My phone vibrated again. After a quick glance to make sure it wasn’t Grace, I set it aside. I stroked the cats head to tail, one hand per cat, until they slipped free and made for the kitchen. Jonah was already there, waiting patiently after expending his energy outside. I filled three bowls with the appropriate food and spaced them apart on the floor, then, while they ate, filled a glass from the tap. My well offered pure spring water—no labels, no plastic, no cost. As I drank, I picked up my phone and began thumbing the screen to see the latest posts.

  I followed makeup artists. Some I knew personally, some only by reputation, but the pictures they posted kept me up-to-date on new products and styles. I followed local restaurants and stores. I followed craftspeople. There was an amazing silk-screen artist whose posts alone were works of art.

  I followed my mother, CNN, and the Devon PD, but none of those could distract me in a positive way, which was why I followed CALM. Some think that holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it’s letting go, I read now and couldn’t have agreed more. Sometimes, though, it was easier said than done.

  Like now.

  What was that noise?

  I lowered the phone and listened in dismay as my pets alternately munched kibble and shuffled pellets to get their little mouths around more. They made the same sound every day, but it sounded different right now. That munch and shuffle, over and over, conjured the image of multiple cameras snapping multiple frames.

  It was memory, of course. I hadn’t been near enough to the cameras today to actually hear them, but the knowledge that they were lying in wait was enough to bring it all back.

  Distancing myself, I sank into the living room sofa, tucked up my feet, and looked at those new texts. Joyce wanted news; I texted back saying I had none. It occurred to me that Nina might. I was debating calling her when Alex phoned again.

  “Grace Emory’s son?” she asked in hushed disbelief. “I thought it’d be someone from outside, maybe a parent with a grudge. But a student?”

  “How did you get his name?” I asked. Grace was right about the unfairness of that.

  “They came for him at school.”

  “He’s high school. You’re middle school.”

  “The teaching community is tight,” she said as if that forgave the talk, and hurried on before I could argue. “I taught Chris in sixth grade. He’s brilliant. Lazy, but brilliant.”

  “Lazy? How is he lazy? I’ve never seen laziness. He does everything Grace asks—”

  “But nothing more,” Alex broke in, “and I’m talking intellectually. He was a great reader when I had him, read fast and with total comprehension, but he would only read what was assigned, just the assignment, nothing more. I’ll bet he never reads a book at home.”

  I opened my mouth to argue but nothing came out. She was probably right, given his role model. Grace wasn’t a reader. I had invited her into my book group, but she wasn’t interested. Same when I occasionally suggested she read a book that I loved. Her addiction was for fashion magazines and the never-ending search for a different look. But that was neither here nor there when it came to her son being a hacker. Besides, sharing this with Alex felt disloyal to Grace.

  “If he doesn’t read outside class,” I said, “how would he know about hacking? Are there instructions online?”

  “Pretty much. I’m not saying he did it, but he could have. He’s a smart kid.”

  “Right, so why would he want to change his grades?”

  “Oh, his grades were never changed.”

  That stopped me. “Whose were?”

  “Random others. Maybe he was testing himself before trying something bigger. Honing the skill, y’know?”

  I didn’t find anything humorous in her turn of phrase. “Maybe it wasn’t him at all.”

  “It sure looks it. Poor Grace. She was always the first one to sign up for parent-teacher conferences or send cookies for a bake sale. She must be terrified.” She paused, waiting for me to confirm it. When I didn’t, she said, “The police station’s a circus. They say it’ll make the national news tonight.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised, given the national brands I’d seen emblazoned on satellite vans in town, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t alarmed. Federal charges were a big thing, but the crime itself—alleged crime—was localized. Nationwide interest didn’t make sense unless someone had an ulterior motive. I certainly knew about those.

  “The judge is on his way,” Alex said. “They want him locked up. They think he’s a flight risk.”

  “Chris? Chris is fifteen! Who are you talking to, Alex?”

  She offered three names, one reliable, two not, but my stomach was knotting up against the past again—a past that, like Grace and every other female friend here, Alex knew nothing about. So when she switched topics and said, “But hey, we’re still on for this weekend, aren’t we?” I was furious at how unconcerned she seemed. It was a minute before I could calm myself and pull back.

  Alex,
Jessa Hutton, and I were binge buddies, meeting Saturday nights whenever Jessa’s hunter-husband did his upcountry thing. In the last two years, we had worked our way through Homeland and Girls. We were now into Game of Thrones.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I managed and, with a casual, “Let me know if you hear anything more?” ended the call. Two seconds passed before another came.

  “Grace could have a problem,” Nina said without preamble. “Those Twitter accounts belong to some important people.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “Griswold wouldn’t give me names,” Gary Griswold was our Police Chief, “but he’s sitting in his office with his chest puffed out like he had something to do with the investigation, which he did not. This has been a Federal operation all the way.”

  “There must have been talk. The press would be panting for it.” Like rabid wolves, I thought, but didn’t say. “Did you catch any names at all?” I might recognize a few. I did VIP makeup often, had certainly done my share of visiting celebs. As flattering as it was to be asked, now I wondered at my own hubris. If a client of mine was the victim here, my probation officer wouldn’t like it. His parting shot at the end of each monthly visit was to warn me to give trouble a wide berth, and though, after all this time, he made it a joke, I took it to heart.

  “I didn’t pick up a thing,” Nina said, “and, trust me, I asked. But Griswold said he. He’s in town. He’ll be at the courthouse later. Want to meet me there?”

  “God, no,” I cried, trying to make light of the suggestion. My own clients were female, but Grace worked on a lot of men. Frightened for her, but not willing to go anywhere near the zoo of a press conference, I asked, “How was your meeting?”

  “A quick vote yes. All they wanted to talk about was hacking. I saw Grace at the station. She’s a basket case. Did you see the media trucks?”

  I said that I had, and took a single, long breath to quiet myself while Nina gushed over the various news outlets that had come. I suspected she was having flashbacks to New York and loving it. Me, I was having flashbacks to Boston and not loving it at all.