Before and Again Read online

  I might be drawn to tall and dark, but I was not drawn to Michael. His tall was too tall, his dark hair too short. I wasn’t into buzz cuts—or into preppy, which he was. There was no chemistry on my part. Zero.

  Those few lunches I’d had with him? Mistake. I had initially gone along because he seemed genuinely interested in being a friend, and having lost so many after the accident, I welcomed that. But I was never comfortable, given what he was. And though he never overstepped, never came on to me physically, I got the sense he might if I gave him a sign.

  My sign was to gently refuse invitations. Work was a perfect excuse. I never lied; being caught in one of those wouldn’t help my case. I just scheduled bookings that allowed for the required thirty-minutes with Michael and the drive back to Devon, with no time to spare.

  Failing at lunch, he invited me to dinner. When I refused, he asked, “Are you seeing someone in town?” The question was within his rights as my probation officer. Knowing with whom I spent time was part of his job.

  “No,” I replied.

  “You aren’t dating at all?”

  “I’m not looking for a relationship. I don’t think I can handle one.”

  He finally got it.

  So did my coworkers. They knew I didn’t date. The first time Michael showed up here, I introduced him as a friend of my brother. Yes, it was a lie. I apologized to Michael the instant we were alone, but he seemed fine with it. Hell, his status was higher as a family friend than a tool of the corrections department. Besides, we had talked through the issue of concealment during our first official meeting. The resort GM knew I was a convicted felon; I’d had to disclose it when I applied for the job. He knew that the conviction was a vehicular one with no connection to applying makeup. But the references from my practicum advisor, from the makeup artist with whom I had interned, and from the specialist at the Bobbi Brown counter at Saks, where I had briefly worked, were stellar. That was it. He knew nothing else. My first year at the Spa, I lived in fear that he would tell someone even that, but at least I was covered with my boss if Michael’s real identity ever came out.

  Walking down the corridor with him now, though, was awkward. He was always serious. Today, he seemed angry.

  Guiding me into the makeup studio, he set my box on a chair, drew himself straight, and said in his stern, I-am-the-law voice, “You were on the news this morning.”

  That alarmed me totally aside from his tone. “I was? When? How?”

  “You were videoed at Grace Emory’s. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  My first thought was of all the people who would see my face. Exposure was my nemesis. My second thought was that, of course, my probation officer would be drawn to anything crime-related on the news, and would link the Grace Emory in the clip to the one who was my friend.

  My third thought was to deny it. Michael didn’t want me anywhere near a questionable situation. He might not have to know I was there. The press didn’t have my name, and night images were grainy.

  But risking it all with a lie, with only a handful of months to go?

  “Yes,” I said and lifted my makeup case to the counter. “I was there. Grace is my friend. I was worried about her.”

  “You’re not supposed to mix with bad guys.”

  “She isn’t a bad guy. Her son was the one charged.”

  “Same difference, with a minor.” He leaned against the counter, crossed his ankles, folded his arms over his Vineyard Vines tie. “Do you know anything about what he did?”

  “What he’s charged with?” I corrected but absently, as though I was simply lost in thought. “I only know what the rest of the world knows. Grace doesn’t know anything, either.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Yes,” I said and faced him. Michael wanted to be taken seriously. I couldn’t do that in a romantic way, but I did respect that he knew his job. “She’s as mystified as the rest of us.”

  “Then you’ve talked with others?”

  Feeling the warmth of the room, I unbuttoned my coat and unwound my scarf. “It’s hard not to. The whole town’s talking.”

  “I like that scarf,” he remarked and his sternness eased. “What are they saying?”

  If he was fishing for something to pass on to the Feds, I wasn’t taking the bait. The conditions of my parole said nothing about being a snitch. Then again, the defiant part of me liked helping my friend. “They’re saying Grace is a good mother and a hard worker and Chris is a good kid, but that someone needed a scapegoat, so they grabbed him.” The women at the post office hadn’t actually used the word “scapegoat,” but it sounded good. I followed up with a curious, “Do you know anything about the case?” Let him betray the Feds to me.

  But he simply asked, “Did anyone else go to her house last night?”

  “I don’t know. No one else was there when I was.”

  “Did she mention anyone else coming?”

  “No. But I didn’t ask.”

  “Then you’re her only friend?”

  “No. She has lots of friends.” Everyone liked Grace.

  “But you were the only one bothering to drive out to her place last night.”

  “Maybe there were others.”

  “There weren’t. Just you. I’m wondering why.”

  I wasn’t. Forget the issue of friendship. Think past. There was a truth here that was as important for me to admit as for Michael to hear. Tucking my hands in my coat pockets, I said, “I’ve been where she is. I know what it’s like to feel alone. Like something’s happening and you can’t control it. Like you’re on display.”

  If he was personally moved, he didn’t show it. “Wouldn’t that keep you away?”

  “But I feel for her. She’s my friend.”

  “How close are you?”

  I wanted to say that my friendship with Grace was none of his business, but unfortunately it was. “We work together. So we have that in common. And we both like to shop. She’s into clothes, and I need to know what’s new for my work.”

  He wrinkled his nose, clearly doubtful. “What do clothes have to do with makeup?”

  “Everything,” I said with enthusiasm, because this was safe ground. “Makeup providers change shades to complement what’s on the runway in a given year. If the stores are big on soft pink, orange blusher is bad, and if the styles are dainty and sweet, heavy eyeliner doesn’t work. I need to see how runways translate into retail. Some of the makeup artists in department stores are good. I pick up tips watching their makeup applications. It’s about staying current.”

  “Does Grace help with that?”

  “Staying current? Absolutely. She reads fashion magazines.” He was looking stern again. “As addictions go, it’s harmless,” I tried, but his brow furrowed. “Am I in trouble for being her friend?”

  His eyes held mine under those lowered brows. He radiated disappointment, like I had seriously let him down. “It may come to that. You know the terms of your probation.”

  “Yes.” I kept my voice low. Docile was the way to go. “I’m not supposed to associate with felons.”

  “Or suspected felons.”

  That wasn’t my take on the document in question. Unfortunately, my take didn’t matter. Michael Shanahan’s did.

  “Be careful, Maggie,” he warned as he pushed off from the counter. He rose to his full height. “You’ve made a good turnaround. The Spa likes you. The pottery store likes you. You haven’t ever been late paying your property tax. You don’t park in handicap spaces, and you haven’t been stopped for speeding. So far, you’ve done everything right. I’d hate to see you blow it with this.”

  The message, I knew, was that he checked everything I was doing, would continue doing so, and didn’t want me having anything to do with Grace. That put me in a bind.

  I was trying to decide what to do about it, when he gave a cocky smile. “So I thought I’d walk around town, maybe do a little snooping, y’know, see who’s hanging out where. I can protect you from the press. Meet
me for lunch?”

  * * *

  Big weddings didn’t book at the Inn for mud season. This time of year, there were no photo ops on the veranda or carriage rides through town, no rehearsal dinners in the pine grove on High Hill or chafing-dish brunches on the town green. There was no skiing, no hiking, neither sleigh rides nor hayrides. Other than a maple syrup tour, which depended on the flow of sap and was thus iffy, off-property activities were limited.

  Therefore, March at the Inn was for corporate and philanthropic events, which was lucky. Weddings were more emotional. Had there been even a single one this weekend, we might have had a panicked bride, a bewildered groom, and parents who were alternately horrified, angry, or litigious on our hands. The main Inn computers, which were used for reservations and check-in, stayed in place, though government agents hovered, searching their contents at every lull. The Spa wasn’t so lucky. They had carted our computers off to parts unknown, leaving us grappling with a pair of laptops from the front office.

  But press or no press, scandal or no scandal, the show had to go on. Members of a national women’s conference were checking in today. A benefactor was picking up the tab for massages, manicures, and makeup, so I was fully booked. That gave me a legitimate excuse not to meet Michael Shanahan for a quick coffee, much less lunch, and my Saturday was just as busy. From ten to six, I would be making up attendees of a cancer research fundraiser that was being held in the ballroom that night. This year, as in past ones, I was donating my time. My friend Joe Hellinger was a key organizer of the event. Even if I didn’t feel for the cause—which I did—I would have done it for Joe.

  He was a doctor, though not a cancer specialist. Like so many others there that night, he had lost a loved one to cancer. In his case, it was his first wife. Others that day told me of parents or friends. For me, it was the grandmother whose green velvet box, tucked away in the dark under my bed, held the disparate threads of my heart.

  In daily life, Joe was a plastic surgeon in partnership with the man who had done Grace’s first facelift. Though the two did all major procedures at Dartmouth-Hitchcock, just over the New Hampshire line, their office, like Michael’s, was in White River Junction. Since that was Vermont, I didn’t need permission, but could go there at will.

  That first day, I had been waiting to drive Grace home from a post-operative appointment, when Joe emerged from an inside office with a teenaged girl whose face was severely scarred. I never quite knew what had drawn him to me, whether it was the fact that I didn’t avert my eyes, that the waiting room was otherwise empty, or simply that Joe was end-of-the-day tired, but he took a seat beside me, and we began to talk. It turned out his specialty was kids.

  Mine was not. But I found that I could conceal a child’s bruises just as well as my own and was even more gratified doing it.

  Joe didn’t call me often, but when he did, I shifted appointments and came. A time or two, I had even crossed the state line without permission for a last-minute consultation that I deemed worth the risk. Over the last thirty-six months, I had worked with burn victims, accident victims, and children with birth defects. Each one was worth it.

  That said, I was grateful that since his event was this weekend, nothing would call me away. I didn’t want to leave the Spa. Michael was watching. The media was watching. Even, for all I knew, Edward was watching. He couldn’t barge in while I was doing makeup; my studio was off-limits for interruptions. But each time I finished one client, I had to walk through common areas for the next. I did not want to see him there—did not want to see him anywhere. He threatened the space that I had so painstakingly carved out for myself.

  I resented that. He and I had to talk.

  But when? I certainly couldn’t now, what with the Spa under attack, and not only because the media was waiting just beyond our doors, ready to pounce. Our clients had begun asking questions, so we were in flat-out defensive mode. I had already received three separate memos from Garrett on how to answer those questions or, more accurately, how to avoid answering them. His main strategy appeared to be evasion.

  Edward would be proactive. But either he wasn’t yet in charge, or he was up to his ears doing damage control from some central-command post.

  One thing was for certain. Given the threat to the Inn’s reputation, our security had to be twice as tight, our facilities twice as sparkling, our services twice as rewarding. We had to carry on seamlessly. For this, we needed all hands on deck, which was one of the reasons why Joyce—ever-calm Joyce, whose shiny bob swung by her chin with each turn of her head—nearly lost it when I told her that Grace wouldn’t be working. She hadn’t told Grace to stay home, which her call to the GM, while I stood by, bore out. She didn’t care if the resort was in crisis; this was not the way to handle it. She was fierce in Grace’s defense, going on about loyalty, unproven accusations, and bad precedents. Her most potent argument was that there were no massage therapists quite as good as Grace, certainly no last-minute ones who would be willing to work a full Friday and Saturday.

  Joyce phoned Grace herself, and this time Grace answered. I knew she needed the money.

  She showed up just in time for her first appointment, but had to be rescued from the parking-lot press by the firefighter now guarding the door. Once inside, she kept a low profile, moving from client to client with barely a break. When I tried to talk with her, she held up a hand, later, but later never came. I tried to text her using the number she had called me from that morning, but she didn’t respond. I tried her that night and again Saturday morning. Nothing. I knew she was distracted, preoccupied, maybe even embarrassed, but if she shut me out, who did she let in?

  * * *

  The press didn’t let up. When they were banned from the front lot, they doubled up in the back, which was definitely better for Spa guests, not so for employees. Whether coming or going, we had to run the gauntlet of reporters and cameras. Honestly? There were times when I hated Grace for that. Even when I was safe inside, I knew the press was lying in wait. They were a constant worry, which was good only in the sense that I had less time to think about Edward.

  * * *

  By Sunday afternoon, I was exhausted. I had been out late the night before with Alex and Jessa, knowing I needed sleep but needing the diversion more. I announced that discussing anything to do with Grace and Chris was off-limits, and they stuck to it for the most part. And I did love Game of Thrones, although, in hindsight, the three episodes we watched weren’t the best. I immersed myself in them anyway and returned home for five hours of solid sleep, no dreams, then awoke to the knowledge that by midafternoon, life at the Spa would wind down. The women’s conference was done. All signs of Joe’s event had been cleaned up. Weekend guests of the Inn had checked out and left town.

  There were a handful of late-afternoon appointments, but none were for Grace and, thank God, given how wiped out I felt, none were for me. I needed a lift, which was why I was in the lobby with Joyce when Grace headed out. She saw us, raised a quick hand, and strode on. She was with a man. A repeat client, he was her last of the day.

  Coincidence, I told Joyce regarding the timing, though they went out the front door together and certainly looked like a pair. Her hood was up, her curls hidden. The press might recognize her or not. Her being with a man might actually help hide her.

  She wouldn’t, Joyce said, smooth hair brushing her jaw when her head swung to mine, not with everyone watching her.

  I feared that she would. Grace liked men. They were her escape. I had always suspected she equated passion with adoration, and, confirming it to me once, she was unapologetic. She adored adoration. All her life she had struggled to find it, finally settling for little doses here and there.

  Joyce didn’t know of the admission, but as she had done with me four years ago, now she sensed something wounded in Grace and seemed to want to talk about it. Since I was eager for a sympathetic voice, I agreed to take a ride with her to a yarn store she wanted to visit. Mud season was ideal for
knitting, and although I didn’t do it myself, I regularly wore one of several pairs of socks Joyce had knit me. It was three in the afternoon when we left the Spa. The store was a forty-minute drive, but it was open until five. Tucking myself into her Subaru, I relaxed and let her drive, and even though nothing new came out about Grace—Joyce was clearly as tired as I was—it felt good to be with a friend. It felt good to be out of Devon, felt good not to be looking around for media vans or, nearly as bad, for Edward.

  The yarn store was the messiest place I’d ever seen. Yarn was everywhere, although it apparently did have some sort of order, judging from Joyce’s conversation with the owner. All I saw was chaos. But the chaos was colorful and soft, the warren of small rooms toasty, and the background Simon and Garfunkel music that my mother would like, hence soothing to me.

  By the time we left, I was feeling mellow, so when Joyce pulled onto the drive leading to The Farm at Lyme Creek, I had no problem. There were several cars in the lot. Parking beside a Jeep, she ran inside for a wedge of local cheddar. Since I needed none, I stayed in the Subaru, stretched out in my seat, and looked out over the farm. There was a bucolic ambiance here that appealed.

  The fields were still fallow, but they had been tilled in advance of spring planting. The barns were newly painted, and the farmhouse, farther back, held a lopsided charm. The store itself was a rambling affair with a long porch for warm-weather chairs and bins of fruit. Attached to its hip was a bakery, where bread and rolls were baked fresh daily and, just beyond that, a greenhouse whose windows were opaque with steam. Herbs would be growing there now, along with the pea shoots whose leaves were a standard in March salads. Just this week I had seen ads for them, along with firewood, frozen steaks, and fresh maple syrup, in The Devon Times.

  The Devon Times. Not a comforting thought, that one. I wondered what Thursday’s issue would have to say about Chris Emory. Jack Quillmer, the paper’s owner and editor-in-chief, would respect the gag order and avoid mentioning Chris by name, but he couldn’t ignore the issue altogether and still keep his publication relevant. That left the possibility that he might mention Grace.