Before and Again

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Why?” She drew out the word, but it lacked inflection. I heard despair beneath it.

  “To make him feel better? To tell him it’ll all be okay?” Both were for her, too. I wanted her to know she wasn’t totally alone. When her shadowed face told me nothing, I added, “He’s home, isn’t he?”

  “For now, but they have it in for him.”

  “Did he do it?” I whispered.

  She whispered back, “He says no.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t know. His father was a liar.”

  I was a minute processing that. “You’ve never mentioned his father before.” She gestured, like she would have taken the words back if they hadn’t already hit air. But they had, so I asked, “Does he know about this?”

  She shook her head. “He’s not in the picture.”

  “Should he be—I mean, helping with legal costs and all?”

  “No. I’m good.” She folded her arms around her middle.

  “Maybe—”

  “I’m good.”

  Words, body language—she was shutting me out. But I was her friend. Needing to get her talking, I asked, “Was Jay a help?”

  “Yes.”

  “He did this kind of work before he came here. He’s good at it. His name was the one I was given in case I ever needed help.”

  She snuffed. “Like you’d ever need help.”

  “We all do sometimes. It was a strong recommendation.” When she remained silent, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, I tried, “The town will support you. So will the Spa.”

  The dimness didn’t hide her worry.

  “Do you remember Ben Zwick being here?” I asked. “Did you ever work with him?”

  “Jay said I shouldn’t talk.”

  “This is me. I won’t say anything.”

  “Not even under oath?”

  She had a point. If I was ever subpoenaed—but I couldn’t go there, could not go there. Feeling helpless and angry at that, I said, “I want to help, Grace. What can I do?”

  “Leave. You should leave.”

  “You need someone here. Did you eat? You need to eat. So does Chris. I can make eggs or soup. I can stay the night and guard the door. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ve done it before.”

  “No. Don’t make it worse, Maggie.”

  I didn’t imagine how my being there could do that, but I had to respect her wishes. “Did they take your phone?” She gave a short nod. “Did Jay get you another?”

  “A burner,” she said with a derisive snort and looked away.

  “They’re used for privacy, Gracie,” I said, because I knew what she was thinking. Crooks used burner phones. But so did people who wanted protection from crooks. “I’ve used them.”

  “When?” she shot back.

  “When I was selling furniture on Craigslist and didn’t want to give out my personal number. Women use them for online dating.” My lawyer hadn’t had to give me one; Edward had done it. That was in the hours immediately after the accident, before the loss of our daughter had set in, before the anger, the resentment, the recrimination.

  Grace said nothing.

  Hoping that maybe, just maybe, what I said had helped a little, I added, “Are you sure I can’t stay?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Will you call if you change your mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please. Even if it’s the middle of the night. I’ll keep my phone with me in bed. I’ll throw clothes on and drive right back here.”

  She smiled sadly and, in a moment’s softening, said, “I won’t call, Maggie. I need to work this out myself. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Call. Or text. You have friends here.”

  I thought I saw tears in her eyes and might have given her a hug if she hadn’t so quickly flipped the locks, opened the door, and shoved me out. I was wondering if she knew I would have put this off forever, when I was surrounded again, at which point wondering was pointless. Raising my hood against the cameras more than the cold, I kept my head down and rushed to my truck. When the occasional body stepped in the way, I either brushed it aside or went around it myself, and the whole time, the questions came. Does she have any comment—did she know what her son was doing—how long has she lived here—what does she say about the charges—is the boy suspended from school? They overlapped, repeated, and fought for my attention with increasing insistency, until I was in my truck with the door locked. Clutching the wheel for all it was worth, I backed around and, heart in my mouth, slowly, carefully, drove back down the narrow strip until the road opened and I could breathe.

  * * *

  Since Devon only delivered mail to houses in the center of town, I had to go to the post office for mine. Thanks to the media, I might have skipped it today. Driving under cover of darkness was different from driving around town in the light of day. I chanced it with the pottery studio, because the studio, clay, and Kevin were essential to my sanity. Besides, I went so early I practically opened the place.

  The post office was something else. It was barely nine and full daylight when I left the studio, a chilly Friday under a glare of clouds that didn’t seem to know whether to come or go. And wasn’t that an appropriate metaphor for the twist my life had taken in the last day?

  But I hadn’t been to the post office since Tuesday, and I had three bills with short turnaround times that needed paying before the weekend. I didn’t like being late with bills, and it wasn’t about the fees. It was about my credit rating—a.k.a., my record. I wanted it to be perfect. Our postmistress, Cornelia Conrad, encouraged me to go green and pay bills online. She claimed she did it herself, and that if an eighty-one-year-old could, I could.

  Oh, I could. I used to. I just chose not to now.

  And you trust the United States Postal Service? Cornelia asked with the wry smile that chided her employer without quite committing treason.

  No. I didn’t. But my life now was about control. I liked seeing a bill in the flesh, writing a check, stamping an envelope, and dropping it in a slot. After living in the fast lane, slow held an appeal. Paying bills by hand took time; I had plenty. And then there was my mother, who said, See, feel, know, on a regular basis. She was usually referring to brownies, or some such baked good made from scratch rather than from a packaged mix, but the trinity also applied to makeup and clay. I liked using my hands, my eyes, even my nose. When makeup went bad, I could smell it. The primal quality of that gave me comfort.

  Same with sliding payment of one bill, then another into the mail slot.

  Oh, I did shop online. I loved Etsy and Gilt, but was also addicted to beauty forums like makeupalley and beautypedia. And products I used at the Spa? All cyber-bought and delivered to my door by UPS.

  Besides, if I paid bills online, I wouldn’t have had cause to go to the post office, and if that was the case, I wouldn’t have found my book group or gotten to know Cornelia, whom I liked immensely. Exuding quiet confidence with her long spine, square chin, and wise words, she was a source of inspiration.

  The post office was midway between the pottery studio and the Spa, so I usually stopped there on my way to work. Since I had an appointment at ten this Friday, I was earlier than usual. But the media had awoken. I passed vans in the center of town, even saw a reporter doing a stand-up in front of Rasher and Yolk. Pulling my scarf higher on my chin, I drove steadily on.

  The sheer volume of vehicles in the post office lot nearly scared me off. But I recognized most of the plates, none of the vehicles had satellite dishes, and I suspected Cornelia would have sent the press packing if she smelled them around. Having spent her past life in Boston, she was savvy on that score. She was also protective of Devon.

  Cornelia had no use for outsiders. Her great, guilty pleasure was reading the magazines she sorted. But I had seen her put down Entertainment Weekly or Time or even the ABA Journal, which she claimed helped her follow crime shows, to quiet an unruly summer person with a quick, firm voice.


  There were no unruly people now, just small groups of locals holding mail to their chests as they talked with each other. I could guess the topic of discussion. Not wanting to take part, I kept my scarf where it was and went straight to the counter.

  A tall man in a heavy barn jacket, jeans, and boots was signing for several boxes from Cornelia. As I stood behind him, trying to be invisible to those locals, I studied the floor, then his jacketed back, then his hips, which were lean and moved with male efficiency as he shifted his weight.

  The movement was subtle, barely a movement at all—but was suddenly, totally, improbably familiar. No matter that barn jackets were the covering de rigueur of men in Devon, I should have known who it was from the get-go. That height, those shoulders, the butt so neatly gloved in jeans?

  Thinking still, again, that Edward wasn’t supposed to be here. I was seconds too slow in moving. When he turned, his eyes—those shimmery pale-blue things—showed surprise, unsureness, maybe even guilt.

  Good, I thought with a shot of defiance back at him. He should feel guilty. It was his turn to feel guilty.

  But there were at least ten other people around, all of whom I knew. This was not the time for a confrontation. That said, I couldn’t quite get myself to joke and say, We have to stop meeting this way, in part because a smile was beyond me. Having a beer at my favorite pub was bad enough. Now my post office?

  He stared for several more seconds this time than last. We both moved right, then left before working it out, at which point he nodded and passed.

  “Have you not met him yet?” Cornelia asked, having seen our little dance.

  “Oh, I have,” I replied without saying where. “What was he picking up?”

  “Bedding”

  “Bedding.”

  “From Wayfair.”

  “Why does he need bedding?”

  “He has to sleep on something.”

  “But he’s with the Inn. Isn’t he staying there?”

  “Not now that he has sheets. He bought the Barnstead place. Lord knows why. It’s been empty for three years and is falling apart.”

  Bought. Bought?

  “It needs major rehab,” Cornelia said, “and I do mean major. Bill Barnstead did nothing but mourn after his wife died, so the house is in a state of disrepair. Oh, the place has good bones, and it’s set on a good piece of land, prime waterfront property overlooking the Blue, but it’s overgrown. If he wants any sunlight, he’ll have to take down trees, and you know what the town thinks of that.”

  I probably did, but the buzzing in my head muddled any thought of trees. He bought the Barnstead house? Okay, he might buy it for someone else. But setting it up? With bedding?

  He was moving here. But without letting me know? Without calling? Texting?

  It didn’t make sense. A venture capitalist might visit Devon; he wouldn’t move here unless he was retiring, and Edward was too young for that. Besides, I was here. No way would he want to live anywhere near the woman who had killed his only child.

  “Maggie?” Cornelia tested softly. “Hello?”

  I blinked and refocused. “Sorry. What?”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes. Uh, yes.” I had to think quickly. Cornelia wasn’t easily fooled. “I’m just worried.” I tipped my head toward the group gathered at the bank of steel PO boxes. “What are they saying?”

  “Pretty much what you’d expect. Did the boy do it? Did Grace know? Will the Spa keep her on?”

  “Then the talk is positive?”

  “So far. They like her. They say she’s a good mother. They’re not pointing fingers.”

  Yet, I thought.

  Yet, her cocked brow confirmed.

  I assumed Cornelia’s excuse for cynicism was age. Not wanting to get into my own, I asked, “Do we know anything more about the case against Chris?” I had been out of contact for several hours, and the post office was a hub for news. If anything had happened, Cornelia would know it.

  “Officially, no,” she said for my ears alone. “Those who are involved with the prosecution are being careful not to jeopardize it.”

  “They have Ben Zwick to say what they won’t. He’s a force.”

  “He’s only describing what he perceives as his personal injury. That’s his right.”

  Had it come from anyone else, I might have taken offense on Grace’s behalf. But Cornelia had been a professor before retiring here—a Radcliffe degree from way back, was the word, and on the Harvard faculty for years. I wouldn’t have taken that as proof of anything, if she wasn’t always right.

  “Isn’t it libel?” I asked.

  “Maybe, if Grace can prove that her life or livelihood has been damaged. Naturally, there’s only libel if Chris is found not guilty.”

  “Then you do think it’ll go to trial?”

  Cornelia never frowned. What wrinkles she had were light, which was proof either of a dearth of emotional display or good genes. To my knowledge, she had never worn makeup, never even used moisturizer. And she didn’t frown now, but still managed to look concerned.

  “You mean, will he plead out? That depends on what kind of case the government has and the penalty for it.”

  “What’s the range?”

  “Up to five years for someone without a record, likely less for a juvenile.”

  “Grace will die if he spends a single day locked up,” I said with dread.

  “Have you talked with her?”

  “Yes.” The call had come at seven, while I was making myself up.

  “I’m sorry,” she had said. “I wasn’t polite last night.”

  “Screw politeness, Gracie. I don’t care. This is a horrible time for you. Just tell me how you are.”

  “How do you think? I’m lousy. My life is in danger.”

  “Your life is not in danger. Kids get in trouble all the time, and parents bail them out. You’ll get through this.”

  “Okay, but I can’t talk. Chris’ll be down in a second, and we’re going into town to meet with Jay.”

  “Are they still outside your house?” No need to explain who “they” were.

  “Yup. My car’s in the carport, so we may be able to sneak to it without being caught, but they’ll see me back out. I’ll be sure to—”

  “Give them the finger? Do not do that, Grace. They’ll photograph it. Is that what you want going viral?” When she didn’t answer, I said, “Your behavior reflects on Chris. Aggression won’t hack it.”

  “They’re scum.”

  “I know that, you know that, but don’t let them drag you down to their level. Please, Grace?” When she didn’t respond to that, either, I could only pray that my message registered. “Are you coming to work later?”

  “Garrett called.” The general manager of the resort. “He told me to stay home.”

  One phone call and I could fix that. I knew the new, alleged owner of the Inn, did I not? It would give me a good reason to call him, and, “By the way, Edward, what in the hell are you doing in my town?”

  “Maggie?” came a voice from behind. It was one of the women who had been near the mailboxes.

  I gave her a weak smile and, seeing no choice, acknowledged the others with a quick wave. I liked these women. The last thing I wanted was to offend them. Nor, though, did I want to discuss what I knew they had in mind. At one point or another, every one of them had seen me with Grace and Chris. As well-meaning as their inquiries might be, I had nothing to add.

  Sensing my dilemma, Cornelia waved an imperious hand to shoo off not only the one at my side but the others as well. It might have been overkill, but when it came to ordering people around, she had a free ride. Once the women had left, she retrieved my mail from the back room and handed it over. “Be prepared when you get to the Spa,” she warned. “Word has it they’ve been doing live shots from the station and Town Hall. The Spa is next. They’ll try to interview you.”

  “They tried last night. I didn’t say anything.”

  “Good
girl.”

  “How long do you think they’ll stick around?”

  She didn’t have to know my history to know I loved the serenity of Devon. We were of like mind in this.

  Her smile was small and resigned. “Until something else takes front page.”

  * * *

  Her warning was spot on. I had barely parked, shouldered the strap of my makeup case, and lifted the box of supply refills, when a pair of reporters swooped in. Whether or not they recognized me as Grace’s friend from last night, it didn’t take a genius to guess that I worked here. Who else would park in the employees’ lot? Who else would be carrying a cardboard box marked EYEBROW WAX?

  They were joined by a third and a fourth, all shooting questions as they crowded me toward the door. They had barely moved from requests for my name to my knowledge of Grace, when a linebacker in a blazer and tie emerged, closed a firm hand on my arm and pulled me out of the fray.

  6

  I was never pleased to see Michael Shanahan. Nervous, maybe. Uneasy, for sure. Lately, resigned. The sight of him now, though, brought pure relief—at least until that door closed and, taking the box from me, he guided me deeper into the Spa.

  Michael had been named my probation officer when I petitioned the Massachusetts courts to let me move to Vermont. We met monthly at his office in White River Junction, but in these waning days of my probation, he was showing up unannounced in Devon too often for comfort.

  Spot-checks were within the terms of my probation. But I knew that Michael’s showing up was more personal than legal. He liked me. He had told me as much—had told me that once my probation was finished he hoped we could be in touch. The words were innocent enough. Not so the cologne he had recently started wearing, or the warmth in his eyes.

  I should have been flattered. He clearly appreciated the new me, complimenting me one day on my hair, another on my sweater or my boots. And he wasn’t shabby himself. The few times we’d gone to lunch together, I had seen other women watch him pass. After playing football for BC, he had been drafted into the pros, but had spent the better part of two years on the bench for Indianapolis before accepting that football was not in his future. Following the example of a fellow alum, he had gone into probation, and the job fit him well. He was earnest and toe-the-line honest. His blazer and slacks were far from high-end, but they showcased his physique. He was triangular, as in ripped above and narrow below. He was definitely tall, definitely dark.