Before and Again

by Barbara Delinsky

  “About…?”

  “What to do next.”

  “Is that interest?” he asked with what actually sounded like humor.

  “Curiosity.”

  He was silent. Considering. “Okay,” he decided. “Curiosity’s a start. I want to go public.”

  “With our relationship?” I cried, scooting back against the wall and reaching for Hex or Jinx or whichever cat it was, black in the black. I clutched its little body to my chest. “You can’t. That’d spoil everything for me. People here can’t know what I did.”

  “Would that be so horrible?”

  “Yes!”

  “They would understand.”

  “But they’d know. And I’d know they did, so I’d be seeing it in their eyes whether it was there or not. I’ve thought this through, believe me I have, many times. You come to a new place, and you start making friends, and some of those friends become good friends. You want to share who you are, who you were, only you’re afraid. I’m afraid, Edward.”

  “I’d be here to help.”

  “I’m afraid.” What more could I say?

  “Okay. Then what if we kept the past a secret and dated? Just dated?”

  “Which would surprise no one, given your performance tonight.”

  “Performance?” he echoed, more amused than offended.

  “Edward. You were glued to my side. I mean, talk about making a statement.”

  “You were my guide.”

  “Like you ever need a guide,” I said, but if there had been a smile in his voice, it was gone.

  “I do here. We’re in uncharted territory. I don’t know what to do any more than you do. I know where I want to be, just not how to get there. And, by the way, in case you didn’t get it before, where I want to be is happy. Five years of grieving hasn’t brought Lily back. I loved her—we both did—during the time we had her, but she just isn’t here anymore.”

  Maybe not. I couldn’t see her eyes in Edward’s right now, but she would be there in the light of day. Agreeing to what he said would mean opening a door and letting the agony in.

  My heart was thudding. It wasn’t quite the clenching I usually felt, but it was a hard th-wham, th-wham, th-wham.

  His voice lowered. “Do you still have her ashes?”

  We had put equal amounts in three ceramic boxes. One had gone into the ground under a stone that held her name. Of the remaining two, we each had one. Mine was in my green velvet box, being kept safe by my grandmother’s spirit.

  I took an uneven breath and willed my heart to ease up. “Yes,” I said as softly. “You?”

  “Mm. I haven’t found a place where I wanted to set them free.”

  “Me, neither.”

  We were quiet then, even my heart. Given what we were discussing, the hush should have been filled with angst. Either I was too tired for angst, or discussing this with Edward had made it bearable. Not peaceful. But bearable.

  After a full minute, he said, “So, can we do it?”

  “What?”

  “Date?”

  “You mean, like go out to dinner?”

  “Yeah. In public. There may be talk, but so what? No one has to know anything more than we want them to know.”

  “Michael Shanahan will have to know.”

  “How the hell would he?”

  “He knows everything. I swear he has spies, and what he doesn’t learn from them, he learns from me because when he asks, I have to answer. That’s the rule. He says it’s his job to know who I spend time with.”

  “So tell him. I’m sure he’d rather you spend time with me than with Grace.”

  Actually, I wasn’t so sure. Jealousy was the word that came to mind.

  “So, do we date?” Edward asked.

  “It can’t go anywhere,” I warned. He might think he still loved me, but if he saw me often—if he saw me without makeup, with my bangs a mess and my scar showing, he might realize he couldn’t wake up to that every morning.

  And me? What would I feel? On one hand, I didn’t ever again want to go through the pain of divorce. This time, though there was no marriage to be wrecked. I would always be coming home to my own place—well, my own, assuming Liam left—and my pets and my friends and my job. I would be keeping my heart to myself. But if spending time with Edward helped me work through the past, I might be able to move on, too.

  “Is that a yes?” he asked.

  I sighed. “I guess.”

  His voice held a smile. “Your lack of enthusiasm is a challenge, Mackenzie Cooper.”

  “Maggie Reid,” I corrected. This mattered to me. That said, I would only ever think of him as Edward.

  “Maggie Reid, can I come over now?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “I want to hold you.”

  “No!” I said, but I was smiling, too. “That would muddy the waters. This isn’t about sex. It’s about our helping each other through a rough patch in a way that keeps the past just between us. No one else is to know. I mean it, Edward Cooper.”

  * * *

  The plan was sound. I remained comfortable enough with it to sleep better than I had in two weeks and wake up fully able to breathe. My contentment lasted through a companionable breakfast with Liam that included critiques of the Town Meeting, of Erica Kahn, and of his Morning Glory muffins versus Mom’s. I did not go to the pottery studio. I did call Kevin. I did not tell him about my pact with Edward; I knew the pros and cons, and didn’t need Kevin pointing them out.

  I did tell him that I had to be at work at nine, also the truth. Hairstylists from all over New England were at the Inn for workshops on cutting, styling, and accessorizing. I would have liked to see the one on hair extensions, but with several hundred stylists and their models attending, we were in full Day Spa mode. Every treatment room was booked. Stylists called it research, but they loved being pampered. And makeup? Models needed it. Stylists wanted it. I had brought in an artist from Hanover to help. We had worked together before. Both chairs were filled from nine o’clock on.

  The soundtrack today was little more than soft piano chords and the trickle of water, and the lemon verbena rising from candles was so light that only someone attuned to it might notice. I noticed. For me, it was the perfect, soothing backdrop.

  Then Edward arrived.

  The last of the morning applications was done, my coworker had taken off for lunch, and I was disinfecting the counters in advance of the afternoon when tall and dark appeared at the door. I felt a tiny quickening, but the expression on his handsome face discouraged it. A magazine was loosely folded in his hand.

  People.

  My eyes flew to his. Their silver-blue was solely in the here and now. “Bad?” I asked and, reaching forward, silenced the speakers.

  He put a hand to the back of his head. “If that soothes, you may want to leave it on.” He came toward me.

  “Tell me, Edward. Is it?”

  “That depends on how you define bad.” Ducking in, he kissed me full on the lips before I could retreat.

  “Edward,” I whispered with an uneasy glance at the door, which remained ajar.

  “Just so you know I’m with you.” He stepped back but didn’t hand over the magazine.

  I swallowed. “Okay. So, I’m imagining the worst here, like there’s some surprise reveal about Chris, or the government has decided to go after Grace. I don’t need suspense, Edward. If you’re with me, help me out. What does it say?”

  “Not much, textwise. It’s a recap of what’s been in other articles, plus a larger perspective on teenage hacking. The problem is the photos.” With a cautionary bob of one brow, he handed over the magazine. “Page seventy-eight.”

  I flipped through until I was there, and instantly saw what he meant. The entire right third of the right-hand page, top to bottom, displayed a trio of photos taken in the lobby just outside the courtroom in Rutland. The focus was on Chris and Grace, but Jay was in each one. So was I.<
br />
  “Oh hell,” I whispered.

  “For what it’s worth, you look great.” When I shot him a quelling look, he added, “I know, not the issue.”

  “It actually is,” I said. “I don’t want attention drawn to me. All it takes is one person seeing something familiar and snooping around and my cover is blown. Am I named here?”

  “No. You look like Jay’s assistant.”

  “I was trying for that,” I replied, all too clearly remembering that moment and how exposed I had felt.

  “Your worst problem is probably Shanahan, but he already knows—”

  “Maggie,” came a high-pitched voice as Grace barreled over the threshold and came to an abrupt stop. She wore red scrubs, which made her skin look all the more pale. Her eyes were very brown and very large.

  Those eyes slid between Edward and me. “I’ll come back.” She turned.

  Tossing People aside, I rushed over at the same time that Edward said, “Stay.” While I wrapped my arms around her, he moved behind us to close the door.

  “In print all over the country,” she breathed in horror and drew back.

  “We knew it was coming.”

  “But those photos are so clear. How’d they do that?” Her voice remained high, but had a confidential edge, like I was the only one who should hear. “What kind of phone takes pictures like that? Someone there had a real camera, Maggie, a real one, and if I’d have known there would be those inside the courthouse, even a chance of it, I’d have kept my hood up, but I thought they couldn’t. I thought it was against the rules to take pictures inside. Can I sue them for that?”

  “You could,” Edward put in gently, “and maybe whoever took these would have to pay a fine, but this article would still be out there, and all you’d do is keep the story alive. Sue People, and you open the door to more pictures.”

  She looked like she wanted to argue. More, though, she looked confused. Again, her eyes moved between Edward’s face and mine. She might not have seen him kiss me, but she was wondering why he was here. Which wasn’t terrible. Which was actually part of Edward and my agreeing to date. It was only my guilt at hiding the truth from her that made me think she suspected the truth. More likely, she knew we were talking about her and wasn’t sure if Edward was turning me against her.

  Wanting to reassure her, I put both hands on her shoulders. They felt frail, not a good thing for a massage therapist. “He’s right,” I said, trying to sound convinced when a small part of me was chanting, Fight, fight, fight. I knew the anger. I knew the sense of violation. I also knew the futility of going against a Goliath. “Life isn’t fair, Gracie. Things happen. People say things, and even when you want to hit back, it’s sometimes best to just let it pass.”

  “But these go all over the country,” she cried, hands together now, picking at her thumb. “Everyone sees them. Everywhere.” She was thinking of her ex-husband.

  I grasped her hand to stop the picking. “Your hair is different. You were smart about that. The hair in these shots is chestnut and curly. You’re a smooth-haired brunette now.”

  “But the face is the same. I mean, sure, fine, great, you change your name and have plastic surgery—” She stopped short. She didn’t look back at Edward, but I sensed only sheer force of will kept her from it. I hadn’t known about the name change, but I did know that she was afraid of her ex, so it wasn’t a total surprise.

  Our eyes held. I gave a tiny headshake to indicate that Edward knew nothing.

  But he had certainly heard what she just said. I wasn’t sure whether he was making the connection between Grace’s experience and mine, whether he understood Grace because he understood me. But he approached us and said with quiet confidence, “You’re safe here, Grace. The Inn protects its own.”

  Again, she looked from me to him and back. “Okay,” she said and pulled away. “Gotta go. I have a client.”

  “We can get someone to cover,” Edward tried as she made for the door.

  “No need.” She didn’t look back. “Thanks, though. I’m good.” Opening the door, she slipped out and was gone.

  In her wake came a brief silence, the exchange of nervous looks, then Edward’s whispered, “Name change?”

  “I didn’t know,” I said, only then seeing that People hadn’t been the only thing under his arm. A newspaper was there, trifolded in a familiar Thursday way. “Is that The Times?”

  “Devon. Yes.” Something about the way he said it put me on the alert. “Luckily, People will overshadow it.”

  I held out my hand. “What’s there?”

  “A profile.”

  “Of Grace?”

  “Of me.”

  I stared at him for a minute. Slowly, the meaning of his alert sank in. Unfolding the paper, I scanned the front page. There on the lower half, relatively small but still front-page visible, was a photo of Edward in his office. He was standing at his desk, seeming to be studying papers there. The fact that it was a profile shot taken from ten feet away, rather than a close-up face shot, took nothing from its compelling nature. Edward was eye-catching in any pose, but eye-catching here was dangerous.

  “It can’t mention me,” I warned, knowing that if it was done, it was done, but I was shaken.

  “No. I was careful with what I said. But Quillmer did his homework.”

  “His homework.”

  “He mentions where my wife and I lived, and that our daughter was killed in an accident.”

  “Edward, how could you—”

  “I didn’t,” he cut me off, upset himself. “He already knew I was from Boston, because my work history is out there for everyone to see. I didn’t tell him anything that hadn’t already come out in press releases when we bought the Inn. We discussed the hacking scandal, and I detailed the steps the Inn is taking to restore the integrity of our computer systems—and I needed to do that, Maggie. I inherited a crisis, here. Anything I can do to rebuild public confidence is crucial. From that angle alone, I couldn’t refuse the interview. But I swear, I focused on work. I told him what I wanted to do with the Inn, and I thought that was the gist of the piece. He didn’t ask anything personal, and I didn’t offer it. Maybe that made him curious.” He slapped the paper with the back of his hand. “But here it is.”

  “Did he name me?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing about the trial?”

  “No.”

  “The Mackenzie Cooper Law?”

  “No. He must have known that would have been overstepping. Hell, the Inn pays a shitload in annual advertising, so he needs me, too.”

  “But he knows.”

  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.” Collecting People and The Devon Times, I handed them back. As far 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 seen People? What did I think? How was Grace? None mentioned the piece in The 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 reading The Devon Times piece. Dealing with People was enough.

  I tried calling Grace. The call went straight to voice mail. I was in the reception 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. The People article 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.