“No.” My chest tightened. Kevin was the only one who knew about my past, the only one who knew that I had caused two deaths. During my early days at the pottery studio, when I needed clay badly but could barely lift my hands, he used to find me alone at closing time, close to tears. On one of those days, the dam broke, and my sordid past poured out. He knew about the media frenzy, the conviction, the divorce. He was the only one who knew that I wished, time and again, that I had died in the crash.
The relief of sharing had been instant. But why Kevin? My therapist said that to make Devon truly mine, I needed to confide in someone here. But why this man, whom I had barely known at the time? Well, clay linked us. He loved its smell and feel as much as I did, loved the act of creation. More, though, right from the start we connected on a visceral level. I knew more about Kevin now than I did about anyone else in town. He had his own Achilles’ heel, so we balanced each other out. We loved each other for the total acceptance that allowed.
Kevin also understood my need for secrecy. Seeing my horror when everything first spilled out, he had taken a paper and pencil, written the names of his parents, their address and phone number, and said that if he ever betrayed me, I could betray him.
I couldn’t believe that in this day and age his parents didn’t know he was gay. Then I thought of my own parents and realized how it might be. Parents could be narrow-minded when it came to dreams for their kids.
Our beer arrived in heavy glass steins. It was a deep amber color with a thick head—an American Amber Lager, the whiteboard said—medium bodied, toasty malt character, only marginally bitter. I removed my gloves to cradle the stein, but my hands were like ice, and cold beer didn’t help, at least, not on the outside. Needing help on the inside, I grasped the thick handle, took a solid gulp, and put my gloves back on.
“Sit on them,” Kevin ordered.
I did. The warmth was instant. Thighs. Crafty Kevin.
“Talk,” he ordered next. “What were you doing between when I called and when you drove here?”
“Worrying,” I said. “I don’t think Grace has money for bail.”
“No one does—well, except you, because your then-husband was loaded—but that’s why they have bail bondsmen. So what were you doing an hour ago?”
Stressing about said then-husband? Nope. Not going there. Mentioning Edward would make him real, and, with any luck, he was on his way out of town.
“Worrying about Chris,” I said. “How can a fifteen-year-old deal with this?”
“Maybe better than you. He doesn’t see the big picture.”
“But he will. What then?”
“I don’t know, love,” Kevin said, seeming sad to let me down, which made me feel worse.
“Okay, after that, I went for distraction. UPS delivered stuff I needed for work—replenishments of the foundation I use at the Spa, disposable sponges, mascara wands. Some of it went in my closet. It stays fresher when I can control the storage. I combined the rest in one box to take to the Spa tomorrow.” I had a horrible thought. “The media is staying at the Inn. What if they come to the Spa? I mean,” I added with dread, “they will. It’s part of the story, isn’t it?”
“Don’t jump ahead. This may all end tonight.”
“We hope.” I pulled out my phone and checked the screen. “Nothing from Grace, but they’ve probably taken her phone. What’s happening, do you think?”
Kevin took a long drink, set down the stein, and ran a hand over the foam on his upper lip. “They’ll be waiting for the judge or the stenographer or the bondsman, or else it’s paperwork, and something always slows them down there, either the printer is out of ink or the scanner doesn’t work. It drives Jimmy nuts.”
“It drove me nuts, too. It’s like you’re in a spotlight that just hangs there, one minute becoming ten becoming thirty, and you’re totally naked and exposed to the world for what you truly are.”
“Not what you truly are. What someone alleges you are.”
“Same difference. If you’ve gotten yourself in this situation, you’ve done something wrong. It may not be all they say it is, but Grace