was right, innocent until proven guilty doesn’t seem to apply anymore.” I took another drink and studied the foam streaks on the inside of the glass. I was vaguely aware of bar sounds, utensil sounds, and guitar sounds, all soft and relaxing, but focusing on them wasn’t easy with so many other disturbing thoughts.
Kevin knew. “What?” he invited gently.
“No. This shouldn’t be about me.”
“Come on, babe. How can it not be? You’ve lived this before.”
“Right, and I don’t want to do it again,” I blurted, giving in to my fear. “Devon is my safe place. I don’t want this happening here. Make it go away?”
He laughed. “I would if I could, but they’ve come to town in droves.”
“Why so many? I can understand local media, but why national?” But Kevin didn’t know any more than me. Resigned to that, I sighed. “Anyway, thanks for meeting me here. I couldn’t bear to see them.”
With an eloquent sigh, he glanced at the handful of stools that were filled at the bar. “Well, you’re safe in this place. Only locals come. The rest of the world barely knows it exists. If the owners get drift of a reviewer showing up—or worse a guide-book author—they dilute the beer and overcook the beef.”
“They do not,” I scolded. “That’d be professional suicide.”
“Why? No one local cares. We all know what we get here. Besides, how else do you explain it?” He tossed his chin toward a couple eating nachos at the bar. “The Gauthiers from Lyme Creek,” then a guy cradling a beer two seats down, “Jack Randolph and his daughter, who is going through a divorce bad enough that she had to take out a restraining order, Jimmy said.” He winked at someone on the far side of the bar and murmured to me, “There’s our local homophobe. It drives him crazy when I do that.” Leaning toward the aisle, he rose up several inches. “I see three moms in one of the back booths. They come to the studio sometimes, but it’s mostly just to play, I mean, no serious talent there. I’m telling you, you’re safe here. They’re all locals.” Eyes shifting slightly, he drew in a small breath. “Oooooo, not that one,” he cooed, seeming intrigued. “Who is he?”
Leaning around the edge of the booth, I followed his gaze, then whipped forward again. I sheltered myself in the center of the booth’s high wood back and reached for my beer. Not only had Edward not left town yet, but here he was in my favorite haven of a pub, which he had no business even knowing about. The fact that he did shot safety to hell.
I took one generous swallow, then another. With a finality born of resignation, I set the stein back on the table and said, “That is the new owner of the Inn.”
“The new owner,” Kevin breathed in wonder. Eyes glued to that back booth, he must have thought my upset had to do with having a new boss.
“Well, he’s not the owner owner,” I said, needing to qualify it for me as much as for Kevin. “He’s part of a group. Likely the one negotiating the deal.”
“He’s dishy.”
I was in no position to say. My judgment was colored by total dismay. “It’s dark back there. You can’t see much.”
“I see enough. He’s a far cry from old Ollie.”
“Most anyone would be,” I argued. The fabled Oliver Hamilton had been an imposing gentleman with white hair and mustache. Having elevated the Devon Hotel to resort status in the mid-1900s, he was considered the father of the present-day Inn and Spa. The life-size painting of him that hung in the lobby of the Inn remained the centerpiece around which any redecoration was done.
“This one’s still too old for you,” I said, which was absurd. Kevin was thirty, Edward forty-four. The age difference was nothing, but it was the first thing I could think of to say.
He continued to stare toward the back. “Not too old for you,” he hummed distractedly. “You’re what? Forty-three?”
I managed a weak smile. We often joked about my being older than Kevin, but his soul was my age, or so I’d always felt. He was sensitive beyond his years. Usually.
“Thirty-eight,” I said, “which you well know, having put that many candles on the birthday cake you baked me last month.” The cake had been an artistic confection, those many candles one more gesture aimed at taking my mind off my mother on the day that marked