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.