the threat to the Inn’s reputation, our security had to be twice as tight, our facilities twice as sparkling, our services twice as rewarding. We had to carry on seamlessly. For this, we needed all hands on deck, which was one of the reasons why Joyce—ever-calm Joyce, whose shiny bob swung by her chin with each turn of her head—nearly lost it when I told her that Grace wouldn’t be working. She hadn’t told Grace to stay home, which her call to the GM, while I stood by, bore out. She didn’t care if the resort was in crisis; this was not the way to handle it. She was fierce in Grace’s defense, going on about loyalty, unproven accusations, and bad precedents. Her most potent argument was that there were no massage therapists quite as good as Grace, certainly no last-minute ones who would be willing to work a full Friday and Saturday.
Joyce phoned Grace herself, and this time Grace answered. I knew she needed the money.
She showed up just in time for her first appointment, but had to be rescued from the parking-lot press by the firefighter now guarding the door. Once inside, she kept a low profile, moving from client to client with barely a break. When I tried to talk with her, she held up a hand, later, but later never came. I tried to text her using the number she had called me from that morning, but she didn’t respond. I tried her that night and again Saturday morning. Nothing. I knew she was distracted, preoccupied, maybe even embarrassed, but if she shut me out, who did she let in?
* * *
The press didn’t let up. When they were banned from the front lot, they doubled up in the back, which was definitely better for Spa guests, not so for employees. Whether coming or going, we had to run the gauntlet of reporters and cameras. Honestly? There were times when I hated Grace for that. Even when I was safe inside, I knew the press was lying in wait. They were a constant worry, which was good only in the sense that I had less time to think about Edward.
* * *
By Sunday afternoon, I was exhausted. I had been out late the night before with Alex and Jessa, knowing I needed sleep but needing the diversion more. I announced that discussing anything to do with Grace and Chris was off-limits, and they stuck to it for the most part. And I did love Game of Thrones, although, in hindsight, the three episodes we watched weren’t the best. I immersed myself in them anyway and returned home for five hours of solid sleep, no dreams, then awoke to the knowledge that by midafternoon, life at the Spa would wind down. The women’s conference was done. All signs of Joe’s event had been cleaned up. Weekend guests of the Inn had checked out and left town.
There were a handful of late-afternoon appointments, but none were for Grace and, thank God, given how wiped out I felt, none were for me. I needed a lift, which was why I was in the lobby with Joyce when Grace headed out. She saw us, raised a quick hand, and strode on. She was with a man. A repeat client, he was her last of the day.
Coincidence, I told Joyce regarding the timing, though they went out the front door together and certainly looked like a pair. Her hood was up, her curls hidden. The press might recognize her or not. Her being with a man might actually help hide her.
She wouldn’t, Joyce said, smooth hair brushing her jaw when her head swung to mine, not with everyone watching her.
I feared that she would. Grace liked men. They were her escape. I had always suspected she equated passion with adoration, and, confirming it to me once, she was unapologetic. She adored adoration. All her life she had struggled to find it, finally settling for little doses here and there.
Joyce didn’t know of the admission, but as she had done with me four years ago, now she sensed something wounded in Grace and seemed to want to talk about it. Since I was eager for a sympathetic voice, I agreed to take a ride with her to a yarn store she wanted to visit. Mud season was ideal for knitting, and although I didn’t do it myself, I regularly wore one of several pairs of socks Joyce had knit me. It was