the cornerstone for its final conversion into an inn.
Final conversion? I had to smile at that. Was there ever a final anything when it came to The Devon Inn and Spa? It was forever being resized, rebuilt, redecorated, rewired, relit—all to keep it as stylishly decorated and technologically sound as the highest of high-end resorts. Edward and I had visited a few of those, so I knew what I was saying. I couldn’t begin to imagine the ongoing cost here. Apparently, neither had three previous owners. A fourth was about to take over, a group actually, but we didn’t expect anything drastic by way of change. Savvy investors knew not to upend a successful formula.
Approaching now, I passed the gracious entry, with its stone pillars and well-groomed doormen. In its first transition from home to hotel, the main floor had been enlarged to allow for restaurants, meeting rooms, a ballroom, and a gift shop, all of which had been enlarged and improved upon in subsequent years. Second and third floors rose wherever the escarpment allowed. These upper levels were shingled and designed with a riot of windows. Prudent pruning of encroaching trees maximized the effect. Whether reflecting sun from without or lights from within, the glass shimmered.
The Spa trailed off the southernmost end of the Inn, where it could be reached by even the weak winter sun. It had skylights and a year-round, open-air hot tub that needed no piped-in music, with the bubble of the river so close. Tasteful landscaping offered privacy to those in the tub, but, as I passed by on this chilly day, security was enhanced by a wall of steam that rose into the trees.
I parked head-in near remnants of a dirty ridge of snow, crossed the employees’ lot, and went inside. There was no imagining now. Thanks to candles, sachets, and scented oils, the smell here was pure. Add the flow of hushed music—yesterday a piano, today a bamboo flute, tomorrow perhaps a bouquet of strings—and the face of the Spa manager, which lit when she saw me, and had there been even a drop of honey-scone nostalgia left in me, it was forgotten.
Joyce Mann had been one of the first people to befriend me when I arrived. Nearing sixty, she and her dove-gray bob were as calming as the rest of the Spa. The ultimate diplomat, she handled even the most difficult clients with ease, and though I was never difficult, I had arrived in Devon feeling lost. Sensing that, she had invited me to her home and introduced me not only to the most beautiful spinning wheel I’d ever seen, but to fresh produce at the Farm at Lime Creek, the no-kill shelter from which I subsequently adopted my pets, and the best Spanish tapas restaurant in the whole of central Vermont.
Okay. Casa Bruno was the only place for tapas in central Vermont. But the food was good enough to warrant the exaggeration.
Since Joyce was in the process of registering a pair of clients, I simply raised my brows in response to her smile as I passed. Minutes later, fresh navy scrubs on a nearby bench, I was in the shower with my hair wrapped in a towel and my face avoiding the spray. I had already done my makeup; I never left home barefaced. I would touch it up along with my hair, which I wound in a knot while I worked, but I knew from experience that my concealer would hold.
The shower would add a dewy element. Dewy was good. Dewy was fresh.
Dewy was also healthy, which was the goal of my noon client. Having been through months of physical mayhem, she needed to see a face in the mirror that spoke of hope.
Hope is the future lined in gold, my mother used to say. I’m not sure who she was quoting, or whether she meant it in ecclesiastical terms, but I didn’t agree. Hope wasn’t the future. It was only a vehicle to get there.
This client needed that vehicle. She was a cancer survivor. Having just finished a double-whammy of chemo and radiation, she was at the Inn with two friends for a celebratory escape. One look at her, and I saw vulnerability. She was feeling frightened, tired, and not terribly attractive. After a morning of manicure, pedicure, and massage, she wanted her makeup done while her friends did their hair. Her own hair wasn’t an issue; she wore a wig. It was a good one. I raved about