Taking a fork from the sleeve, I speared a piece of chicken. He wasn’t eating yet, wasn’t even seated. Manners dictated that I wait. But this wasn’t a date. It was a work lunch. Eating first was my statement.
He didn’t answer. Wondering if he planned to, I looked at him. It was the first time I had, and intentionally so. Sweater, slacks, loafers—he was amazing. I was getting used to the longer hair and the beard, which was just dense enough to lift it above scruff. Neither hurt.
“I’m not sure,” he said, seeming surprisingly ambivalent. The Edward I had known preferred his office shiny and sleek. He was a clean, chrome, and organized guy, or used to be. But that was why I was here, wasn’t it—to put a new face on the old one so that I’d be less threatened each time I saw him?
“Lots of papers,” I said, indicating the desk with my chin. “Is there an order to those?”
He snorted a quiet, “I wish.”
“What are they?”
“Reports on more departments than you’d think existed, contracts with more vendors than you’d think needed contracts—food, laundry, soap, gifts, pool personnel, pool upkeep, grounds upkeep, roof upkeep, linen replacement, insurance policies for fire, theft, weather damage, deranged-person damage—”
“Seriously?”
“It’s an issue,” he said. I heard defensiveness in the three words, but resignation—reality—quickly followed. “Someone breezes through the front door and opens fire in the lobby with a semiautomatic, and you got tragedy compounded by litigation, but hell, what’re we supposed to do, arm the bellboys?” Standing there with his hands on his hips and his eyes on that cluttered desk, he looked suddenly weary. “There are times…” he began, but his voice trailed off. He chafed his beard with his knuckles.
“What?”
“Nah. Nothing.” He sat on the sofa.
“You said I should get to know you. Tell me what you were thinking.”
He unwrapped his sandwich, then sprawled back without touching it. His eyes met mine, shooting me into the past, but only briefly. The worry I saw there was all here and now. “I’ve done other on-site work since I left the firm, but nothing like this,” he said. “There are times I wonder if I’m up to the job.”
“Of course you are,” I said.
“There are so many details.”
“Plus a hacking scandal you inherited. It’s trial by fire.”
Coming forward, he picked up his sandwich. He stared at it for a minute before raising his eyes. “Why are you defending me? If I fail, I leave. Isn’t that what you want?” He took a bite.
“Yeah, well, if you fail,” I reasoned as he chewed, “the Spa suffers, and the Spa is my bread and butter.”
“You like working here?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the best part?”
“The smell,” I said. “It’s soothing. And the people.”
“Like Joyce Mann?”
“Yes.”
“I can see it. She’s warm and maternal.”
She was a surrogate mother for me, which he was likely thinking but I did not want to discuss lest it lead to discussion of my own mother, which I really did not want. “I also like my clients. They need me.”
His beard might be new, but his smile was the same. “You were always good with faces.”
“This is different.” I rushed to put space between that smile and my current life. “Back then, I did poses, groupings, relationships. I took pictures and spent time analyzing them before I decided on an approach. There’s none of that now. My clients show up with their problems. The challenge is immediate, but so is the gratification.” I returned to the art on the walls. “What’ll you do with the foxes?”
When he didn’t answer, I looked back at him. His brow had furrowed beneath those spikes of dark hair. He didn’t want me returning the subject to him? Too bad. I was here for a glimpse of who he was.
I stared, waiting.
Finally, the frown faded. He hitched his head toward the paintings. “Each time I make up my mind to move them, I start thinking of what I’d put up in their place, and nothing feels right. These are growing on me. I’ve never had foxes on my walls. They speak of the history of this place. Maybe if there were fewer of them, it wouldn’t be bad. Different is good.”
Yes. Different was good. Wasn’t that what my life in Devon was about?
Opening the plastic cup tucked in with my salad, I dribbled dressing on the lettuce, tossed it as best I could, and took a forkful. Rasher and Yolk made the best breakfasts, but their lunches were strictly utilitarian. The