One Got Away

by S. A. Lelchuk

  Or so one hoped.

  Behind me, the tech bros laughed and hooted like jackals in their tub.

  I wanted to take a look around. I passed my bungalow and followed a crumbly dirt path through landscaped gardens planted with native shrubs and flowers. I smelled primrose and sage and the sweet vanilla of Jeffrey pines. It was a garden that made me want to take a glass of wine and a book and not get up for the rest of the day.

  Instead, I followed the path to the edge of the cliffs. I looked down, careful not to get too close to the crumbling edge. Not a place to swim. The ocean wasn’t friendly and there was nothing resembling a beach. Beauty and menace went hand in hand. Waves beat and frothed, surging and swirling against the vertical, sea-flecked stone. Sharp, algae-slick rocks showed like knives between the pounding surf. Today the ocean was azure, white-capped, and dangerous as it rushed against the slate-colored cliffs. Millennia from now, maybe the water’s force would carve straight through the gray stone; in a million years, these cliffs might not be anything more than bits of sediment within the waves. Watching the ocean, from above, was like standing on the roof of a high building, the mind filled with hypnotic Siren thoughts of the penalties of a fall or leap.

  I turned away, still seeing the sharp rocks daggering out of the froth.

  * * *

  I wasn’t sure if any room in the world was worth $1,400 a night, but Bungalow 4 was making a good argument. I stepped into a redwood cathedral curved in a vaulted ceiling, broad windows showing huge swaths of sparkling blue sea. Sunlight splashed and leapt along the walls, beams floating dust motes that spun in lazy disdain for gravity. A California king bed, dressed in the purest papal white, proved to hold the most comfortable mattress I had ever felt. A redwood soaking tub stood under a picture window, and the bathroom offered an alternate choice of a steam shower, tiled with mosaic that glinted like mother-of-pearl. I was pleased to note that there was no television. Just a turntable and an ornate brass-and-cherry bar cart crammed with every possible option of high-end spirits. A fireplace was preloaded with logs, and curtained French doors led to a patio deck.

  The phone started ringing.

  I picked up. “Hello?”

  It was the receptionist. “I wanted to make sure everything is to your liking?”

  “Except for the boys in the hot tub, absolutely.”

  Her voice was understanding, even though her words were neutral. “Yes, I think I know who you mean. They seemed quite friendly when they checked in.”

  “I don’t suppose you were lucky enough to get offered a month in Phuket?”

  She giggled. “I think that might have been on the table.” Her voice returned to its professional distance. “Is there anything you need? We can book you a massage in the spa if you’d like? Or a restaurant reservation for this evening?”

  “A dinner reservation would be great. Maybe seven o’clock?”

  “For how many?”

  “One,” I said, and then added, “or maybe two.”

  “Your reunion.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Call me for anything you need,” she said.

  I thanked her and hung up, then called my client to fill him in. Martin Johannessen was a busy man. For the second time that day, I couldn’t get through. I left another brief message, placed a quick call to Jess to let her know how to reach me, and then dialed a third number.

  He answered on the second ring. “Don’t tell me this mysterious number could possibly be my girlfriend? Calling me from wherever in the world she might be?”

  “I’m not Carmen Sandiego,” I laughed. “I’m two hours south, in Monterey.”

  “Why do I always get left behind for the fun stuff?” Ethan complained. “You had no problem dragging me to the mall last weekend.”

  “I needed new curtains,” I laughed, kicking my boots off and sitting cross-legged on the bed. “You have a good eye for those things. Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “Curtains. That’s not at all emasculating. My girlfriend doesn’t want me anywhere within a hundred miles when she’s chasing down a mysterious stranger… but as soon as she has some interior decorating to handle, I’m the first one to get the call.”

  “Which should flatter you,” I said sweetly. “See how much I depend on you? If I had been alone I might have gone with teal instead of lavender. You save me from my worst impulses.”

  “Yeah, well somehow I remain un-flattered. Speaking of interior decorating,” he added. “Have you thought anymore about what we talked about?”

  I twisted a finger through my hair. “A little.”

  “And?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I guess that’s an answer.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Give me a little time. I’m thinking about it.”

  “I’m not saying we need to get married or, like, sign lifetime vows of commitment. It’s just moving in together. It’s practical, a natural step. People do these things, you know. It’s not some weird sexual kink.”

  I leaned back against the headboard. “Can we do one of those instead?”

  “Nik, come on. I’m serious.”

  “I know. But still. It’s a big step.”

  “I’m not nearly as sinister as Gilbert Osmond,” he exclaimed. “This doesn’t mean the permanent end of your freedom and independence. I’m not secretly plotting to trap you.”

  I felt myself growing defensive. “And I’m not nearly as rich or witty as Isabel Archer. I just like my space.”

  “Easy for you to say. You don’t have two grad school roommates whose average Friday night is splitting a twelve-pack and seeing who can be louder on Guitar Hero. And I’m not even in grad school anymore.”

  “Funny. I seem to remember you staying over at my place most Fridays.”

  “Look, think about it, okay? I’d be a great roommate. I’m clean but not creepy clean, I won’t take up more than fifteen percent of available closet space, I find washing dishes to be therapeutic, I always put the seat down, and I can build Ikea furniture like an absolute champ. You should be begging me to live with you.”

  “Because my closet feels so empty without a big, broad-shouldered man’s suits dangling off the racks.”

  Ethan laughed. “That’s more like it. How much longer are you down there for?”

  “Hopefully a day or two.”

  “And you’re doing what, exactly?”

  “Find a man. Ask him a couple of questions. Easy.”

  “And it won’t get…”

  “Of course not.” I issued the trio of words smoothly, quickly, before his ellipses could take shape and solidify into any specific question. Any specific worry. Denying the unspoken was always easier.

  I checked the time. “Speaking of which, I should probably get going.”

  “Okay,” Ethan said. “I’m off to eat leftover pizza and grade Tennyson papers. The thrilling life of an assistant professor.”

  “Love you,” I said. Suddenly missing him with a sharp pang. Still not something I was used to feeling about anyone except my brother. Missing someone. Not an unpleasant feeling, exactly. Maybe even unpleasant’s opposite. But unfamiliar enough to be disconcerting.

  “Love you too, Nik. Be safe.”

  We hung up.

  Unspoken words, unspoken fears, hanging between us in the air.

  10

  I was used to a daily workout and felt uncomfortably restless if I went without. I also figured I should take advantage of the amenities. I probably wouldn’t stay at a place like this again. Not without the proverbial long-lost uncle leaving me a forgotten gold mine. The gym and spa were on the lower floor of the reception building. Although technically basement level, the ground dropped off steeply enough that the spa reception area boasted another level of sweeping Pacific views. Tranquil piano music played—a Bach piano suite, I guessed despite my limited knowledge of classical music. A receptionist offered me chilled coconut water and a warm smile.

  I spent an hour in a fit
ness center full of gleaming, brand-new machines but devoid of people. Best of both worlds. Mostly free weights, then two fast miles on a treadmill, and finishing with five minutes of crunches and planks. Feeling better for having broken a good sweat, in the dressing room I undressed and wrapped myself in a plush white towel and a pair of slippers so comfortable that I knew I was going to steal them. I found the steam room in an adjoining coed section of the spa. In keeping with everything else, it was luxurious and understated and vaguely eco-friendly, teak benches and eucalyptus scents and lighting so subdued it barely registered as illumination. No one was in the steam room, either. Aside from a sole attendant cleaning the locker room showers, I hadn’t seen a single person in the entire spa. It was midafternoon. Maybe the guests were out doing ocean-side yoga or golfing or shopping. Whatever people did for fun when they could drop $1,400 a night on a hotel room.

  As if sensing my presence, the vents in the steam room turned on as I entered. I sat on an upper bench and leaned against the warm wood. Clouds of steam billowed out of unseen grates, swirling voluptuously around me, thick as a wool cloak. The scent of eucalyptus filled my nostrils. I breathed deeply, relaxing into the hot, fragrant steam, letting the heat work its way into my muscles. Eyes closed, body limp. The vents stayed on. The steam hissed into the room until I could barely make out my own legs stretched in front of me. I drifted into a languorous semi-doze, mind adrift. From what seemed like far away, the glass door was opened with a sound that was barely audible. I cat-slitted my eyes open but could see nothing more than a few inches in front of me, as though caught by a white-out in some mountain blizzard. There were rustling noises. Someone sitting, adjusting a towel, getting comfortable. The noises stopped. I closed my eyes again, drifting back into semi-consciousness, inhaling teak and eucalyptus, muscles supple with sweat and steam and heat, breathing in slow, deep breaths.

  He was in the room with me.

  I didn’t know exactly how or when I knew this.

  But I knew.

  An animal sensation. Vivid and immediate. A feeling that eyes were on me. The feeling of being seen. Watched. Even through the opaque curtains of steam. My languor was joined by a prickle of watchfulness. A tingle that something had changed.

  I opened my eyes again but could see only the dimmest shape on a bench across from me. I pulled my towel tighter around myself and tried unsuccessfully to make out any details. Now the billows of steam felt claustrophobic, pressing around me, sealing me in like plaster. Blocking important, maybe crucial things, from my vision.

  For the first time I heard his voice.

  It was deep and soothing and knowing, clipped with a perfect British accent. Although the words were throwaway, it was a voice that snagged in the mind like an important memory.

  “I always feel like a lobster in one of these tanks. And yet so remarkably pleasant. I suppose being cooked always feels good—until it doesn’t.”

  He was talking to me. He had to be. There was no one else.

  We were alone.

  “Always that fine line,” I agreed.

  Talking. The two of us. Here.

  I hadn’t planned this. And yet it was happening. Had he? He couldn’t have. Could he have? That first intense prickle I had felt was back, even stronger. Watchfulness, only—or some kind of budding excitement?

  “I’m delighted to find at least some trace of human presence,” he went on. “I was starting to feel like I was in one of your Western ghost towns, down here all alone. I don’t suppose you have a mining pan to spare?”

  “I’m not sure if I want to help you with your prospecting.”

  “But you don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  “If you need a mining pan, wouldn’t that be gold?”

  “Gold comes in many forms,” he observed.

  “You strike me as the type to want the yellow kind.”

  “How very superficial of you.”

  “Or, if I’m right, of you.”

  “Enough about me,” he laughed. Like his voice, his laugh was rich and melodious. “And what could you be prospecting for, down here, I wonder? What brings you to town, besides wanting a good schvitz?”

  “Why don’t you guess?” I challenged.

  He didn’t hesitate, his voice playful, easy, untroubled. “An anniversary. A special treat from your beloved husband, to celebrate another milestone in your blessed union.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Wait—of course—some sort of high-powered corporate retreat. Your team just finished coding the world’s Next Big Thing and now you’re down here, bonding, celebrating, enjoying the fruits of your labor.”

  “Me, coding? I don’t even own a cell phone.”

  He laughed again. A clear, convincing laugh, rich and whole-hearted. “I can keep guessing, you know. I’m an absolute fountain of speculation, when I care to be.”

  “You haven’t guessed right yet.”

  “A bridal party. Something fancy, yet tasteful. Four or five of you, best friends since the uni days. You’re here because the wild one, the one everyone said would never settle down, is tying the knot. A weekend to laugh at past shenanigans while secretly sizing each other up to see who’s done well and—the delicious part, of course—who has not.”

  “I’m here alone.”

  His words were laconic, vaguely self-deprecating. As though he didn’t really believe anything he was saying but was merely lobbing words like a boxer probing with his jab. Nothing forceful. Maybe not even real curiosity. Just to learn how I might reply, what I might say.

  Idle study. Habitual. Reflexive as drawing breath.

  “I’m afraid I give up,” he said. “I’m oh for three, struck out, as you baseball-loving Yanks would say. You’ve stumped this poor, panless prospector with your mystery. Why you’re down here at this swanky place is beyond me.”

  “Maybe I was curious to see if the real thing lives up to the hype.”

  “And the verdict?”

  “I think the jury’s out.”

  “When will the jury be in?”

  “Possibly by dinner?”

  “Dinner’s superb here,” he returned. “I recommend the rockfish. My guess is you’ll be quite content. Sometimes the hype, as you put it, is real.”

  “You seem to like guessing,” I observed. Trying to stay with him. Keep up with his easy, fluid shifts from metaphor to literalism and back, twisting, turning, until it was hard to know which was which. Like seeing what was real, and what was apparition, in this steam-choked room.

  “Is that so?” He laughed again, that same clear, rich, easy sound. Warm, nourishing. Like drinking hot broth on a cold night. “We’re in a bloody steam room, my dear. What else would I be doing? I don’t see a billiards table or chessboard anywhere.”

  “You’re a chess player?”

  “I’ve been known to move a piece or two, on occasion.”

  “Do you win when you play?” I asked.

  “Almost always,” he replied. “I suppose one of the things I’ve learned from life is that I prefer taking others’ pieces to giving mine away.”

  “You don’t seem like you’d lose,” I acknowledged. “But I guess nobody does, until they run into someone who plays better.”

  “Now who’s guessing?”

  “We’re in a bloody steam room,” I said. “What else am I supposed to do?”

  He chuckled, appreciative. “And when did you arrive at this sun-kissed Shangri-la?”

  “Guess,” I challenged.

  “Today.”

  “How’d you know?” My surprise was real.

  “Guesses are like magic tricks. Once you explain them, they stop mattering.”

  “I’ll file that away.”

  “How very… clerical of you.” I saw a shape shift in the clouds of steam. Heard feet against the floor.

  “You’re leaving?” I asked. Wondering why I felt surprised.

  “The trick with being cooked,” he answered, “is to know when it’s h
appening, and to depart just before it does.” I could glimpse his form, vague, shadowy, indistinct. Shrouded by the steam that still hissed out of unseen vents. “I’ll be seeing you around, I’m sure,” he said. His voice farther away.

  Fading. Leaving.

  I felt an involuntary pang. I didn’t want him to go. As though, despite everything, I had been enjoying myself in his company. Enjoying our conversation, rife as it had been with such probing, guessing, concealing.

  The two of us.

  “Seeing me?” I repeated. “You don’t even know what I look like.”

  He sounded like he was smiling. “I have your voice. That’s all I need.”

  I heard the door shift open. Another footstep. The smallest sounds.

  Then nothing.

  Once again, Coombs was gone.

  Beyond the most muted, steam-shrouded glimpses, I had never really seen him.

  11

  It was nearing dusk when I returned to my room. The tech bros were gone, the bubbling emerald water no longer besmirched by pale flesh, the stillness of the air equally free from their hooting voices. If anything, the property looked even more beautiful in the early evening, the sun beginning to pinken the waves, shadows lengthening across the ground. I passed a bench, secluded in a grove of trees, glimpsed a man in a linen shirt whispering something to a woman wearing flowing white pants. A bottle of wine perched on a rock between them and they seemed as happy as a Mastercard commercial. My eyes were drawn to sudden movement off the path: a jackrabbit, speeding from one clump of bushes to the next. I wondered how far the property stretched, and what else moved within its boundaries.

  Back in my room, I stripped off the luxuriant bathrobe I had worn out of the spa. I took a long, hot shower, scrubbing my skin with fragrant bath products that seemed on a different plane of existence than the Target supplies I stocked my own shower with. Wrapping a towel around myself, I poured a straight scotch from the bar cart. It was a smoky single malt, so velvety and smooth that ice cubes would have been a distraction. There were sheaves of records next to the turntable. I flipped through them and put on Janis Joplin, hearing the haunted, beautiful voice drift through the room. She had been one of my mother’s favorites. I knew many of her songs almost by heart, from childhood.