“It does? I thought it fostered self-absorption and self-centeredness. At least that’s what Renata said when she told me to stop—”
“It’s all relative, isn’t it, Maizie? It all depends on how one uses the selfie.”
I didn’t want to promote a battle between therapists, so I nodded.
“For example, I have a client who’s…shall we say, famous for being famous? All due to their life on social media. He composes beautiful pictures of himself. A wonderful photographer. Very creative. Thousands of people follow him. And he’s never been happier or felt more complete. All due to my help. Why?”
“Because you double tap his pictures?”
“No, because I showed him there’s a difference between selfies and selfies. Do you understand?”
“I don’t have a smartphone right now, so maybe I need a different kind of help?”
“Everyone needs a different kind of help, Maizie.”
We veered from the Café path to one that pointed toward the meditative labyrinth. Which brought me back to thoughts of The Shining, but the Wellspring Center had grown on me. The heavy stone edifice still appeared slightly sinister. I chalked that up to the teens’ Stranger Things anxieties. But the flowers and brick paths gave it an Oz vibe. I’d grown used to the old chicken farm scent. Hard to believe the Wellspring Center to be an underground government facility meant for the capture of Bigfoot while pretending to be a celebrity wellness retreat.
Which is why I didn’t believe it.
“Mazes are good for meditation,” I said. “Is this going to help me with the inner peace selfie thing?”
Dr. Trident looked up from his phone. “I certainly hope so. Do you see that wheelbarrow? Why don’t you grab it?”
The wheelbarrow held gardening equipment. “Is this some kind of Zen thing?”
“What a wonderful idea.” The sun sparkled on Dr. Trident’s grin. “Do that.”
Hang on. This was no couch session. This was more community service.
I let out a long sigh and pushed the wheelbarrow to the maze. Dr. Trident pointed behind me. I turned around and pushed it down the path running along the maze. We stopped before a raised bed bare of flowers. Not as tall as the hills I noticed the day before. But large enough to inflict some major manicure damage.
“Enjoy planting.” He pointed to the trays of pansies and pots of shrubs and roses. “When you’re done, you can have ice cream again.”
“But I don’t know how—” I stopped. Dr. Trident had already jogged away.
In the distance, a rooster called. I shivered, wondering if the Bigfoot-chicken theory had some merit. Then gave myself a mental facepalm.
I glanced around, looking for gardening assistance or at least another flowerbed to study. We’d taken a path away from the main grounds. About one hundred yards away stood the remnants of the Center’s bygone days, a long, single-story structure with a stone facade. No brick path led to it and a rope fenced it off. I wondered if it had been the building the kids had investigated when Everett caught them. Some of the stones had fallen off the outer walls, leaving crumbling mortar and plaster behind, but the roof looked in good condition. The cedar-shake shingles appeared new.
I wandered from my gardening duty toward the building to read the sign, hoping it would give some details to its history or the purpose of the renovation. But it was of the “no trespassing” variety.
Nothing made the building particularly interesting except that it was forbidden. Behind it lay a line of flower hills. And I knew what was behind those hillocks.
Nothing.
I plodded back to my gardening and evaluated the mound. Twenty minutes later, I had pit stains in my Splendid tee, more broken nails, and dirt mixed with my Nars “Risky Business” lip gloss. I also had two holes dug in the large mound. Midway into the third hole, my shovel had struck an object. The Kung Fu Kate script writers loved nothing better than buried treasure — aside from an intricately choreographed kung-fu battle — and incited by those memories, I applied real enthusiasm to my digging. A few minutes later, I unearthed a shoe. Actually, a man’s hiking boot.
Disappointed, I took a break to cool my chafed palms and emotions. I considered calling Gladys to complain about my community service and new therapist. And determined it would net negative results. For me, in any case. I tried to look at the brighter side. I was in the sunshine (despite my pale skin), breathing fresh air (possibly chicken toxic), and doing good for the community (by beautifying an exclusive retreat supported by the wealthy and celebrities).
Perhaps I did have a case to make with Gladys.
I checked my messages. No updates on Nash. No forwarded calls from the office, either.
Breathe, Maizie.
I jerked out of my panic and stared at the boot. Cast my mind away from the business and wondered if it was a chicken-farm-days boot or something newer. Using a watering can and the bottom of my shirt, I cleaned it off and examined it more closely. A Keen, size ten. Leather and mesh upper. Rubber sole. I didn’t know if Keen was favored by chicken farm employees, but Keen was a favored brand of hikers. REI always had tons of Keen footwear. I learned this in my previous life. I’d spent many afternoons shopping at REI with first ex-fiancé, Oliver. He loved puttering about all the new climbing and hiking gadgetry.
More so than actually using the equipment, IMHO, but that might be spite speaking. His arrest led to my apprehension as an accessory and my subsequent probation. I wouldn’t have dirt in my lip gloss if it weren’t for Oliver.
I placed the boot in the wheelbarrow. Took a long drink of water to clear my head. Thought about Everett Lawson and his gun, razor wire, and the plot to Stranger Things. I had my doubts that Chandler had been abducted by evil Wellspring employees and buried in a garden — despite what the kids thought — but one doesn’t find a buried boot every day.
I decided to dig for the matching boot. For no reason other than it was a lot more interesting than digging for plants. And I’d kill two birds with one stone.
Twenty holes later, I had no match. But I did have chapped palms. And a godawful mess.
I quickly shoved plants into holes, squirted them with a hose, and galloped off with the boot in search of a place to clean up. As for the flower bed, Wellspring paid for what they got in terms of my help.
By way of wooden signs, I wound through the brick paths and flower gardens toward the fitness facility. Or “Physical Wellspring” as they called it. A complete departure from the Wellspring’s historic buildings, its facade was a giant wall of glass. This facility alone must have cost at least a million to build. I searched for guests in the fishbowl but only saw two.
Maybe that was why I’d been chosen as hired help. Besides a lack of visitors, there wasn’t an ample amount of employees either.
Inside, slate floors and stone planters held a jungle’s worth of foliage and mini waterfalls. Programmed bird calls chirped and wind chimes tinkled from hidden speakers. The lobby directory told me I could find a pool, gym, juice bar, and locker rooms besides the track, weight rooms, and classrooms.
I chose locker rooms and trudged forward, trying not to drip mud on the beautiful floors. I hurried past the juice bar, separated from the lobby by a wall of waterfall glass. Then stopped at the edge for a double-take. A champagne blonde in Lily Lotus had caught my eye. I inhaled, searching my olfactory senses, and recognized Chanel No. 5 amid the wet vegetation and faint chlorine scenting the lobby.
Vicki.
I squinted through the wavy distortion of the waterfall. She wore sunglasses, but I recognized her by the dark red lipstick. Not many women had the balls to wear Dior’s “Sulfurous” during a workout. I tried it once and finished my exercises looking like I’d been punched in the mouth.
Why was Vicki at the Wellspring Center? A pre-wedding spa retreat? But that meant the film crew would be nearby. All is Albright hadn’t wrapped for the season yet. Besides that, Vicki had never met a spa retreat she couldn’t write off for the s
how. Which is one of the reasons she learned to wear lipstick without it bleeding down her face. She even sauna’ed in lipstick.
Vicki was the only woman I knew who could wear moist.
I quickly did a slow scan, searching for our usual camera crew. And spotted the three-person team on the other side of the bar. Al’s Panasonic HDX900 pointed toward Vicki’s table. Behind him, our sound guy, Otto, sat at the juice bar with headphones clamped to his ears, his eyes on the bag in his lap. Lori, the director, peered into another bag, this one holding a monitor. She also wore headphones, listening to the conversation at the table.
Glad I was out of the camera’s lens, I refocused on Vicki’s table and studied the back of the man’s head sitting across from her. I’d glossed over him previously, assuming it was Giulio, but this was not Giulio’s head. Giulio had thick, dark, wavy hair and well-defined narrow shoulders. This man had a shaved head and massive shoulders. Giulio might turn to implants and workouts to bulk up, but he’d never shave his head.
Giulio had perfected the masculine head toss. His waves could bounce and catch the light with a technique subtle enough to not look like a sixteen-year-old girl on a vanity trip.
Through the waterfall, it almost looked like Vicki was juicing with Nash. My breath hitched. Realizing I was steaming the glass, I forced my pant to slow. Besides Dwayne Johnson, there was only one other man Vicki knew who had a shaved head and beautifully massive shoulders.
And that was also impossible because Oliver was in prison.
Twelve
#NoBootAboutIt #FullOutFugitive
Before I embarrassed myself — like hyperventilating, passing out, and crashing into a waterfall wall where Vicki would find me with dirty lip gloss and clutching a muddy boot — I hurried away from the juice bar to the hall leading to the locker rooms. In my previous life, Vicki did everything in her power to limit my humiliations from reaching the limelight. (A Herculean task, I admit.) Now that I’d quit my part of our actress-manager power team, she seemed to revel in my disgrace.
Which is disconcerting for a daughter. Probably something to add to my couch sessions. If I ever got them.
I pushed my thoughts away from Vicki and focused on quickly finding the locker room before I was caught by the All is Albright crew.
“My darling, what has happened to you?”
Not quickly enough. But at least it was only Giulio.
I turned to give him a dirty (literally) smile. “I’ve been gardening.”
Giulio skipped the head toss to bend at the waist in an effort to control his laughter. “My dear, what do you know about gardening?”
“Pretty much zero.” I curled my arm holding the boot into my side in order to grasp Giulio’s elbow and yank him to standing. “I’m doing volunteer community service. I’m a little behind on the terms of my probation.”
“I see.” He sobered to study me. “I understand now why they dress prisoners in the orange jumpsuits. This community service is bad for your wardrobe.”
I glanced at my white tee and grimaced. No amount of dry cleaning would bring it back. “I think I need to dress smarter in the future. Yesterday I was hauling boxes and lost my embellishments. Today I went with no embellishments and found myself knee-deep in dirt.”
“Then why are you orange?”
“Georgia has colorful dirt.” I shrugged. “Is the show doing a spa day?”
Giulio gave me a un-patented Latin sigh. “In a way. Your madre, Maizie.” He gave his head a shake, not enough to toss his hair, but one that conveyed his deep-seated sorrow.
“You made your choice. Career over sanity. Assuming you chose to marry Vicki for your career.” I bit my lip, tasted dirt, and used it as a palate cleanser at the thought of Giulio and Vicki’s marriage.
“I should have married you when I had the chance.” His dark eyes were mournful, seductive. Another talent. That look had made Giulio famous on soaps before he achieved greater notoriety as my (hired) lover. “I would be an Albright and have the happy life instead of the one I now face. With beautiful children. Green eyes and dark hair. They would photograph so well.”
“I think I’m flattered?” I paused to evaluate. Maybe not. Vicki also had green eyes. “In any case, that ship sailed long before this marriage scheme. It’s like a third-rate telenovela or a Korean TV drama. Engaged to my mother after a —thankfully very short — engagement to me? Even if our relationship wasn’t real, it’s still disgusting.”
“It was real to me.”
“Are we on camera now?” I said. “Because you’re channeling emotion harder than a silent film star. Between the voice and the expressions, I’d think you were going for an Emmy.”
Giulio smiled. “Do you really think so? I am feeling dejected by Vicki, of course, but I think I should appear more so on camera. When our breakup happens, the audience will have seen the foreshadowing.”
I sucked in a breath. “Vicki’s breaking up with you? What about the wedding?”
“She does not know yet.”
“You are breaking up with her?”
“I can’t continue with this farce, Maizie. It’s too hard. Besides she has found this testa di cazzo, this man she calls ‘old friend.’ But he is not so old. And I do not trust him. Che stronzo.”
“Calm down,” I spoke soothingly while my chest tightened and stomach clenched. If Giulio skipped out before a sweeps week wedding, there would be hell to pay. And knowing Vicki, she would somehow blame me. Or I might find Giulio buried in one of the Center’s gardens.
Hold that thought.
“Maizie, why are you staring at that boot? Do you not care how horribly your mother treats me? I could have become your step—”
I jerked my gaze off the boot and onto Giulio. “Please don’t say those words. I’m too old to have a step-anyone. I’m sure Vicki isn’t interested in this old friend. An old friend could mean anything from her Mercedes dealer to the girl who does her eyelashes. She doesn’t need to know someone’s name to call them ‘friend.’”
“He is no dealer.” Giulio paused. “I take that back. But not of cars. You of all people should know this.”
“Wait, what?” I clutched Giulio’s arm. “Is this old friend doing a juice bar scene with Vicki right now?”
“He has more screen time than I do lately. Can you believe?”
“Yes, I can believe.” My stomach knotted, and acid fizzled up my throat. “Giulio, who is the man? Is it Oliver? Please say it isn’t Oliver.”
His almost over-plucked eyebrows squeezed together. “Of course. I am such the idiot. Sorry, my darling. I should have not been thinking of only myself. This is terrible for you, too.”
“How is it possible?” My chest constricted, and I gasped. Gasped again. I couldn’t catch a breath. Or I was catching them too fast. I dropped the boot and clutched my chest.
“Maizie, what is happening to you? Is it a heart attack? I told you those fried pickles would kill you.” Giulio’s arm slipped around my waist. “Breathe, my darling. Or stop breathing. You are going to explode.”
I doubled over, taking Giulio’s arm with me.
He leaned over me, rubbing my back. “What is it, my darling? Is it some kind of attack from the garden? Were you bitten by the snake? Do you need me to suck venom from you?”
I shook my head hard. Held up a finger.
“What are you doing here?” Giulio’s voice sharpened. “Go away. Via.”
“Maizie?” said another man’s voice.
I recognized the voice. And chose to continue hyperventilating rather than look up.
“Maizie, do you need help?” said Oliver. “What’s wrong?”
“Vaffanculo,” said Giulio. “I am taking care of her. She is fine. She is not bitten.”
“Bitten?” said Oliver. “What do you mean bitten? Should we get a doctor?”
“What’s going on?”
I sucked in Chanel No. 5, hiccuped, and felt close to passing out. Giulio’s arm tightened, and he yanked me cl
oser. I hung like a rag doll, my breath baking the mud to concrete on my Golden Goose sneakers.
“It’s about time you showed up, Maizie,” said Vicki. “She’s going to your fitting, Giulio.”
“Vicki.” Giulio grunted with the effort of keeping me off the floor. “Maizie will not go to my fitting. There is no fitting.”
Not now, Giulio. I couldn’t add my mother’s unhappiness (or wrath) to all my spinning plates. I pushed out one long breath, held it, and jerked upright. Sucked in one long, slow breath. Skidded a glance over Oliver. And focused on Giulio. “No wedding talk yet,” I wheezed. “I can’t handle any more stress.”
“What do you have to be stressed about?” said Vicki. “You’re not the one getting married.”
“She’s obviously stressed,” said Oliver. “Remember the panic attacks she had during the trial? This looks like a panic attack. Sweetheart, are you having a panic attack?”
“Oliver, I’m surprised to see you.” I tossed my hair to prove Oliver wrong. Dirt rained on the slate floor. My eyeballs danced, but I kept myself from swaying. Slipped the boot behind my back and cocked a hip. My voice came out in breathy spurts. I hoped it sounded more sultry than panic attack-y. “Why aren’t you in jail?”
“Why are you covered in dirt?” said Vicki.
“She is gardening,” said Giulio. “For the community.”
“Community service.” I glared at Oliver. “Because I’m on probation. Because of you. Again, why aren’t you in jail? How did you get out of California? Are you even allowed to cross state borders?”
I sucked in a breath and almost hyperventilated again. “Oh my God. Have you escaped? Are you hiding in the Wellspring Center? Wait, I don’t want to know. This could really get me in trouble with my probation officer.”
“Let me explain everything,” said Oliver.
“That’s what you said when they came to arrest us.” My lungs compressed. I leaned over, scooped up the boot, and ran half-bent. And hoped I had enough breath capacity to get out of the building without keeling over.
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