It’s such a strange island, with such strange people, and undertones that feel more cult than quaint. Julia thinks about the woman with the scarred face. She doesn’t seem like the others. Is she a tourist who converted? Or is she a captive here, under duress? And then there were Leanne and the baggage handler, both wearing face masks.
But Evie. Thousands of miles of ocean and land between them, and Julia can almost picture her daughter, a ghost, standing there. The longing to hold her again almost drops Julia to her knees.
I will bring you back to me, whatever the cost.
No one else speaks up either. Bragging rights trump all.
“Excellent,” says Isaac. He clicks on his walkie-talkie. “Delta A, you are cleared for takeoff.”
“Roger that.”
The plane starts to taxi down to a circle at the other end of the runway.
“You can now retrieve your bags, and please sign out your confiscated items,” says Isaac. “You will then receive your cabin assignment. Dinner starts promptly at six thirty p.m. in the dining pavilion, over there.” He points to an even larger bamboo building with a steeply sloped thatched roof that’s perched on a small cliff.
The plane is at the end of the runway now, turning in a wide loop. The rumble of the engine turns into a roar, and it accelerates back down the tarmac.
I made it. No one flagged her suitcase. Whether or not that’s a lucky or unlucky break remains to be seen.
The plane lifts off. Julia feels the rush of warm wind it leaves in its wake.
Julia is assigned one of the bungalows nestled into the jungle hillside, with a wide lanai that overlooks the ocean. It’s a huge relief to get inside, close the door behind her. The interior design is a surprise. Luxe-rustic, Zen yet primitive, with bamboo poles and beams, highly finished dark wood flooring, a platform bed and coverlet with a modern, abstract print. Nothing on the walls except grass-weave paper. A minimalist desk with a wooden chair . . . for what? It’s not like everyone’s got their laptop and will be slipping in some work on vacation. A couple of rattan chairs in front of a glass coffee table. Large picture windows with paradise views overlooking the lanai, and the ocean beyond. Simple muslin shades. Not a design the churchwomen could pull off. She makes a mental note to do some digging for her book proposal when she gets back, find the designer. There’s a story there, for sure.
Julia lets her suitcase and purse drop to the floor. Breathes. She can hear the low rush of the waves breaking in the distance, a bird whistling nearby. Stresses ease, somewhat. In the end, after all that worrying, her suitcase sailed through the inspection, no discovery of the hidden panel, no items confiscated and bagged. A miracle. Although she can’t imagine what the other women are going to do for clothing storage—no closet in the bungalow, just an armoire, a single bureau. And no attempt to hide the Bible in a drawer—it’s centered on the bureau next to a white ceramic vase holding a small clutch of tropical flowers. Maybe the church hopes to snag a few converts, not that it’s likely with this lot. The private bathroom is a decent size though, with a tub and shower jets, a glass-bowl cabinet sink. White fluffy towels. Small bars of what look like handmade soap. She lifts one to her nose—it smells like orchids, and rolled oats. There is, as Isaac promised, a small first-aid box under the sink, extra rolls of toilet paper.
Also under the sink are strand-like filaments of what looks like a white mold running along the back of the cabinet. It smells mildewy too. Probably the humidity.
She heads back into the bedroom, pulls the lei over her head, and drops it on the bureau, then draws the muslin curtains closed. God, wouldn’t it be amazing to take a short nap before dinner? She kicks off her sneakers.
Oh, right, the phone.
Every cell in her body longs for the bed, but instead she grabs the phone out of her sneaker, sits down by the suitcase, and pops open the latches. Pulls out all her clothes and drops them on the floor. It takes a moment for her fingers to find the hidden latch—she’d practiced for a good hour before she’d packed it, undoing the latch, popping out the false bottom, re-latching it, but for some reason—maybe the fatigue, the stress—her fingers are clumsy. Finally she hears the soft click, and the bottom cracks open.
It’s all still there, exactly the way she packed it. The pills, the satellite phone, the charger for the satellite phone. The seven mini Jack Daniel’s bottles from the hotel fridge, just in case she needs something to help her sleep, one for each day.
She picks up the satellite phone, presses the power button, sees that it’s only at about fifty percent. Damn, I must have left it on. She probably should call Aunt Liddy but can’t quite bring herself to. Instead, she presses the button on the color display for the GPS, clicks the map where a red pin for Irene’s camp ostensibly is. A digital compass floats over the screen, pointing the way, along with the estimated time, distance. Five miles—not ideal, but doable in a day. She powers it off so she doesn’t lose any more of the battery, puts it back in the suitcase along with her smuggled, SIM-less cell phone, and the brochure with the new number.
What time did Isaac say dinner was?
Oh, right, six thirty. But there aren’t any clocks. Not on the wall, not next to the bed. So how are they supposed to know when anything is? She’s about to close the lid when she remembers the pills—she should take one, right? Don’t miss a dose, Bailey had said. If you get sick and we have to extract you before you complete the terms, the deal is off. She reads the back label again—yes, she’s overdue, she didn’t take one that morning.
She doesn’t like it—she doesn’t trust Aunt Liddy farther than she could proverbially throw her—but the sight of Leanne and the baggage handler wearing face masks was sobering. And what she can count on is that Aunt Liddy desperately wants the flower and the DNA, which means she needs Julia in good enough health to get back, which means the pills are a means to that end.
Maybe she’ll take half of one, see how it makes her feel before taking the full dose.
Julia pops one out of the package, bites it in half, then grabs one of the small Jack Daniel’s, untwists the cap. Knocks it back with a good swallow. The whiskey settles her, takes off the edge. She presses the other half of the pill back into the tinfoil package, and her eyes land on the copy of Irene’s notebook. She could squeeze in a few minutes looking through it again. The churchwomen are so incredibly strange, and Julia wonders whether that’s a new development, or if it had been part of the culture when Irene was here. There could be a reference she missed.
She grabs the notebook, but just then there’s a sharp rap, rap, rap on the door. Julia looks up at the window—through the muslin she can see the shadow of a male figure.
Goddamn. Probably Noah. She’s only had what, about ten minutes free of him?
She screws the cap back on the Jack Daniel’s, tosses it in the suitcase, piles her clothes back over the hidden panel, stands, realizes she’s still holding the pills in her hand, looks for somewhere to stash them—rap, rap, rap—slips them in her jeans pocket instead, heads for the door, barefoot.
But when she opens it, she finds Isaac, not Noah. His face and neck glisten with sweat—the tie must be insufferable in the humidity. He holds a bundle wrapped in plain white muslin, bound with a twisted green vine.
“I hope you’re enjoying the accommodations.” He smiles, not very convincingly.
She feels him looking past her, into the room.
“I am,” she says. “It’s refreshing to be completely offline.” She wonders if he even knows what that means, offline. Or if he can smell whiskey on her breath, because he hesitates a few seconds too long.
“I’m pleased to hear that. The Reverend would like to see you tomorrow to take you to your great-aunt’s grave and discuss the disinterment. First thing in the morning after breakfast?”
A question that’s not really a question.
“Perfect,” she says. “Please let him know that our family deeply appreciates being able to bring Aunt Irene home to res
t in peace with her family.”
“I will. No guest has ever been allowed near our village, so I hope you appreciate the exception we’re making in your case. The same rules for non-interaction apply, and we ask that you wear this dress to minimize the overt disruption to our community.”
He presents her with the bundle, and since she really has no choice in the matter, she takes it.
“Of course,” she says. It feels heavy and looks like it itches.
He nods. She sees his gaze wander behind her, land on the notebook.
Goddammit. She steps in front of his view. “One question. You said dinner would be served promptly at six thirty p.m., but I didn’t bring a watch, and I don’t see a clock. How are we supposed to know when it’s time?”
“We’ll blow a conch shell. The sound carries well—you can even hear it up by the waterfall. But you’ll also find that the island has its own circadian rhythm. Soon . . . you’ll just know when it’s time.”
This doesn’t seem likely, but she nods like it does. “I’ll see you at dinner then.”
There’s another awkward pause, two seconds, five, ten. She wonders if she committed a misstep somewhere, or if he’s trying to build the courage to push past her, grab the notebook.
Just as she’s about to close the door, he says, “Ordinarily it would be sacrilege for us to disturb the rest of the dead. But the Reverend says that since your great-aunt ended her own life, her soul will never be at rest.”
It’s like the thought has been eating away at him for a while.
“You probably don’t believe in such things,” he continues. “Not many people without a spiritual life do. But you might find that perspective challenged in the days to come. I wouldn’t recommend wandering off the path, not if I were a Greer.”
A warning, then, like he suspects there’s more to her trip than just bringing Irene’s body home. Did one of the women run across something while inspecting her luggage?
He touches a finger to his hat brim. “I’ll see you at dinner.” Then he turns and walks away, such an incongruous figure in shiny black shoes, black pants, white shirt and black tie in the midst of sand, turquoise waters, and waving palm trees.
His clothes an act of defiance against all that seems innocent, and natural, and beautiful.
The operating word there being seems, Julia thinks.
CHAPTER 9
JULIA WAS ALMOST ASLEEP WHEN she heard the conch shell blow, having curled up in the bed, lulled by the sound of the waves, and of the wind in the palm trees. She briefly considered skipping dinner, but by then she was awake enough to feel her stomach grumble. The two biological imperatives, sleep and hunger, fought. Hunger won.
So she changes clothes quickly—a pair of khakis, a white linen shirt, a pair of brown leather flip-flops—thinks about wearing the lei too, but doesn’t want to overdo the tourist bit. Closes up her suitcase, stows it in the armoire, grabs the key. Casts one final look around her bungalow to see if she’s left anything out that should be hidden away. No, nothing.
She steps out the door, and is immediately struck by the last golden rays of sunset glimmering on the ocean’s waters. The tide is out, leaving behind a smooth stretch of wet sand, not a single mark, or footprint, marring it. And the moon—bigger than she’s ever seen it—rising just over the pink horizon. It all looks so innocent, so peaceful, like nothing bad could ever happen here.
But she knows that beauty is the best place for deception to hide. She can never afford to let her guard down again. Ethan taught her that much, at least.
So she pulls a receipt out of her pocket, slips it in the doorjamb, and then shuts the door. Tests the handle to make sure it’s properly locked. It is. Good. Of course, now she’s late. She hopes that seating is assigned, and that she’s next to anyone but Noah. She hurries along the path toward the dining pavilion, where she can already hear laughter. Tiki torches light the way, attracting small insects.
She’s not looking forward to meeting this Reverend. She unwrapped the muslin bundle Isaac gave her and found what she expected—a plain smock, just like the ones the other churchwomen wear. It makes no sense, because those women see the tourists wearing modern clothes around the eco-resort. It’s not like it’d be a great shock to see Julia’s arms, her legs. She has a feeling it has more to do with making her submit, even tangentially, to their way of life, or to the way of life dictated by the Reverend. Irene’s line in the notebook, Even in Eden, it appears Eve must learn her place, makes a lot more sense now that she’s up close to the culture.
There must be a crack, though—there always is. Someone who wants to tell, who sees a house of cards and can’t suppress the urge to pull one out, just to watch it fall.
The dining pavilion is open on all sides, the front facing the ocean, the back facing the jungle, which is slowly becoming obscured by shadows. The steep roof is supported entirely by bamboo, which glows warmly in light cast by paper lanterns hung from the beams.
Julia thought she was late, but maybe she’s early, because the middle-aged couple—what were their names again? Robert and Lois?—are missing. Everyone else is already seated at a long, rectangular table, drinking from coconuts and chatting quietly while the churchwomen busy themselves laying food out on a buffet table. Great. Family-style seating. There’s an empty space next to Noah, but with Robert missing—no, Roger—and his wife, there’s room at the other end too. She heads toward it, trying to slip in quietly.
“Julia! Over here!”
Everyone looks up—of course—so she tries to put on a smile as she turns to Noah.
“Hi,” she says, still edging to the opposite side.
“I saved a place for you!”
Well, now it’s a scene—he’s good at that, making scenes—which will only get bigger if she doesn’t sit next to him. Gossip for sure either way—the first thing a small group turns to out of boredom, trying to figure out who has hooked up, or who will. She smiles and nods and heads to take the seat he so thoughtfully saved for her.
I have to think of a way to really piss him off. If she can’t, then there’s definitely something else at play.
At least Noah won’t be able to focus on her alone—the young happily-whatever couple are sharing the table too, holding hands, of course.
“Thanks,” she says, settling on the plain wooden bench. White linens on the table, that luxe-rustic theme again.
“No problem—we’re practically best friends at this point, right? Julia, this is Fred and Heather. They just got married yesterday. But they’ve been living in sin for two years, so it hardly counts.”
Julia’s smile becomes harder to maintain. It’s not easy sitting so close to new love, the glow of it. Those are hard to remember, the days when she was happy with Ethan. She didn’t know that pain could flow backward in time, curdle nearly every moment, every memory, that came before.
A part of her hopes they’re spies.
“Nice to meet you,” says Heather, extending a hand over the table. Her face is elfin, her blond hair wavy and in disarray, like she’d just been sleeping on it, which maybe she was.
“Nice to meet you too,” says Julia.
Fred just offers a nod, but then, she’s of an age that doesn’t register in his field of reality. He’s Nordic blond, tanned, bored. Inscrutable light blue eyes.
“Heather works for Goldman Sachs, and Fred here, Fred’s over at the Federal Reserve,” says Noah. “The mango is amazing, by the way.”
There’s a small fruit plate in the center of the table, some kind of rustic bread, and slices of thick cheese.
Julia reaches for a piece of bread. “You’re right—you don’t have a filter, Noah. There’s such a thing as small talk, am I right?”
She watches to see if the criticism lands, but it doesn’t seem to. He just leans back in his chair, smiles like she’s joking, which she’s not.
“I’m an ass, I admit. Julia here—”
“Is recently divorced, and very hungry,” Jul
ia says, taking a bite of the bread. It’s soft, with a hint of rosemary.
Fred sighs. “I’m starving. So far we haven’t gotten anything except rabbit food.”
It’s true. Only platters of salad, fruit on the buffet table. No heating elements, nothing cooked.
“Did they say it was only vegetarian?” asks Noah. “I don’t remember that being on the brochure.”
Fred tries to make a sandwich out of the bread and cheese. “Tiny food on the plane, rabbit food for dinner.”
“I watched them, you know,” says Heather, leaning in and lowering her voice. “I don’t think the doughnuts went far. There’s a shed with a lock where they put all the confiscated stuff.”
“Oh man, and that chili,” says Fred. His eyes wander over to where the other younger men are sitting; he’s obviously wishing he wasn’t sitting with the old farts. The two his age are sitting across from the brunette—they must have said something funny, because her blond companions giggle into their hands. Slightly apart from all of them is the athletic woman, focused on her mango, in her own world entirely.
As if she feels Julia’s gaze, Athletic Woman looks up, meets her eye for a split second. She clocks Fred, and Heather, and Noah. Then returns to her food.
Military? Something about the cursory glance. Like she was scanning them.
Noah leans in. “You up for a break-in?”
Fred looks like he is, just not with Noah. “Uh . . .” he says. “I don’t know. That Isaac dude looks like he’s wrapped pretty tight. Anal retentive, for sure.”
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