There’s a gap in the trees, and a sudden smack of wind almost knocks her back, but she thrusts her way against it. Not just a woman, but a giant. Coming hard through the forest. Hip-deep in snow.
Close to the center she breaks through a snowbank and falls into a new path. Tire tracks, freshly made. There’s the hum of an engine nearby and she squints through the growing squall to see a pickup, chains on its tires, rumbling slowly toward the road.
She comes into the building, shaking the snow off her clothes, out of her hair. There’s a light in the dining hall and she follows the sound of voices: Anna’s mild drawl, Karo’s clear inflection, a low murmur that she knows is Sim. She hasn’t missed dinner.
Justin raises his camera and trains it on her as she walks in—the ubiquitous documentary.
“Here we have dance impresario Maeve Martin,” he says, looking up at her from behind the lens. “Just in time to hear the news.”
Karo says, “Where did you get that coffee urn?”
“Must have been up early this morning.”
It’s Dan who answers, before Maeve can get a word in. He’s not at the table with the others but standing apart, back to the wall. She hadn’t even seen him there, but he raises his mug now in greeting.
Sadie scrapes her fork across her plate.
“We haven’t had an early riser here since Elisha,” she says. “Since Elisha left, I mean.”
It takes Maeve a moment to remember the name—Elisha Goldman, the painter Sadie mentioned. The woman who had a terrible accident. The comment would almost feel threatening, except Sadie hasn’t aimed it at Maeve. For some reason, she looks pointedly at Sim. Maeve has that new-girl feeling again, like she’s always missing something.
Sim doesn’t take the bait, or say anything at all; he only shrugs halfheartedly. He holds his gaze on Maeve, though, a long moment of it. The edge of a smile playing at his mouth. As though he’s trying to keep his lips closed.
Trying to keep a secret, Maeve thinks.
She’s suddenly awkward, fluttering; she takes a seat as far from him as she can, but with six at the table, there’s not much distance between anyone. It’s only once she’s chosen a place that Dan approaches and pulls out the chair beside her.
“Stop it,” he says abruptly—but he’s talking to Justin, who aims his camera away without switching it off.
“What’s going on?” Maeve says, turning brightly to the others. There’s a somberness to the whole group and she doesn’t want to lose her buzz.
She leans in to scoop food onto her plate. Lasagna, red and steaming in its tray, bread, those tiny foil-wrapped pats of butter hard from the fridge. Anything she can get. Brazen, this desire to eat, to fill herself up.
“Just talking about the weather,” Justin says, faux sullen. He lets the camera swing out toward the window, a view of the blowing snow, before finally setting it down. But he and Karo exchange a look before Karo resumes talking in her usual brisk, officious tone.
“I’ve sent the cook home,” she says, gesturing to the table. “And the housekeeper. That’s why there’s no buffet. They were the only staff members on-site this weekend.”
Maeve looks up from her butter. In her hunger, she didn’t even notice the buffet wasn’t set up. Karo continues without missing a beat.
“Just down into town, not far. The roads are so bad, and sometimes it takes the plows a long time to get up here.”
“Almost three feet of snow in the past few days,” Dan says, leaning on the table beside her. Maeve shifts to give him a little room. “And it’s still coming. People want to see their families. Can’t blame them.”
At the word families, Maeve feels a sudden twinge of guilt. She’s missed the window for calling home today; it’s past the kids’ bedtime back in eastern standard time. Worth it, she asserts. Worth. It. You’re here to work, remember?
But her hand shakes a little as she brings fork to mouth.
Anna, next to her, marks it and drops her voice: “Everything all right, girl?”
Maeve sinks back against the cushioned dining chair; a hollowness, an ache in her bones. For the first time, she realizes how tired she is.
“Just low blood sugar,” she says. “I had a big day.”
“Really?” Sim leans in. “I had just the opposite. Couldn’t get a thing done. Couldn’t focus.” He plays his fork against the edge of his plate and comes back to Maeve, letting his voice drop a little lower: “Distracted, for some reason.”
Maeve fights a smile, then turns away. Karolina looks grim. “I know it’s a bit inconvenient—” she begins, but Dan stops her.
“We’ll just hunker down for the next few days.” He gets to his feet. “Plenty of food in the kitchen.”
“Like camp!” Karo brightens. “We’ll take turns cooking.”
Justin groans and pulls his beanie lower over his ears.
“I hated camp,” he says. “Do you know what kind of nightmares camp brings back for me?”
“Was it fat camp?” Anna leans forward with a pretend camera in hand, mocking him.
“Worse,” Justin says. “It was the Hamptons.”
Karo starts to rise to her feet, but then sinks back down, her plate in hand. The first edge of strain showing at the corner of her eyes, in her smile.
“We were meant to get a delivery today and it never came,” she says. It’s a quick recovery, her voice resuming its usual confidence. “Who’s up for a bit of hiking? I may have to put on my snowshoes and trek down tomorrow to pick up a few things.”
There’s an abrupt silence. Maeve glances up from her plate and catches Anna’s eye; they’ve paid for the privilege of being here, of focusing only on work. Bad enough they’re now being asked to do their own housekeeping, but a supply run?
“Karolina,” Anna says. “Everyone can live without champagne and caviar for a few days. Even Justin here.”
“You’d be surprised.” Justin watches as Dan collects his plate and moves off toward the kitchen. Karo’s smile stiffens.
Sim leans across the table.
“Oh, I don’t know. Think we could use some bubbles?” At first, Maeve thinks he’s speaking only to her, but then he shifts his gaze. “Sadie will go,” he says. “Won’t you, Sadie? Pick up a few party favors for us?” That slow smile again. “I mean, if we’re going to be stuck here, might as well have some fun.”
“She can’t go down the mountain alone,” Anna says. She pushes back from the table, distracted or maybe demoralized. But Sim keeps his eyes on Sadie.
“Of course she can. Soon as there’s a break in the weather, any of us could.”
Anna glances from Sim to Sadie to Karo again, her brow starting to furrow.
“Sure, I’ll go,” Sadie puts in. “And I can totally go alone.” She turns to Karo. “You don’t have to bother yourself with it at all.” She gives a carefree shrug to show how easy it all feels.
But Dan calls from the kitchen: “You’ll take one of the guys with you, for protection.”
Sadie rolls her eyes. “Or for bait.”
She rises to follow Dan, plates in hand, and Anna springs up too. She catches Sadie’s wrist just as they round Maeve’s end of the table.
“Remember that it’s Karo you work for,” Anna says quietly, still moving toward the kitchen. “You don’t have to do what anyone else says.”
But Sadie just shakes off Anna’s hand. When she speaks, her voice comes up loud enough for the whole table to hear. “It’s Karo’s errand,” she says. But she looks to Sim for approval, and this time Maeve finds it gets her back up, just a little. Is there something here she doesn’t know?
She can’t figure Sadie out. First effusive, then cold; confessional on the trail, raucous and racy down in the spa. Dutiful with Karo, resentful with Dan. Compliant—
Is that the right word?
No. Eager with Sim.
For his part, Sim gives only the same little shrug, removing himself from the conflict altogether.
Justin picks up his camera to
catch the dishwashing brigade. Karo heads back to her office. Everyone else is done and Maeve, latecomer Maeve, finds she’s lost her appetite. Exhausted, she wraps a roll into a napkin and tucks it away in case she needs the food later on. She’s alone now at the table with Sim, fidgeting in her seat, although she can’t put her finger on exactly why. It was a good one-nighter, followed by an excellent day in the studio. Maybe she doesn’t want anything to ruin it.
There’s a little silence. When she looks up, he’s offering her something. His own roll, also wrapped in a napkin. Maeve can’t help but laugh.
“Well,” she says, “at least it’s not us running errands. That’s one good thing.”
He shakes his head. “It was never going to be you or me.”
“It was almost me. You could see Karo expected me to volunteer. I can be pathologically accommodating. I was trained into it, in the ballet.”
“You’re a pleaser,” he says. He leans across the table, his voice a little more conspiratorial. “You have to stop that right now or they’ll all take advantage of you.”
Maeve starts to laugh again. “You seem to hold them off.” She glances into the kitchen: Sadie with a dish towel drying and stacking plates. “But poor Sadie—”
He gets up and slides into the seat next to her.
“It’s never going to be Sadie alone either. Dan loves being in charge.” He follows Maeve’s gaze, watching Sadie now himself. “Gotta be top gun.”
It’s Sadie’s nickname for Dan he’s using—the way she described Dan out on the trail. So this must be something they’ve talked about.
But Sim turns back to Maeve, cheerful.
“Sadie just thinks she’s getting in my good graces by stepping up. Dan’s the one who’ll actually do the job. Mark my words. And you and me? Ten bucks says we get another bottle of Brut out of this.”
He picks up a water glass and makes a little cheers motion.
Maeve hesitates, her hand on her own glass. Why would Sadie want to get in his good graces?
In the kitchen, the squad is breaking up, and she can see Anna wending her way back through the tables. Maeve leans in toward Sim.
“Except, of course, Anna’s onto you.” She means it to be her own kind of flirtation. Roguish. But Sim only blinks. For a moment she wonders if he’s heard her.
Anna arrives, and Maeve rises to meet her.
“I’ll walk you back,” she says before Anna has a chance to sit down.
Sim looks up, surprised—then nods in their direction.
“Chivalry! You’ll want to be careful, Anna.” He raises his glass one more time to Maeve. “A lot of dangerous people around here. Or so I’ve heard.”
He waits until Maeve picks up her own glass, waits for the clink.
“Did you fuck him?” Anna says when they are up the stairs and away. “Was it crazy? He seems a little crazy. He seems like the kind of guy who has a swing, you know?”
“There was no swing.”
Anna trots along next to her, impatient. “But . . .”
“Honestly, it was fun—” Maeve wonders at her own word choice. Fun is what you have at a picnic. It does not seem the right way to describe Sim Nielssen’s quiet intensity. “He takes instruction well,” she says finally. “It was good for me. But . . .”
She slows down a moment, worrying at the key in her pocket.
“But what?”
“I wonder if—I shouldn’t have slapped him,” she says. “Last night.”
“What—in the spa? Maeve, it was a joke. They practically forced you to. We were drinking.”
“But I wasn’t. He seems to like playing games, and I just think—”
“Don’t think. Get over yourself. So what, you got laid.” Anna cocks an eyebrow. “People sometimes do that on retreat. Repeat after me: WWADD.”
Anna waits for her to get the joke, but Maeve just gives her a puzzled look.
“What would a dude do! Remember?”
She digs a saucy elbow into Maeve’s side a few times. It’s practically vaudeville.
“All right, all right!” Maeve dodges the elbow, laughing despite herself. They’ve arrived at Maeve’s door. “I mean, I don’t want to have a whole thing with the guy. I’m only here for a few days and I have a lot to get done. Today was fantastic.” She looks Anna in the eye, electrified. “Today was so good. I want ten more days like that.”
She digs in her pocket for the key, leaning a shoulder on the door—but suddenly the door gives way. Maeve steps back, confused. She prods it with a hand and the door swings into the room.
“I didn’t leave this open,” she says. “Did I?” She looks at Anna, then back at her room.
“It happens,” Anna says. “If you don’t pull it really hard into place, the lock doesn’t click.”
Maeve tries to remember. She stopped by her own room in the early hours, briefly, after leaving Sim’s, just to wash and change into her dance clothes. She’d been both tired and buzzing to get to the studio. It’s possible that she flew out of the room without noticing that the door failed to latch.
Is it?
“Stupid of me,” Maeve says.
Anna turns and walks backward down the hall, toward the stairwell on the other side of the building.
“Meh, who cares?” she calls. “There’s no one here but us.”
In the room, Maeve collapses onto her bed. She’s long past the moment for easy sleep and crossed over into hyper-exhaustion. Awake too long, her heart pounding. She kicks off her boots without sitting up. On her room phone, the voice-mail light is blinking, and she rolls over, hits Speaker, and taps the button to hear the message. She’s expecting her mother’s voice.
What she’s hoping for is an apology or a reluctant admission that Maeve was right after all; they would head back to Maeve’s house in the city, and her mother would take the kids to school.
Instead, there’s only Talia’s small voice on the line.
“Mommy? I miss you. I want you to sing me my nighttime songs—”
Maeve can hear the fight in her voice, how hard she’s working not to cry. There’s another moment or two, and then her mother in the background, and the message cuts off.
The time stamp marks the call as three hours ago. Maeve squeezes her eyes shut, picturing Talia alone in a strange bedroom in that strange house, those woods.
You’re just too tired for this. You’ll call her in the morning. But her body hurts and she can’t sleep and she wishes she could call back right now. Her heart feels like a violin string pulling tighter and tighter until it might snap.
You’re just tired, that’s all.
Too tired to sleep.
She finally jumps up and grabs her robe. This time she pulls the room door shut as tightly as she can and double-checks the lock before padding down the hall in her sock feet. A hot soak will be just the thing; she needs to relax, to bring everything down a notch.
In the stairwell, her feet ring a soft echo against the metal steps. It’s dark and quiet downstairs. Inside the spa, she turns on one light, then two, the switch making a satisfying thunk under her hand. She undresses and sinks into the warmest of the baths, neck-deep, her breathing slow and even.
At home, Maeve sometimes gets in the bath to cry, but she’s too drained for that now. Her clothes sit in a rumpled pile to one side. The only break in the silence down here is whatever noise she makes herself. Sound of her breath. The lapping of the water against the pool’s edge when she moves, even slightly. She opens her hand and lets it fall below the cloudy surface, waiting for it to disappear.
When she brings it up again, the old scar is still there, reddening in the heat. In her mind, she can still see the broken piece of mirror clattering, bloody, to the floor. Stem to stern, she thinks. Fingertip to wrist. Another inch, and it would have hit a vein. She closes the hand into a fist and lets it sink like a stone. As scars go, this one feels like a badge of honor.
She’s resting on a kind of bench cut into the stonework, just sl
ightly too low for someone Maeve’s size. Her chin grazes the water’s surface, then her lips. The water is so warm; she moves her shoulders and her neck, allowing the joints to loll, muscles spreading out. Her anxiety over Talia slows and her breath along with it. Physical exhaustion finally takes over. Her head nods, and she forces her eyes open. She can’t fall asleep here. It’s deep; she’ll drown.
But closing her eyes feels so good. There’s a moment of softness, the water just covering her lips, holding her.
Maeve wakes with a jerk. She opens her eyes, panicked. Shakes her head to rouse herself. The water plinks and plunks around her as she moves. She has the strange feeling that she’s missed something. That something woke her, something that’s no longer there.
Something—or someone. She glances at the deck, the changing room, and her eye falls on the broken tile Dan was examining yesterday, fixed now. She can see the gleam of fresh caulking, shiny and white.
She needs to go back upstairs. She needs to go to bed. The wet tile slips against her fingers as she climbs out of the pool. She’s wrapped in her robe, wringing out her hair, when there’s a thud from the hall, and she stiffens. Waiting.
Another, a little farther off.
Then nothing. Just the buzzing silence of the empty room. The ceiling arches high over her head. Maeve suddenly feels strange, vulnerable. Too alone, as she picks her way back to the entrance. She’s struck by an abrupt fear that she’ll find the door locked, be trapped inside for the night—and then she’s padding across the floor, faster and faster. Running.
But when she lays a hand on the door, it yields too easily, almost throwing her out into the hall.
She stops there, frozen. The hall is only dimly lit. But just in the moment of the door’s wide swing, she caught a shadow. Around the corner, now gone.
The stairwell is to her right. But the shadow disappeared in the opposite direction, the hall’s dead end. She blinks, listening. From here, she can just make out a low hum, a murmur. Voices.
Maeve lets the door close softly behind her and heads not toward the stairs but to where the hall turns and cuts off at an old changing room. She goes around the corner, careful, her feet soundless on the carpet.
The Retreat Page 7