“Ann.” Honey sighs as she studies me. “You look like you haven’t slept in a month.”
“I haven’t,” I mumble.
She reaches in the back of the car for an overstuffed purse, some fancy designer bag that costs more than my car, and pulls out an item. “You’re lucky I brought you some under-eye concealer.”
“Thanks,” I say as she tosses me an expensive-looking container. “Can you please start driving? I don’t want to be late.”
“All right, all right.” She dumps the purse in the backseat and puts the car in drive.
I grip the door handle and the center console. I hate riding in cars. Hate it. If I must drive somewhere, I always drive myself. It’s one of my ticks. But Honey insisted she take me to the airport. She thinks Reese’s disappearance has unraveled me. That’s why she came home early from her vacation.
I stare out the window as we traverse the empty Sunday streets. We’ve taken a back road near the park, and the path is lined with pine trees. Out of habit, I count the trees. One, two, three. A bird shrieks in the distance, and I realize Honey isn’t speaking. That’s unlike her. I study her in the driver’s seat, hunched over, hands firmly at ten and two on the steering wheel.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Huh?” Honey glances at me before returning her gaze to the road.
“What’s wrong? You’re too quiet.”
“Nothing, just trying to remember how to get there.”
I narrow my eyes at her, as if by doing so I can read her mind.
“Okay, okay. Stop looking at me like that.” She rolls her neck, pulls back her shoulders. “I’m just worried about you, is all. I know you can take care of yourself, and Reese is probably fine, but in case you are right, and something did happen on that island . . . I don’t know. It just seems reckless to go there.”
“I won’t do anything rash. I just want to see the place for myself. Ask a few questions, discreetly.”
Honey’s shoulders hike up another inch. “Where did Reese even hear about this retreat, again?”
“She got some advertisement in the mail,” I say, my mind returning to the fall afternoon when Reese showed me the glossy brochure.
“Look,” she had said with bright eyes, “they’re even giving away some spots for free in exchange for promotion after the trip. I’m going to fill out an application for both of us.”
A couple weeks later, after hours and hours of filling out very detailed applications, Reese had secured those too-good-to-be-true spots on the island. One for her, and one for me.
Only, I’m going a month too late. My veins turn to ice at the memory.
“I thought you’d be happy I’m trying to date more,” I huff, trying to change the subject.
“I’m not an idiot, Ann. I do want you to date more, but you’re not going to Last Chance to be swept off your feet. This is just a ploy for you to do some amateur detective work.”
“Don’t you want to know what happened to Reese? I thought you liked her.” I’m dancing around the subject, I know, but I’m too tired to get into another fight with Honey about going to the retreat. I should have just driven myself.
“I don’t dislike her.” Honey throws up her manicured hands, just for a moment, and I feel my stomach lurch at the sight of the empty steering wheel. “We just don’t run in the same circles, is all. I’m not trying to hang out with a bunch of drunks all the time.”
I cringe, and I see her do the same in my peripheral vision.
“I’m sorry, you know I didn’t mean that.”
“It’s fine,” I lie. I return my eyes to the window, the view outside getting darker.
“Well, you brought your second phone, right? I know they don’t allow media during the stay, but I want you to call me if you get into trouble or have any doubts. I checked, and the woman who runs the place did install cell towers on the island. So call me. I mean it. The second you want to leave, I’ll fly and come get you myself. Even if it’s Christmas Day.”
“Thanks, Honey,” I mumble, even though there’s no way in hell I’d ask her to come get me on Christmas Day. If I’m honest with myself, the timing of the retreat was alluring—the thought of spending the holiday alone, without my parents, without Reese, is almost too much to bear.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up anyway? We aren’t using the plane the weekend you’re supposed to come back, and it’s better than you having to make a pit stop in Hawaii.”
“I’m sure.” She’s trying, but I don’t have the energy. I just want her to stop looking at me before—
Something crashes into the right side of Honey’s car.
Honey slams on the brakes. We pitch forward. The seat belt cuts into my chest, and I can’t breathe. My fingernails dig into the center console and the door handle. After what seems like an eternity, Honey grabs my hand.
“Are you okay?”
I nod. My voice comes out in ragged breaths. “What was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pull over and put on your hazards,” I wheeze. “I’ll check.”
As Honey does so, I unbuckle my seat belt and open the door. I can’t stand to be in the car for another second. I tumble outside. The car dings with the door open. My legs are weak; they barely hold me. I lean on my knees and inhale slowly. I’m okay, I tell myself. Just breathe.
I take a look around. There’s a bowling ball-sized dent on the right side of the car. And blood—smears of it on the hood. I search the area for a wounded body, holding my breath for what I find.
Behind us, partially covered by pines, is a tuft of fur.
I exhale. Not a person.
I tiptoe farther into the pines. A deer. I don’t want to get closer, but I need to see it.
When I see its caved-in mouth, I realize it’s long gone. My stomach drops.
“It’s okay, it’s just a deer.” I say the words, but my heart isn’t in it. In the deer’s blank eyes, I can’t help but see Reese. I’m transfixed by the helpless animal, bile creeping up my throat, when a passing motorcycle breaks my trance.
Honey’s now out of her car, cowered behind the hood, frozen.
“Did you hear me? It’s just a deer,” I repeat. “You’re okay.”
I can tell her mind is elsewhere. Honey’s rarely shell-shocked.
“The deer is okay. Everything is fine.”
I go to her side and rub her shoulder. She nods, just the slightest bit. I really need to get to the airport, but I don’t want to leave her like this. I check the time to see if I can wait for the police. I hesitate before deciding I’d be cutting it too close.
“Honey, I’m going to call the police, then your husband, then an Uber. Okay?”
At that, her face snaps toward me. “The police? But you said the animal was fine?”
“Yes.” I swallow. “But you need the police report for insurance.”
Honey assesses the damage of her new Range Rover. “Fuck,” she mutters. She rubs her face, takes a sharp inhale. Then, with more emphasis: “Fuck!”
“It’s okay,” I say as I pull out my phone. “They’ll cover it since it’s an accident.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, don’t call the police.”
My thumb hovers over the dial button. I can’t read her expression. “Why?”
“I don’t want to be alone, in the dark, waiting for the police. And I don’t want you to take an Uber to the airport. Insurance will cover it without a police report.”
“Maybe, but don’t you want to be safe?” I gesture to the dented hood. “You don’t even know if it’s safe to drive.”
She strides to the driver’s side and jerks open the door. “It’s a small dent, we’ll be fine.”
I throw my hands up as she slams the door. Faintly, from inside the car, I hear her yell “Let’s go!”
Sometimes it seems as if Honey lives in her own world, floating above the rest of us. I try to remember what my dad
taught me about checking for car damage. No fuel leaks, no tire damage, no loose parts. From what I can tell, I don’t see any safety hazards. Honey honks, and I slap the hood of her car in return, cussing her silently.
“Let me just take pictures of the damage,” I mutter, “’cause I know you’ll need them later.” I snap a few shots with my phone as Honey honks a second time. I’ve never had a sister, but I imagine their feelings during a fight resemble ours right now.
“You can be so hardheaded,” I say as I get in the car. Honey tries to buckle her seatbelt, but she misses. After a few seconds of struggling, she starts to jerk it, but it catches. She lets go, and the buckle cracks against the window. She grips the steering wheel and shakes it before laying on the horn.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She screams in rhythm with the honks. When she finally calms down, she turns toward me. “This is a bad sign, Ann. I don’t want you going on that retreat.”
I nod. “I know.”
She’s right, but I can’t turn back now. I’m too far gone.
PART
2
3
Reese
Eight weeks earlier
I loved love.
I’d had far too many, and yet not quite enough lovers in my life when I arrived at Last Chance. Nothing beat the early stages of a new romance: the electrical charge in the air, the stolen glances, the all-consuming thought of what’s next. The breathtaking first touch. Oh my, I got shivers down my spine just thinking about it.
At thirty-four, you’d think I would have been taken. I was an attractive, loyal woman with an uncontrollable need to please my man, by God. Sadly for me, I had an unfortunate combination of traits that made the settling-down-and-having-babies thing difficult. The first was I had terrible—and I mean terrible—taste in men. Slicked-back hair, eyes that rarely leave your breasts, a tendency to say, Where’s that smile? I usually believed in the best in people, so I was quick to write off red flags as quirks, little eccentricities. (Ha-ha! Wasn’t that so funny when he grabbed that waitress’s behind?) Sure, hindsight is twenty-twenty, but at the time, I never realized how big of a loser each one of them was until the very end. And the irony—the real kick-you-in-the-shin cosmic humor of it all—is that all these men ended up resembling my dad. Unavailable. And like my mom, I chased after them anyway, regardless of the consequences.
The other less-than-favorable trait I possessed was a proclivity to believe a man, the right man, would solve all my problems. I know that’s not really en vogue to admit in this postfeminist, #MeToo era of strong women supporting strong women, but let’s get real: What heterosexual woman hasn’t daydreamed about finding her Noah Calhoun or Peter Kavinsky? Those stories sell for a reason. Twenty-eight is the average marrying age of women in the United States for a reason. (Twenty-six if you live in Tennessee—lucky me!) And any tight-lipped, sexually frustrated woman who tells you they don’t need a partner to make them happy is a bold-faced liar.
So when my home life became an untenable minefield, when my dancing wasn’t quite up to par, when my affinity for alcohol and drugs became a little too apparent, I would always think, The right man would make all of this go away. Or, he’d at least make me happy enough to finally fix the other problems in my life.
And I never lost hope. Once a relationship went up in flames, I only let myself sulk for a day (or two). Just twenty-four hours to watch Nicholas Sparks movies on repeat, eat a pint (or two) of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, and wear every cosmetic face mask in my possession. And then I’d find a new man. Or rather, a new version of the same man. Every new beginning was more exciting and hopeful than the last. This is it, I would think. This is the one I’ve been waiting for. My miracle.
So attending Last Chance, a singles’ retreat on a tropical island teeming with beautiful men was like being a kid in a candy shop. I was a shaken bottle of carbonation just waiting to pop.
That first day was perfect too. Not to sound trite, but a real dream come true. Even after thirteen hours of flying and three stops, I couldn’t help but wrap my hands around the gorgeous driver who picked me up at the island airport. (Yes, I had a driver. Can you believe it?) I held his face between my palms and planted a big kiss on his pillow lips.
When I pulled back to witness his stunned expression, I realized my mistake. I heard Ann’s voice in my head, telling me to think things through, consider the consequences, maybe get to know the guy before jumping in feetfirst. She was right. I needed to be smart now that I was here. I was going to find a respectful and respectable partner—for real this time. I couldn’t go around kissing the first good-looking guy I saw.
“So sorry about that.” I giggled nervously as I wiped the lipstick off his mouth. “I’m excited to be here, and I guess I got carried away.”
“It’s fine.” He swallowed as he straightened his jacket. “I’m, uh, Dan. I’ll take you to the mansion.”
I rolled my window down as soon as I got in the luxury SUV. I had never been to the beach, never been outside of Tennessee, so I took in every sight and sound the island had to offer. The dancing palm trees. The Fruit Loops-colored birds. The intense rays of the sun, which bathed everything in a coat of diamonds. I had had a bad couple of months, but here, today, my luck was going to change. I was going to change.
When we stopped for gas, my mouth dropped at the sight of the sea on the other side of the pumps. The water stretched as far as the eye could see, its waves glimmering in the sun like jewels, and all my problems felt so small in comparison.
“I’ve never seen the ocean before.” I was hanging out of the open window like a dog, trying to get as close as I could to this natural wonder.
“Really?” Dan asked with raised eyebrows.
“Would I . . . I mean, would it be okay if I walked to the beach while you’re filling up? It’s so close?”
“I . . .” He seemed hesitant. “We don’t have a lot of time.” Something in his demeanor softened when he met my gaze. I probably looked so eager, so desperate for something new and different. “If you go quickly.”
I shoved the door open at record speed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I cried as I slipped off my sandals. I scurried quickly across the pavement until I felt the sand between my toes. I giggled at the foreign sensation, wriggling my calloused toes in the soft, white grains. All my worries seemed to dissipate with the salt air, so I inhaled deeply, hoping maybe it would heal my internal scars too.
Eventually Dan broke my trance, told me it was time to go. I didn’t want to leave, but I had a whole month to enjoy the ocean. Plus, I didn’t want to get Dan in trouble.
Driving Dan. That’s what Ann would have named him. I sighed as my mind drifted back to my closest friend.
I wished she would’ve joined me. She was one of those I-don’t-need-no-man women who acted so tough, with her ugly pantsuits and rigid posture, but I loved her anyway. Because I knew, deep down, she was fragile. And a part of me wanted to do for her what I wish someone had done for me: offer an unconditional friendship, unconditional love. I was going to help her climb the impossibly steep uphill battle of addiction recovery if it killed me. Because helping her was, in a way, helping myself.
I remembered the first time I took her to a party after she stopped drinking. It had taken hours of coaxing, weeks of planning, and still, when I arrived at her house to pick her up, she was in sweatpants.
“I changed my mind,” she said, looking at her feet. “I can’t do it.”
“I know it’s hard,” I pleaded. And I did know. It was like seeing an ex-boyfriend for the first time since a breakup. You tried to chitchat with others, but you couldn’t focus on the conversation because he was in the corner of your eye, flirting with someone else, having a good time, and, perhaps it’s just your imagination, but was he stealing glances at you too? You swore the whole room was looking at you two, waiting for the inevitable makeup, the inevitable catastrophe, and your skin felt hot from the endless cycle of temptation and perseverance
and self-consciousness and anger and grief over what could have been.
But eventually, you learned to sit with the emotions, the unease. The pain became a background noise you learned to ignore.
“You have to start practicing,” I pleaded. “It’s been a year, Ann. It’s time.”
A film of tears covered Ann’s green eyes, and she pushed a leaf around her outside stoop with her foot. I wanted to wrap my arms around her, but I knew she wasn’t much of a hugger. I tried to think of something, even something small, that would help Ann feel more in control. Less trapped.
“How about this? You can drive yourself there—just follow me—and that way you can leave whenever you want. Stay five minutes, if that’s all you can do.”
Ann continued to toy with the leaf before she finally met my gaze.
“Just five minutes?”
“Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. And look,” I twisted my hips, allowing the tiny bells on the end of my boho skirt to trill. “I’m wearing bells, so you can’t lose me.”
Ann laughed then, wiped her cheeks. And we went to the party.
She stayed only five minutes, but it was what she needed. Slowly but surely, she started going out more, staying out later. (And by later, I mean 9:00 p.m.) As long as she had her car, she could go to the most booze-infused party Nashville had to offer. Not that I encouraged attending such parties, of course—there’s a difference between living in the world and unnecessary struggle.
Yes, I gave myself a mental pat on the back for that particular guidance. Occasionally, when I set my mind to it, I could give good advice. I felt it in my bones. And in my bones, circulating in my bloodstream, I knew a significant other would be the final piece of the puzzle that glued Ann back together again. She could claim her work fulfilled her, that she was perfectly happy with a flock of girlfriends, but no one could truly be happy without someone to share it with. Perhaps if the retreat went well for me—and why wouldn’t it?—that could serve as the push she needed to get her on the island.
Beneath the Marigolds Page 2