“We’re here.” Dan rolled up my window as we approached the mansion. I reached for my purse on the other side of the car, my tank top tugging up and over my peasant skirt, and I felt Dan’s eyes travel to the tattoo on my hip.
“Is that a sponge?” he asked.
I glanced at the orange flower and chuckled. “This? No, no. It’s a marigold. That’s my last name. I dated a tattoo artist for a bit, and he convinced me this was a good idea one night. He wasn’t the best, I’ll admit. At tattoo art or being a decent boyfriend.”
Dan continued to stare at me, blankly, so I kept talking. I had a bad habit of chattering to fill the silence.
“Anyway, now he helps people get out of town. He’s like an unofficial, slightly illegal provider of witness protection. Crazy where the world takes you, huh?”
Dan remained silent, and I cringed. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. But it was a good reminder of why I was here: I was on a mission to find a new man. The right man. Someone who was actually good for me.
“Well, thanks for the ride.” I patted him on the shoulder, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and opened the car door wide for my next adventure.
4
Ann
The mansion at the retreat stops me in my tracks.
The only house I’ve seen that comes close in size is Honey’s childhood home. The structure is similar too, with its gargantuan glass windows and Spanish-style roof. Only in this case, the curved tiles seem to blend into the waves of the ocean behind it. And the marigolds—there must be hundreds of them. Red, orange, and yellow marigolds decorate every inch of the mansion’s exterior, drawing me closer, like an uncontrollable magnet. My heart stops as I think of Reese and her favorite flower. What she must have thought upon her arrival.
I try to wash away the memories by focusing on the chirps and screams of the forest behind me. The eerie absence of cars, human chatter, any sign of civilization. The sun beats down on my skin. Sweat pinpricks my back. I swat at the mosquitoes that buzz in my ear and attack my limbs.
I’m so lost in thought that I almost don’t notice the woman. The earth tones of her clothing and peroxide-blonde hair blend in with the warm, neutral color of the fountain that guards the front doors of the mansion. But once I notice her, I don’t know how I could ever miss her. Formidable and stately, she stands with as much grandiosity as the house behind her. Even from here, her eyes are shocking and inhuman—the color of ice.
She doesn’t budge as I approach. She just watches me, calmly. Waiting.
As I near her, I can better distinguish her other features: unnaturally arched eyebrows, a conspicuously wrinkle-free forehead, pencil-thin lips, and single strip of white on her otherwise blonde head. Not quite attractive, but noticeable—in part due to the diamonds that adorn her wrists, earlobes, and neckline. Once I’m within arm’s reach, the woman’s lips snake into a smile.
“Hi, Christina,” I say.
She studies me for another moment with her colorless eyes before taking my hand.
“Ann, it’s so nice to finally meet you. Welcome to paradise.” Her voice is husky, masculine. Something about her is familiar, but I can’t place it. I run through the few facts I know about her. Lived in California prior to Last Chance. Purchased Phaux Island from the United States four years ago. Ungodly, mysteriously wealthy. Inherited, most likely.
“Have we met before?”
“Well, of course. We met on video chat after you accepted our offer.”
I start to protest, but she cuts me off.
“Here.” She nudges me slightly, but forcefully, to stand to her right so that we can both face away from the mansion. “That’s better. Now you can better enjoy the view.”
The lush vegetation in front of me is spellbinding; the forest of palm trees is so thick, you can only see a few feet in front of you, with the exception of the road you take to travel here. But while every inch of the island is mesmerizing, I’m not sure what she’s talking about. The forest is no comparison to the mansion that seems to sit on top of the ocean.
“Much better,” she repeats as she gazes into the distance, nodding at no one. “I hope your travels were comfortable?”
Comfortable isn’t the word I would use, although the retreat does make a strong effort to make the thirteen-hour trip more bearable. There are no direct flights from Nashville to Hawaii, so we had to make a pit stop in Dallas. My first flight was late, so I had to run through the fourth-busiest airport in the world, trying to avoid the schools of people like a competition-level pinball game.
I barely made the flight to Honolulu, and I was too energized from the obstacle course in the airport to sleep on the plane. There was also a very upset baby two rows down. At one point, it got so bad that I shredded my cocktail napkin, stuffed the pieces in my ears, and made a pact with myself to never have children.
Once I landed in Hawaii, I had to rush to the private airport to board the retreat’s plane. Since Last Chance is on its own island, there’s not a commercial airport, so flying private is the only way to make the final leg of the journey. The plane was small; turbulence was exacerbated. It was like riding a roller coaster that never ended.
When I finally made it to the island, a nervous, fidgety man was waiting for me with a sign and coffee. I went to shake his hand, but my approach startled him.
“Don’t,” he cried as he threw his hands in the air, his hot coffee raining down on me. I was still wiping my eyes, my skin on fire from the hot liquid, when he grabbed my bags and hightailed it toward the car. Once inside, he made a point to lock all doors. He kept the windows rolled up, including the one that separated the front seat from the back.
Of course, I’m not going to mention any of this to Christina.
“Very comfortable,” I respond. “Thank you for having me.”
“Of course. And I would say you lucked out with the weather,” she says as she waves her hand to show off the cloudless sky. “But truthfully, the weather is always this nice.”
Someone grunts behind me. I feel a tugging at my purse.
I jump. A small man, no taller than five foot three, stands behind me. His back is curved to an unnatural, convex position. He lifts his massive head so he can examine me, his shaggy brown hair covering most of his face. He shakes his hair out of his eyes, one green and one blue, and he opens his mouth to reveal two very large buck teeth.
“Henry,” he says, pointing to himself. “Can I take your bag?” he asks, one hand already gripping my large suitcase, his other reaching up for my purse.
“Hey, I didn’t hear you behind me. My name’s Ann.” I place my right hand in his—the one that’s still reaching for my purse—and shift so that my bag is out of his reach. I give him my warmest smile, but he doesn’t return it. His forehead wrinkles, and he rips his hand away.
“I know,” he says, lifting his hand toward my bag again. “Can I have your bag?”
“I’m going to hold on to it, if that’s all right. I have some, uh, lady things I’d like to hold on to,” I lie.
“That’s just fine,” Christina interjects. “Isn’t it, Henry?”
One glance from Christina causes Henry to stoop even lower, his head and shaggy hair hanging.
“Yes, Miss Christina.”
She then looks at me. “If you wouldn’t mind just handing your phone and any other electronic device to Henry, we’ll be sure to store them in a safe place for the rest of the retreat.”
“Absolutely.”
I’ve prepared for this. I open my purse to retrieve my work cell phone—my personal cell stored safely out of sight in a concealed pocket.
Although I have almost a thousand contacts on my phone, there are only two I care about while I’m here: Pat Higdon, my firm’s former-FBI-turned-private investigator, who I’ve hired to dig into Reese’s disappearance; and Ned Hargrove, my firm’s newest associate. Ostensibly, Ned is helping me take care of my clients while I’m gone. In reality, he’s my liaison with Pat and is c
onducting extra research on Last Chance.
It’s not forbidden, per se, to ask associates to help with personal matters, but it’s also not encouraged. It’s not exactly morally sound. But Ned worked in the district attorney’s office for almost a decade before transitioning to corporate law. He has invaluable connections and knowledge of Nashville criminal law. Plus, he’s so eager. And, I promise myself that I’ll recommend a promotion for him as soon as I get back.
I try not let these thoughts take another bite of my conscience as I hand Henry my phone.
“Thanks for understanding,” Christina says. “We just want to make sure your full focus is on the journey at hand.”
It takes all my effort not to scoff at that word. Journey. How ridiculous.
“Henry will bring your suitcase to your room,” Christina assures me. “And don’t worry about him. His appearance is . . .” She trails off, apparently rethinking her next words. “Henry is trustworthy. Now, before we take a tour and discuss logistics, tell me what you’re most looking forward to.”
I take a deep breath. I’m not overly sentimental, like Reese, who gushes with emotion in every conversation. I know I can appear standoffish, but it just doesn’t come naturally to me. It feels forced, awkward. But I know what she wants to hear, and I need to play the part to prevent arousing suspicion. So I give it my best shot.
“Well, I’m excited to meet some nice men. I’ve, uh, been a little lonely lately, and it’d be nice to have some companionship.”
That’s the best you can do, Ann? Really?
“You’ve had heartbreak in the past.” She nods solemnly, her lips taut.
“Uh, yeah. That’s right.” She must be referring to my boyfriend in college. Reese said she had to detail past relationships in the application process. I wish she had left him out of it.
“But you don’t give up easily,” she goads. “You believe in true love, and that’s why you’re here today.”
Come on Ann, you can do it. Just say the words.
“Yes, I’m hoping to fall in love and finally find my, uh, soul mate.” I try my best not to cringe at the term.
“Wonderful.” She flashes a wide, toothy grin. With one hand she makes a sweeping gesture, guiding me toward the mansion and the journey. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
5
Ann
As Christina leads me toward the glass entrance, two men in all black—one on each side—open the transparent double doors to the house. These beefy men with hardly any neck and baseball-mitt hands tower above us, at around six foot five. I assume they were in the military at some point, with their flattop hairstyles and grave expressions. As I pass a darker-haired man and offer a nod of thanks, I notice a small tattoo below his neck: an eye. It seems to follow me as I step inside the mansion.
“Those are two of our handlers,” Christina says, following my gaze. “We have several, to help with all the activities. They also provide security in case anything gets out of hand.”
Out of hand? I turn to face her, thinking she may offer a smile or wink—something to indicate she’s joking. But there’s no smile. No wink. I steal one more glance at the handlers and notice guns in their belts. A shiver crawls down my spine. What do they need guns for? I should have brought my dad’s old hunting rifle—any weapon, really.
“So tonight will be the initial meet and greet. You’ll be introduced to all the participants—ten men and ten women in total—and start to get a feel for who might be a good match. Tomorrow is your first date, a one-on-one, although you will have some group activities as well, so be thinking about who you’d like to accompany you,” she says as she leads me through the front entrance.
A grand Cinderella staircase, with large vases of marigolds on either side, spirals upward to the floor above. The ceiling showcases a massive chandelier dripping with crystals. Six satin-gold tiers, each level getting smaller vertically, hold individual candles—a hundred in total, at least. The candles aren’t burning currently, as the glass windows and doors allow natural sunlight to flood the room.
“I like the marigolds,” I say as I catch a whiff of their musky odor.
“Oh.” Christina’s gaze follows mine to the vases on the staircase. “They’re not my favorite, but they grow like weeds here. We cut them every day to fill the vases, and they still blossom. Come, let’s see the living room.”
She guides me toward the plush sitting room behind the staircase. I turn to my left and right to view the symmetrical hallways lined with similarly tall glass windows. The left hallway is dark and ostensibly unused.
“What’s down there?” I ask.
“Rooms for the crew,” she says matter-of-factly. “There’s no need to visit that hallway.”
I make a mental note to visit the left hallway.
“How many bedrooms are there?”
“Thirty. One for each participant, and ten for the staff.”
“Am I the first, uh, participant?”
“The second to last, actually. Except for one participant, who gets in tomorrow due to a delayed flight, you’ll meet everyone tonight.” She eyes me up and down, with a hint of disdain. “After you freshen up.”
I glance at my coffee-stained tank top, ripped jeans, and ratty tennis shoes. A stark contrast to Christina, who is dressed to the nines: her silk button-down is tucked neatly into her nude pencil skirt, which is complemented by her nude sandals, which seem to blend in with her legs.
“Yeah, I do need a new shirt, don’t I?” I laugh.
Christina remains silent, her mouth one fine line.
“So.” I change the subject. “Where is everybody?” The mansion is too quiet for me to be one of the last arrivals.
“They’re in their rooms, getting ready. Now, this is my favorite,” Christina says, as we enter the living room. It’s enormous, like the rest of the house, and almost entirely white. White walls, white couches, white rugs. A white Christmas tree with white lights and white ornaments. Without the hardwood floors, gold light fixtures, and wooden coffee tables, the room would be less House Beautiful and more mental hospital ward. The only pop of color is the single vase of yellow marigolds on the coffee tables. The room still seems off, and I realize it’s because the three massive couches—they could fit twenty people, at least—aren’t angled toward a TV. Television, like phones and computers, is forbidden here. It’s “distracting,” not conducive to the “journey.”
Thankfully, the gargantuan kitchen to the left of the room tells me that food—good food, if the size of the kitchen is any indication—is a part of the journey. Behind the living room are rows of glass doors, which allow a full view of the infinity pool outside. Christina points to the couches.
“We start the journey in this room, and whenever we all meet together, it’s here. This is where you’ll meet everyone tonight. But of course,” she says, opening the back doors in an elaborate show, “this is the real reason the living room is my favorite.”
I take a step outside onto the twenty-foot-deep patio that leads to the pool, and I catch my breath at the view. The infinity pool bleeds into the ocean, creating an expanse of water all around us, the waves of the ocean glistening in the sunlight like diamonds. The patio, with interlocking earth-tone tiles, wraps around the left and right of the house, lengthening in size where the pool ends. A veranda sits to the right of the house; a gazebo, to the left. And marigolds, in all the colors of the sun, dot every available surface.
As we finish touring the backyard—more like a miniature golf course than a backyard—it’s impossible not to notice the numerous nooks and crannies. Seating arrangements, perfect for two, populate each niche. Christina occasionally points out a “talking room” where she and I will intermittently discuss my “progress.” A stipulation in the contract I had to sign.
As we circle back to the grand staircase to round out the tour, I steal one more glance at the hallway in the shadows.
6
Ann
Fifty-five minut
es until I need to be dressed and ready downstairs. I let the shower wash over me, ridding me of the travel debris and lingering worry. Adrenaline courses through me, exploding like tiny pop rocks off my chest. You’re fine, I tell myself. You’re going to be fine, and you’re going to find Reese.
I turn the water off, wipe my eyes, and open the shower door to step into my white-marble bathroom.
I scream.
I stumble, latching on to the nearby towel rack for support. There’s a small woman with a pink bowl cut and large, round eyeglasses—rose-rimmed glasses to match her rose-rimmed head—waiting patiently on my vanity stool, with various makeup items scattered around my bathroom sink. I snatch a towel from the rack to cover myself.
“Feel better?” she asks.
“Holy shit.” I try to catch my breath and cover my naked body at the same time. I scan my bedroom. Did I leave my door unlocked? That’s unlike me. “What are you doing in here?” I cry, when my heart finally returns to a more normal rhythm.
“Ze door vas open, and ve need to start your makeup,” she says with a foreign accent. Russian, maybe. “I’m Magda.”
Shit. I almost forgot about the makeup. Another stipulation in the retreat’s contract is all participants are given makeup and clothes. Two things I don’t put a lot of thought toward. I suppress a groan and a nasty remark.
“Ann,” I say through gritted teeth. “Let me just put on a T-shirt.”
“Be back in here in thirty seconds,” she says, tapping her watch. “Ve don’t have lot of time.”
“Should we set a timer?” I ask, before the rational part of my brain stops me. Magda shoots daggers at me with her eyes. I clear my throat, shift my weight. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Sometimes I can be . . . a little cross when I’m tired.” Or stressed, I add in my head.
Beneath the Marigolds Page 3