Beneath the Marigolds

by Emily C. Whitson

  She exaggerates a sigh. “Just hurry.”

  I nod and head into my room. Like the downstairs of the mansion, it’s an explosion of white. White walls, white carpet, white furniture. Like someone doused the area in bleach. Atop the Hummer-sized bed is a beautiful, emerald-green gown. I tiptoe closer, careful not to drip on it. I inspect the tag and let out a small gasp. Jesus Christ, it’s Hervé Léger. I only know this because it’s one of Honey’s favorite designers. Are we wearing designer every night?

  “Hey,” I yell to Magda. “If I mess up this dress, do I have to pay for it? I’m not the most graceful.”

  “Yes.” A woman with wispy, waist-length silver hair slithers into my room. Despite her hair coloring and slender frame, she can’t be much older than Christina. Forty at the most.

  “Jesus.” I clutch the towel I’ve wrapped around my still-dripping body. “Doesn’t anyone knock around here?”

  “Don’t leesten to Stephanie,” Magda calls from the bathroom. “If you spill sometheeng, you spill sometheeng. Accidents happen.”

  “As your stylist,” the woman in front of me says in a clipped tone, “I’ll be very upset if there’s even a thread loose on that gown. Be careful. Now, let’s go. We don’t have all night.”

  I give her an I’ll-go-at-my-own-pace glance as I grab some underwear from my suitcase. I turn around, expecting Stephanie to offer some privacy. She doesn’t, so like a girl at camp, I pull on my underwear underneath my towel. I’m about to clasp on my strapless bra when Stephanie yanks both my towel and bra out of my hands. For a clothes hanger, she has a surprising amount of strength.

  “No bra with this dress.”

  Shocked, I hold my chest with both arms.

  “Bend your head over, and I will wrap.”

  I flip my hair, and she coils the towel over my damp waves. She reaches for the dress next, unzipping it quickly and nimbly. She holds it up to me and sighs when I remain immobile.

  “Turn around then, if you’re so embarrassed.”

  I do as she says, but I keep my breasts covered until the gown has a chance to take over. Despite the curtains that cover the windows, I now have the nagging feeling that someone, somewhere, is watching.

  I turn around once she’s zipped the back of my dress, and Stephanie smiles for the first time since I’ve met her.

  “Beautiful.”

  She bends over to pick up the hem of my dress as she shuffles me to the bathroom.

  Magda sits on the vanity stool filing her nails, leaning back, her legs crossed on the countertop.

  “Finally.” She sighs, rolling her eyes. She stands up and points to the stool. I sit, and without a moment to spare, Stephanie and Magda throw a towel over my gown and get to work on their respective tasks. The two make an odd pair: Stephanie is as tall and slender as Magda is short and plump.

  While Magda applies the first layer of foundation, Stephanie attempts to slip my feet into nude pumps.

  “I can do that.” I reach for the shoes, but Stephanie slaps my hand away. Magda clenches my neck, careful not to touch the newly applied mask.

  “Stay still,” they reply in unison.

  I acquiesce and sit back, massaging my neck where Magda tightened her grip.

  As Stephanie unwraps my hair and starts the styling process, I analyze myself in the mirror for the first time in twenty-four hours. I must admit the gown looks nice; its color accentuates the green in my eyes.

  I’m more attractive than your plain Jane, I’ll go ahead and admit that. I don’t say that to sound conceited; it’s just a fact. I see the way men look at me, and the way their girlfriends look at them. At one point in my life, I took pride in it. It’s hard not to relish that kind of attention, to bask in being admired. But after I got sober, once my priorities shifted, it wasn’t so advantageous. When you’re going to AA meetings, in genuine need of a friend, the last thing you want is to be hit on. Countless times, men at meetings would feign interest in my struggle only to then turn around and ask if I’d like to continue discussing the steps at their place, say, nine o’clock? I know beautiful women don’t garner a lot of sympathy—and they shouldn’t—but can you imagine being at your most vulnerable, raw with grief, and at the first spark of hope that you’ve connected with another person who might understand what you’re going through, you realize: Oh wait. They don’t give a shit about me. It’s one of the reasons I eventually stopped going to AA and relied on Reese to help me stay on the wagon.

  Trying to prove myself in the workplace was equally tough. Typically, male associates with the same GPA and the same experience received the benefit of the doubt, the first shot at a deal. Or, on the flip side, I was given a shot over someone more qualified, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was because of the way I looked. So I worked like a maniac to prove myself. And over time, it just became easier to tie my hair back and keep my face bare.

  So this new woman in the mirror, with this mask of makeup, I hardly recognize. Or perhaps I do, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen her.

  “You like?” Magda asks, after forty-four minutes, three layers of foundation, and what appears to be an entire bag of glitter on my eyes.

  “Totally,” I lie. I look like a clown. But I’m playing a character here, so I might as well look the part. “Am I ready?”

  “You’re ready,” they say in unison.

  I gather my gown, head for the Cinderella staircase, and prepare myself to meet the others. Time to figure out what the hell happened to Reese.

  7

  Reese

  I won’t lie: I did not enjoy the dress that first night.

  I prefer more billowy clothing: boho skirts, maxi dresses, peasant blouses. Clothing that flows with me, that allows me to easily eat, dance, make love. The fun things in life. But I was vacationing on a tropical island with ten single men, so I could hardly complain about the attire. Even if Christina’s insistence on dressing me was odd.

  Weirdness and chest constrictions aside, the dress was beautiful. I thought about Ann’s friend Honey when I saw it. The gown, like the whole retreat, was very chic. Like her. That woman has never looked unkempt a day in her life. Even though I’m not a huge fan—and that is rare for me, not instantly liking people—she isn’t all bad, I guess. She has a soft spot for Ann. Like me, Honey was always setting Ann up with various men, encouraging her to get out there and meet someone. Once, during the one and only Bachelor (or maybe it’s The Bachelor?) viewing at my apartment, we forced Ann to recount every detail of her last date, ribbing her at the same sappy parts. Ann seemed happy then, genuinely happy, and for a moment I could forget Honey’s not-so-subtle jabs at my living arrangements and alternative lifestyle.

  In a way, the retreat reminded me of the reality show. The types of dates, juggling multiple relationships, the goal of engagement at the end.

  “Welcome, everyone, to Last Chance: a novel, first-of-its-kind retreat for building successful, long-lasting relationships.”

  Christina clinked her glass and began her first speech of the retreat on the Cinderella steps, looking down on all the participants in the living room. She was directly under the chandelier, which cast a halo around her white-blonde head and put the rest of us in shadow. She held her champagne glass with a steady, manicured hand.

  “My name is Christina, and I’m the owner and hostess of the retreat. This is where we’ll reconvene every night at seven p.m. sharp, once the sun goes down, unless otherwise stated. You all have been selected very carefully, based on your compatibility with each other, and over the next thirty days, you’ll get to know everyone on both one-on-one and group dates. I’ll be here to offer advice, discuss your progress, and encourage fruitful conversations that will prepare you for life outside of paradise.”

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Christina talked quite a bit that first night. I was too busy scoping out the men and women to give her my full attention. Mostly the men. It was amazing how beautiful everyone was. Now, I know I wasn’t the b
est judge, as I thought most things were beautiful, but these participants were objectively attractive. More than attractive. Gorgeous. The kind of beauty that makes the eyes of cartoon characters pop out of their head. The beautiful people you see in magazines. The people who, when they pass by, make you stop and nudge your friend: Did you see him?

  Maybe that’s why Christina droned on. She knew the participants would go crazy over one another, so she upped the anticipation. If that’s the case, it worked. The excitement in the room was like the static in the air before lightning strikes. My hair stood on end. My skin buzzed. A soft hum filled my ears.

  I had my eye on one man in particular. A man with broad shoulders and shoulder-length shaggy blond hair. His nose seemed to have been broken before, but it gave him an edge. A likeable flaw. Like me, he had seen the dark underbelly of society and come out on top.

  He returned my gaze with the same intensity. The same—dare I say it?—twinkle in the eye. But I couldn’t get ahead of myself. I needed to stay sharp, rational. I would only pursue him if our personalities and life goals aligned.

  “Tonight you will speak to each participant for thirty minutes,” Christina continued. I did the math in my head: between ten women and ten men, that was a five-hour night. Not bad, especially since I was told the first night would run until dawn and I likely would be too giddy to sleep anyway.

  “We won’t use a timer,” Christina continued, “So it’ll be an unofficial round robin of sorts. It’s up to you to make sure you’ve spoken to everyone. At the end of the night, you’ll talk to me for about thirty minutes, to let me know how you’re doing, and you’ll write down your top three choices for your one-on-one date tomorrow. My staff and I will match accordingly. And the bar is open, so help yourselves.”

  Most people smiled at that. Some whooped, clapped, or raised glasses. Christina let the words sink in, pausing for dramatic emphasis. Then her lips curled to one side, and like Elizabeth Banks in The Hunger Games, she declared:

  “Let the games begin.”

  I ended up talking to three other men before meeting the handsome blond. There was a tipsy, very Southern man with a five-o’clock shadow. A tall, gorgeous black man. A smart yet surprisingly sensitive engineer. I don’t remember too many details—it was mostly small talk before the blond tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Do you want to go outside, maybe go for a walk on the beach?” I asked. I was already missing the sand and the ocean, and I believed I could be more levelheaded with fresh air.

  “Of course,” he said with a grin. He grabbed my hand, interlocking my fingers in his, and I couldn’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline at the touch.

  The sun was long gone by that point, so the patio and infinity pool were shrouded in a hazy, golden aura of artificial light. The crickets chirped. The waves lapped in the distance.

  “What’s your name?” he asked as we neared the spot where the patio met the beach. I took my shoes off before answering, dropping his hand so I could use his shoulder for support. He held the small of my back to steady me. He smelled of whiskey with traces of aftershave.

  “Reese Marigold. You?”

  “Lamb Martin.”

  He held out his hand officially. I took it and went in for my normal kiss-on-the-cheek greeting, but he moved his mouth at the last second, and suddenly my lips were on his. So much for taking it slow, Reese.

  I jerked back quickly, muttering an apology.

  “That’s okay.” He grinned. “I think I prefer that more than a handshake anyway.”

  I could feel my cheeks warming. I needed to get back on track. Get to know him, go at a normal pace. Do what Ann would do. We bantered nervously for several minutes, but then we seemed to get a handle on our butterflies, and the conversation deepened.

  “So, how does one get a name like Lamb?” I swung his hand as we walked. I loved how the sand molded to my feet, and the lingering warmth of the grains from the day’s sunshine.

  “Very religious parents. The kind who think chocolate, tank tops, and sex for pleasure are sins.” His cheeks were cherry red, and I could feel mine turning a similar color. He was even better-looking up close. “We aren’t tight-knit, for obvious reasons.”

  A man who wasn’t close to his crazy family. That, I could relate to.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Your parents like candy?”

  “Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups?” I laughed. “You know, my mom did tell me I was sweet as chocolate, on one of her good days. I think she just liked the sound of Reese. Not a lot of thought went into my birth. It was definitely an accident.”

  That wasn’t the whole truth. My mother was severely depressed when I arrived. She said it was postpartum, but I think it had more to do with the fact that my dad had just left her, and now she had two unwelcome children with two different, absent fathers, and she couldn’t even care for herself. She hadn’t thought of a name for me, hadn’t thought of any next steps, and so when the nurse asked what she would call me, my mother looked outside at the nurses’ station until her eyes found a bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups on the counter and decided Reese was a good-enough name. That’s how little thought went into the matter.

  I couldn’t tell Lamb, of course. It was too depressing, and we had just met.

  “Sometimes I wish that had been my story,” he replied. “There was too much planning around my birth. Too many dreams and rules pinned on me. Do you know how hard it is to live up to Bible-belt, born-again Baptists’ expectations? It’s like they expect you to be the second coming of Christ.”

  “Religion wasn’t a big part of my childhood,” I admitted. Or really any planned social gathering.

  “Lucky you.”

  I nodded, but in actuality, I thought about how nice it’d be to have parents who cared about me that much. I felt my mood shift with each sunken footstep in the sand. I changed the subject, determined to stay positive and bubbling in this short-lived paradise.

  “So, what’s your story? Why are you on this retreat?”

  He chuckled. “How honest are we getting here?”

  “As honest as you like.”

  He seemed to choose his next words carefully, debating how much to say. “Well, to tell you the truth, I have a terrible habit of picking unavailable women. Women who are physically there but emotionally somewhere else. Partners who aren’t good for me. So I decided to try something different. At a singles’ retreat, everyone agrees the end goal is a stable, long-lasting relationship.”

  I stopped moving. We had double-backed toward the mansion since our thirty minutes were almost up, but I wasn’t ready to go inside yet. Mostly because it was as if this man was inside my head, speaking from my own experiences. I wondered if he was too good to be true. Could I have chemistry with a man who was actually good for me?

  There was a shattering of glass.

  Lamb’s brows furrowed, and his gaze ping-ponged from me to the noise.

  “Should we make sure everything’s all right?”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  Just before we reached the patio, Lamb thrust his arm out.

  “Wait—it sounded like glass. Put your shoes back on just in case.”

  “Oh right.” I used him once more to steady myself. I slipped my sandals on, my eyes darting from my feet to the handlers swarming near the infinity pool.

  “Okay,” I muttered as I finished.

  When we got closer, we could see the remnants of a broken cocktail glass on the floor. One of the participants was swaying, his shirt untucked. He was the first participant I had talked to that night—Theo. Or Tom, maybe. It started with a T. (I really should have paid more attention.) A handler reached for the participant’s arm, but Theo-slash-Tom jerked away at his touch.

  “Get offa me,” he slurred.

  All the other participants were staring, and Christina was visibly shaken.

  “It’s all right, everyone,” she said. “Let’s focus on the task tonight, and we’ll take him to sleep
it off.”

  “He didn’t seem that drunk when I talked to him an hour ago,” a girl with a pixie cut whispered to a participant in front of me, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. I recall T-something being a little sloshed, but not at this level.

  My first instinct was to help him, but the handlers and Christina shooed me away.

  “We’ve got it,” one of them yelled.

  I didn’t know what to do, so I stood there awkwardly. I didn’t realize Lamb was still there until he reached for my hand.

  “I know our thirty minutes are up, but I don’t think anyone is paying attention.” He gestured to a seat tucked away in a secluded part of the patio. “Wanna go sit over there and talk?”

  I was still thinking about T-something as Lamb shepherded me to the spot he had in mind. “Do you think he’ll be okay?” I asked.

  “I think he’ll be just fine.” Lamb’s smile was warm and reassuring. “He just needs to lie down.” He started massaging the inside of my wrist with his thumb, and my worries started to dissolve again. Something about the salt air, the waves of the ocean, and Lamb’s presence were so calming. He inched closer to me, his eyes hooded with longing. I told myself to cut it out, to not do what I always do. But despite my best intentions, I found myself praying he would kiss me. Really kiss me.

  “I know this is soon,” he said, his voice hoarse, “but I feel like I was meant to meet you here. Does that seem silly?”

  I shook my head. “No, that doesn’t seem silly.” My voice was barely above a whisper.

  He closed the gap between us, and when his mouth met mine, everything else seemed to slip away. After a few moments, Lamb broke contact and nodded toward the house. I didn’t want him to stop.

  “C’mon. I know somewhere more private.”

  I had told myself I wouldn’t do anything like this on the first night. I needed to take it slow and all that, but surely our connection was worth an exception? He was kind and stable and interested in a long-lasting relationship. So I followed him, away from the crowd, toward the front hallway—the one to the left when you entered the mansion. It was dark and unoccupied and just big enough for the two of us. Our footsteps became more hurried as we tried—and failed—to open each locked door. Finally, the door at the very end opened—a soft click—and we laughed between kisses as we went inside.