Beneath the Marigolds

by Emily C. Whitson

  8

  Ann

  My heart drums in my ears as I lie in bed, eyes wide open. A sliver of moonlight escapes through drawn curtains, highlighting the closed bedroom door. The down comforter and silk sheets feel like a straitjacket strapping me in place until I’m sure the house is asleep.

  At 2:03 a.m. I rise, tiptoeing across the plush white carpet that borders the bed. After what seems like a mile, my bare feet make contact with the cool hardwood. I press my ear to the door, listen for any movement. When there isn’t any, I reach for the door handle and turn it gently until opens. The house is dark and still as I creep toward the Cinderella stairs.

  Adrenaline propels me forward, keeping me alert despite the long trip and exhausting first night. I was introduced to nine of the men in a round-robin meet-and-greet. Thirty minutes or so for each participant, like a revolving door, trains on a track. The details were different, but each man was the same—attractive, successful. Put together, for the most part. I had to come up with nicknames to remember them all. There was Richie Rich, an investment banker from New York who oozed hair gel and self-adulation. Doctor Dermot, a neurosurgeon from Houston with sharp angles and a thin scar that bisected his right eyebrow. Peach Pay Patrick, a Californian and one of the principal engineers behind the lucrative mobile payment service Peach Pay.

  I caught a second wind with Basketball Blake, who used his thirty minutes to take me to the outside basketball court and jump over me—while I was in heels, no less—to dunk the ball. He flashed me the biggest, whitest smile, punctuated by two deep dimples, when I yelped and covered my head with my arms.

  After Blake, there was Chef Clay, a reserved, soft-spoken man with cherubic cheeks and blond curls. Guitar Guy, a husky man from Macon, Georgia, who serenaded me with a mediocre rendition of Hank Williams’s “Hey, Good Lookin’.” Poker Paul, a professional gambler who showed no facial expression whatsoever. Marketing Matt, a delicate man from Atlanta. I stared at his glistening lips as he discussed his marketing career, and in my run-down state, I asked him if he was wearing makeup. He chuckled and dismissed my comment as a joke, but I was serious: I think I even saw a hint of foundation under his chin.

  And then, my night ended with Turnt Teddy. He was not put together. More like a big, drunken Teddy Bear. Aided by the open bar, many people became looser as the night progressed, but none as much as Teddy. He went in to embrace me, but since I’m not much of a hugger, or touchy-feely in general, I ducked. He stumbled, toppling over on the floor and spilling his drink all over his untucked, unbuttoned shirt. His glass shattered on the floor, breaking into a hundred tiny pieces. He laughed like a hyena as the handlers escorted him to his room.

  It was all so draining, trying to remember everyone while maintaining a plastered smile and combing through every detail in their words and in the surroundings for clues about Reese. And I haven’t even met the tenth and final man yet, who couldn’t arrive in time due to a delayed flight. Or any of the women, properly, even though they were downstairs with me all night.

  And now, instead of recharging my batteries, I’m downstairs once again. Creeping on my toes, stealing furtive glances over my shoulder in the quiet hallway to the left of the mansion entrance. I had tried to investigate the off-limits area earlier, but handlers were everywhere, guarding each room. I wandered toward the restricted section anyway, between my time with Chef Clay and Guitar Guy, inquiring about a bathroom, and a handler shuffled me out quickly—back to the very visible restroom off the foyer.

  “Oops, guess I didn’t see that.” I chuckled.

  The handler kept a straight face. “Well, now you know.”

  So I’m back here now, in the dead of night, trying to find some trace of Reese. It’s probably nothing, but something about the area lures me, whispering to take a closer peek. It smells different from the rest of the mansion—musty instead of perfumed. My heart picks up the pace as I approach the first of four doors and turn the knob. To my surprise, it’s unlocked. I open the door carefully, slowly, holding my breath. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I can make out two twin beds. A round child with a bowl cut sleeps on the left, while a gangly teenager occupies the right. My heart goes into overdrive, thrashing against my rib cage like a drummer. Is Christina hiding children?

  No, no. It can’t be. Why would she leave the door unlocked? I peer closer, until I realize the children are not children at all.

  It’s Magda and Stephanie.

  I exhale sharply, steadying my heart with a hand on my chest. Just the makeup artist and the stylist. That’s all.

  I close the door, praying they don’t wake. I almost skip the second door when I hear the snores. But then, what if it’s a trick? So I check, and sure enough, two twin beds, with a handler in each, their enormous limbs spilling off the edges of the mattresses.

  I crack the third door. Just as the light reveals two twin beds and two sleeping handlers, the door hinges squeak. Loudly. The handler on the left—the one with the eye tattoo—sits up.

  “What?” he yells.

  My feet are frozen. My mouth glued shut.

  “Get the watermelon, Jacky boy,” he mumbles. His shoulders sink, and he lies back down, his head lolling to the side. The handler to his right wheezes softly, immune to his roommate’s sleep-talking. Feeling returns to my legs, breath returns to my ribcage, and I move to the final door.

  The rational part of me, the risk-averse part, screams to go back upstairs. It’s just rooms for the crew, like Christina said. But I have to be absolutely positive. I have to check. So I push open the door at the very end of the hallway.

  My heart sinks as I take in the contents of the room.

  It’s just a closet. A regular, good-for-nothing broom closet.

  Great detective work, Ann. You’ve discovered the cleaning supplies.

  I continue to curse myself as I close the door and mentally prepare—finally—for sleep.

  And then, a creak in the floorboards behind me. A voice.

  “What are you doing?”

  My stomach drops.

  9

  Ann

  I whip around to face the voice and gasp.

  In an instant, I’m back in college, telling a boy with glassy eyes and a lopsided grin to keep the music down. I blink once, twice, three times. It’s not him—it can’t be. But the resemblance to my ex is uncanny.

  “Are you all right?” My ghost-of-boyfriend-past whispers, his brow crinkling.

  “Sorry.” I close my eyes and shake off the déjà vu. “You look exactly like someone I know.”

  “Oh yeah?” He smiles—that same, adorable crooked smile—and my knees buckle. “He better have been damn good-looking then.”

  I know I should laugh, act normal, but I can’t stop staring at him. His grin fades, and he shifts his weight.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I, uh,” I stammer, my gaze pinballing across the hallway for answers. Think fast, Ann. “I think I was sleepwalking. I do that sometimes. I’m not entirely sure where I am right now.”

  “Well, how about I get you a glass of water, and then we can find your room?”

  I nod, and he waves toward the kitchen, leading me with his hand on the small of my back. My skin tingles at his touch, and I say something—anything—to distract myself.

  “I’m Ann.”

  “Nick.”

  And then it dawns on me.

  “Oh, you’re the final participant, aren’t you? The one whose flight was delayed?”

  “That’s me,” he beams as he ushers me into the kitchen, toward the island and surrounding stools. He pulls out the closest one and gestures for me to sit. I climb up, and the cool metal sends a jolt through me. He takes off his jacket and tosses it on the stool next to mine before heading to the cabinets. The moonlight through the window illuminates Nick’s broad shoulders, the sculpted muscles beneath his thin V-neck. I cross my legs and force myself to inspect the room while he fills two glasses with water from the tap.


  The kitchen resembles most of the other rooms in the mansion. Enormous, immaculate, with hardwood floors and white-marble countertops. Delicate gold light fixtures hang from the ceiling, and the only pop of color in the sea of white is the single vase of yellow marigolds in the middle of the island.

  “So when did you get in?”

  “About an hour ago,” he says over his shoulder as he turns off the tap. “Christina let me in, and then I spent some time unpacking. Showering.”

  His fingers brush mine as he hands me a glass of water. I take a sip, hoping to cool the blood that rushes to my face. Then I take another sip, and another, and another, until the glass is drained.

  “Here, let me refill that for you,” Nick laughs as he takes my glass and returns to the sink.

  “Thanks.” I blush. “Guess I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. You know, you’re the first guy who’s offered me a glass of water.”

  All night, I had to bat off dozens of glasses of champagne, wine, liquor—blocking them like tennis shots from a ball machine in overdrive. After a while, I got so fed up that I pulled the bartender aside and asked him if he’d pour me a soda water with lime—a drink that looked alcoholic. The bartender’s eyes softened, and he cupped my elbow.

  “I got you,” he said.

  I spent the rest of the night nursing that one drink, and I forgot to refill.

  “Sounds like the other guys don’t stand a chance,” Nick says as he leans against the counter, a smile tugging at his lip.

  “No, I guess not.”

  He peers at me for a long while, his deep-set blue eyes boring into mine. I squeeze my legs tighter, avert my gaze.

  “You hungry?” he says as he opens the fridge. “Christina said to grab anything.”

  “Actually, yes. I just remembered we didn’t eat dinner.” I jerk my head back at the realization, wondering how I could have missed that. With my thoughts consumed with finding Reese, I’ve been missing a lot lately. The anxiety has also made it hard to digest anything. But no dinner is strange. Do we skip it every night, or was tonight an oversight? No wonder Turnt Teddy got so tipsy—he was drinking on an empty stomach.

  “Looks like we have pizza and salad,” Nick says. “What’ll it be?”

  Neither sounds appetizing. He might as well have said, Cardboard or cardboard? But I need food.

  “Pizza.”

  “That’s what I was thinking too,” Nick says as he extracts a plate of pizza wrapped neatly in cellophane. His eyes keep darting back to me as he removes the plastic wrap, like he’s finally solved a riddle.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he smiles. “I just have a feeling I’m going to like you.”

  10

  Reese

  I was so stinking happy before my first one-on-one date. Humming-showtunes, ponytail-swishing, spring-in-my-step happy.

  And it was all because of Lamb Martin. Ah, and what a lamb he was, opening doors for me, protecting my poor bare feet from broken glass, always making sure I was comfortable. He was so gentle. But he wasn’t gentle in the bedroom. (Or in our case, a broom closet. Ha!) No, in the matter of the birds and the bees, Lamb was like a sailor on leave, pounding the wall, knocking the cleaning supplies left and right. It’s hard to find a considerate man who still knows how to properly tend to a woman.

  I know, I know. I was supposed to be “good” and “mature” at first. I wasn’t supposed to sleep with someone on the first night. But in my defense, I had made sure our personalities and life goals aligned, like I promised myself, so I gave myself a pass. And trust me, it was worth the pass.

  As I waited for our first official date to begin, rocking on my heels outside the mansion, I daydreamed about our second encounter. Would we coalesce in a closet again? Or would we move to a more open space, like the beach? Perhaps we’d sneak off into the ocean, where the waves would muffle our cries. The possibilities were endless.

  The temperature was perfect that day. Seventy degrees, if I had to guess. I lifted my face to the sun, letting the rays kiss my skin, and I inhaled the salt air that was tinged with traces of fresh flowers. Marigolds, specifically. It was a good omen, I had decided, that the retreat was teeming with my favorite blossom. Lamb bounded outside while I was basking, a Ken-doll smile plastered on his face. He picked me up, twirled me around, and kissed me promptly on the mouth. He tasted like peppermint, and I drank him in like the sun. I was about to kiss him again—a proper kiss—when I noticed Henry lurking at the front door. He was accompanying us on our date that day, a radio to the mansion in hand, just in case we needed something. His multicolored eyes, partially covered by his bangs, were fixed on me. I tried to break the tension.

  “Hey, Henry,” I said with a smile.

  He crossed his arms and remained silent.

  I’ll admit, his presence was a bit of a buzzkill.

  “You ready for our picnic on the beach?” Lamb asked, swinging my arms playfully.

  I was so ready. What a romantic first date. The picnic was set up about a half mile from the mansion, give or take, so we had some privacy, Henry aside. Christina had offered to have a handler drive us there, but I insisted we walk. How often was I able to stroll on the beach on a first date? Not often—after all, Tennessee is landlocked. I walked barefoot, of course. The sand was warm but not too warm. In this weather, what kind of a lunatic walks on a beach with shoes on?

  The answer: Henry.

  He stayed a good distance behind us, looking grumpy, picking up his feet like a man stuck in three feet of snow. I tried to ignore him. Ever since I could remember, I was a focus-on-the-positive girl. I don’t know if I was overcompensating because there was no happiness in my childhood home, but my theory was: if you act happy, then you will be happy. Stuff those negative thoughts at the foot of the bed—they can’t reach you there!

  And anyway, there was simply too much to be excited about. Our walk was brimming with beauty and exotic wildlife. Lamb and I were like children in a zoo, pointing to creatures like our lives depended on it. Dolphins! Baby turtles! A bird with a banana-sized beak! Oh, wait, watch out for the jellyfish. Yep, don’t step there.

  The walk also gave me ample time to learn more about sweet, angelic Lamb. I learned he was a painter (a creative soul, like me). He was from Watercolor, Florida (a fitting birthplace for an artist). He had two older sisters (explained his gentleness). Never been married, but two very serious relationships that came close. (Perfect answer. Perfect match for me.)

  Now, I know these types of questions are typically asked before sex, but, as I’ve mentioned, I wasn’t a big rule-follower. Plus, I didn’t like to answer the same questions—at least not at first. Where is my sister now? Let’s just say she’s up north. Are my parents still together? Literally never met my dad. What do you do for work? Is that our picnic blanket, up ahead?

  Stuff, stuff, stuff to the edge of the bed.

  Our picnic blanket—white, of course—was set up in the shade of a palm tree. I was starting to get a little toasty by that point, so that was fine by me. Lamb smoothed the wrinkles out of the blanket, brushing off some windblown sand. He patted the blanket twice, indicating I should sit, and he held my hand as I plopped down. Once I was situated, he sat down too.

  “Well, should I see what’s inside?” I asked, gesturing to the white wicker picnic basket on the corner of the blanket.

  “Yes, please.”

  As I reached inside, I imagined eating ripe grapes off the vine, sampling various cheeses, a warm baguette that melted in your mouth like butter. It was lunchtime, I had skipped breakfast, and my mouth salivated at the possibilities. But there was only champagne. The surprise must have shown on my face.

  “What’s wrong?” Lamb asked.

  “There’s no food in here.”

  Lamb’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “Hey, Henry,” he called. Henry was still wading through the sand, his scowl deepening with each step. In his defense, his skin had changed from the color of cauliflow
er to the color of a tomato. “There’s no food here.”

  “You don’t eat on dates,” Henry called back. “Just drink.”

  Lamb and I exchanged confused glances.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because,” Henry wheezed as he closed the distance between us, kicking sand into our laps and onto the picnic blanket like a red-faced toddler, “Miss Christina wants you to focus on each other, not on food. You can eat when you return to the mansion, in a couple hours.”

  “We’re going to starve by then,” Lamb said. (A bit dramatic, I’ll admit.)

  “Eat a bigger breakfast from now on.” Henry shrugged.

  “Well, at least we have champagne,” Lamb said as he reached for the beverage. He aimed the bottle away from me as he uncorked it, creating a loud pop and a small explosion of fizzy liquid that bubbled onto the sand. Lamb laughed at this, and he grabbed a glass to catch some of the champagne.

  “Ma dear,” he said as he offered it to me.

  This was always my least favorite part of first dates—the tricky alcohol situation. Would my date be okay with my refusal of a drink? Would he be insulted? Uncomfortable? Too curious?

  “I’m okay.” I brushed away the glass with a polite wave. I really wished there had also been a bottle of water in that basket. “Thank you, though.”

  “C’mon. Don’t make me drink alone,” Lamb pleaded.

  “No, I’m good, but thank you.”

  “It’s already paid for,” Henry said. He had started to give us space again, but he returned at this juncture.