Beneath the Marigolds

by Emily C. Whitson

  “Of course,” she says. “She didn’t connect to anyone in particular. It’s unfortunate, but it occasionally happens. She didn’t seem too broken up about it, though. She was always in good spirits, and she made a lot of friends.”

  “Yeah, Reese could befriend just about anyone.” My voice cracks, just the tiniest bit, but I recover quickly. “So there wasn’t any guy she was particularly interested in?”

  “Not that I can recall.” Christina flicks her wrist to view her watch. “Well, I hate to end on this note, but I do need to see the next participant if we’re going to stay on schedule.”

  “Of course. Thank you for your time.”

  As I leave, I stand tall, my shoulders back. A voice screams in my head.

  That bitch is lying.

  15

  Reese

  As soon as I smacked that stupid smirk off his stupid face, I realized what I had done. It was like the fury kept my eyes veiled until my fist met his jaw. Then I saw clearly. This wasn’t Ann’s ex. Ann’s ex was back in Nashville, married. I saw his wife, still wearing a wedding band, not two weeks prior while shopping for produce in the grocery store.

  “What the hell was that for?” Ann’s doppelgänger-ex shouted as he held his face.

  “I—I’m so sorry,” I stuttered. I was aghast. Yes, I obviously had impulse-control issues, but violence usually wasn’t part of my repertoire. “I thought you were someone else.”

  In my peripheral vision, I saw a couple handlers start to approach me, but Christina stopped them with an outstretched arm. I felt a gentle cup of my elbow. Lamb. He looked at me with wide eyes.

  “Reese, what happened? Did he hurt you?”

  “Of course not!” The doppelgänger-ex yelled, garnering us even more attention. I could feel eyes on the back of my head.

  “I’m so sorry,” I repeated. I didn’t know what else to say. “I thought you were someone I knew back in Nashville. I realized my mistake as soon as I . . .” I gestured to his cut lip.

  “I’ve literally never been to Nashville. I’m from California. My name is Nick. Nick Keyser.”

  “Gosh, I’m so sorry. Can I get you some ice? A rag?” I reached for him, but he flinched at my proximity.

  “No, I think you’ve done enough.” He lifted his hand from his face, revealing an angry, red splotch of skin. Luckily his nose looked fine. It was just his lip that was bleeding.

  I took inventory of my surroundings. The other participants had gathered around us, forming a sort of prurient circle. Gaping mouths, bulging eyes. The ocean waves behind us broke the deafening silence. I inspected Lamb, who was still looking at me with those unbearably wide eyes.

  I wanted to disappear.

  “I’m going to call it a night,” I said.

  I didn’t wait for a response. I left in a hurry. I could feel eyes following me. The whispers crescendoed as I neared the Cinderella stairs. Lamb bounded after me.

  “Reese, wait—”

  I couldn’t stop. My face was on fire.

  “I just need a minute, Lamb.” My hands were shaking. I picked up the pace. I stepped on my sequin gown, heard the tear of fabric, the roll of my ankle. Great, I thought. Now Stephanie will hate me, too.

  “Reese, slow down. Talk to me.”

  I didn’t stop. I didn’t look back.

  “Nothing to talk about,” I called over my shoulder.

  When I reached my room, he grabbed my wrist. Forced me to make eye contact.

  “C’mon, Reese. Just slow down. Tell me what happened.” He seemed so desperate.

  After what seemed like ten minutes, I gave in. “Okay.”

  I drifted to the hotel-style bed while he shut my bedroom door. I buried my face in one of the pillows, closed my eyes to the scene that had just happened. I needed to block it out, just like all the other better-forgotten memories I kept in lockboxes deep inside my mind. Lamb rubbed my back. Gently, at first, but then more firmly.

  “Hey, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

  “It was worse than bad,” I said in a muffled cry. “It was humiliating.”

  “Okay, it was bad.” I felt Lamb’s muscles tense. “But it’s clear you made a mistake. Just don’t do anything like that again, and it’ll be all right.”

  He pried the pillow from my grasp. I stared at the smeared makeup on the fabric.

  “Do you want to tell me why you punched a guy you never met?”

  “I thought he was my friend’s ex.” I sighed. “He didn’t treat her as well as I would've liked, and I’ve always resented him for that. I haven’t seen him since she told me their story, but I’ve seen his wife plenty of times around town. I don’t know what came over me. It was like seeing him, even after all this time, brought back all this anger I didn’t know I had. Like, I never get angry for myself, but maybe I do, and I just store it, and it lies there dormant, simmering, just waiting to burst at the wrong moment.” I looked at him with tears in my eyes, pleading. “Does that make sense? That probably doesn’t make sense.”

  “I understand.” He rubbed my thumb with his. “I can get angry too.”

  “I’ve also . . .” I stared at my hands as I worked up the courage to tell him this next part. “I’ve also been under some stress lately. Some things happened before I came here that you should probably know about.”

  “What happened?” His hand roamed to my neck, massaging the skin. But then—and I’m not sure if I imagined this—his grip seemed to tighten.

  I grabbed his hand and put it in my lap. His eyes were heavy when they met mine—clouded with lust, or something else, I’m not sure.

  A knock came at my door. Christina popped her head in. Two of her handlers were in the shadows.

  “Lamb, would you give me a minute with Reese?”

  Lamb seemed like he might protest, but something about the look on Christina’s face stopped him, and he left the room.

  I was in trouble.

  16

  Ann

  I repeat the phrase in my head like a mantra as I trudge up the Cinderella stairs, back to my room.

  She’s lying.

  She’s lying.

  She’s lying.

  My footfalls become more pronounced with each repetition. It helps to drown out the chatter, splashes of water, and occasional squeals from the infinity pool outside, where the participants who are not on dates or talking with Christina have gathered. Glasses clink, champagne pops, more squeals. I hope these people ate something after their dates.

  I don’t feel like listening to the same stories over and over again tonight. I tell myself not to turn and look, but I can’t help it. The sun is going down, and everything is cloaked in gold. The furniture seems less white, the people less sunburned. A couple kisses on an outside couch—Basketball Blake and a gorgeous Latino woman. Chef Clay naps in another nook, mouth open and sunglasses on. Nick talks to two women, and both of them laugh and stroke his arm on cue. He must feel my stare, as he glances up at me and smiles. A timid but hopeful smile. I turn away and continue to march up the stairs. Don’t have time for that.

  When I reach my room, I slam the door and lock it. I sink to my knees, run my hands through the soft carpet, and lie facedown, letting the rug fibers tickle my cheeks. I’m so tired. The jet lag, my late-night activities, the exercise—it’s all catching up to me. I run through my conversation with Christina again. There’s no way Reese didn’t connect to someone in particular. In the ten years I’ve known her, Reese has always had a boyfriend. Some lasted longer than others, some only lasted a night. Okay, maybe boyfriend isn’t the right word. Lover? Romantic interest? Regardless of the terminology, Reese has always been linked to someone. And she’s not quiet about it either.

  Once, during a tearful dinner, Reese recounted the details of her latest breakup—a four-year relationship with a sleazy neighbor. The final straw had been that morning, when she found a treasure trove of naked photos of other women in his recent text messages. Reese was a wreck, hiccupping over her uneat
en pasta. Our waiter brushed Reese’s shoulder, telling her he’d help in any way he could, and she sat bolt upright. Her tears stopped flowing when she realized he had slipped her his number.

  The next day, Reese was back to her old self, giddy and drunk with lust.

  “I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love,” she trilled.

  She wasn’t in love. Of course she wasn’t. But she firmly believed it, and she was loyal to that waiter for about two weeks, like she’s loyal to all her lovers, until he left her for a younger, bouncier model. Now, I know I’m not painting Reese in the best light; she has her flaws like the rest of us, and her Achilles’ heel is her relationship status. She can’t stand to be single. Not to sound like every cliché ever written, but I always suspected it had something to do with her family. Her dad left, her mom and sister weren’t around. It’s only natural, in my opinion at least, to yearn for stability after a home like that.

  So that’s how I know Christina’s lying when she says Reese didn’t connect with anyone. Although it would be nice to have some actual, tangible proof. Maybe Ned has figured something out by now. I pick myself off the floor and shuffle to the closet to retrieve my phone. Rummaging in my purse, I find it. No new messages. No emails from Ned, either. Damnit. I’m about to hide my mobile when it vibrates in my hand. The screen lights up and displays Honey’s name. I’m not in the mood to discuss, again, how I shouldn’t be on this retreat, but then I realize she might have news about Reese.

  “Hey, let me call you back in one minute.”

  I hang up before she has time to respond. I know my door’s locked, but Magda must have a key, and I need to be cautious. I nudge the chest of drawers to the right of the entrance, but it’s heavier than I anticipated. I try again with gritted teeth, this time putting my back into it, and the chest finally budges, making a horrible moaning noise as it grinds against the hardwood floor. Nails on a chalkboard. I catch my breath once the chest is in its new position and pray no one heard the noise. Then I head to the water closet, close the door, and video-call Honey. I’d prefer a phone call, as it’s more efficient, but I know Honey prefers face-to-face interactions.

  She answers on the first ring. In a silk nightgown, she’s sitting at the marble island in her kitchen with a glass of red wine. It’s dark in the room, her hair is curled, and she has on fresh makeup. Her husband is nowhere in sight, which is how I prefer it—she knows better than to call me when he’s in the room.

  “Are you calling me from the toilet?” she laughs.

  “No.” I roll my eyes playfully. “Well, yes, I am, but I’m not using it. I can’t have my phone at the retreat, you know? So I’m trying not to get caught. What are you doing up? It’s—” I check my watch and add five hours to the time. “It’s eleven there, right?”

  “Yeah, but Kris couldn’t sleep. I finally got her to bed, but now I’m wide awake.”

  I never understood why Honey named her now three-year-old after her older sister. Kris senior was like a stain on Honey’s family—something to sweep under the rug and forget about. After she was sent to boarding school at a young age, she found trouble like it was her job. Drugs, shoplifting, cheating. Honey told me they stopped speaking when Kris left for school, after an incident involving her friend Bear, but I’ve always felt like Honey was holding something back. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a poor relationship with my family, but I imagine, under the most atrocious of circumstances, I’d be strong enough to sever ties. For Honey, I don’t think it’s ever been that simple.

  Bear is someone Honey and I don’t discuss. It’s just too painful. Sometimes, when I’m in that in-between stage of wakefulness and sleep, an image of him will come back to me, unbidden. Hair the color of cedar wood, the biggest dimples punctuating his cheeks. He was a childhood friend when Honey and I were around five. Bear was three years older, and he was technically Kris’s friend first, but it was easy to forget the age difference because of his small size. In fact, his stature is what gave him the name Bear. I can’t remember his real name. Marc, maybe. It’s funny how a single nickname can come to define a person. A complex human simplified into a one-syllable moniker.

  When it was nice out, especially in the summer, the four of us would spend hours playing in the creek behind Honey’s house, catching crawdads and playacting different characters in various pretend adventures. Bear was my first crush—he was everyone’s first crush—so there was usually a fight over who would be his damsel in distress for the day.

  I wasn’t there the day it happened. It was my mom’s birthday. It was the perfect day, just my mom, my dad, and I, the tight elastic band of the birthday hat under my chin, the cake icing coloring my teeth blue. A call interrupted our celebration. I remember how my mom’s face transformed as she held the phone to her ear. Her mouth turned down, the smile draining out of her eyes between stolen glances at me.

  Bear died in Honey’s creek that day. He was with Kris when it happened. Honey had gone inside to gather more supplies for their water adventure, and when she returned, Bear was lying on his back, unmoving, blood staining the water around his head. It was an accident, Kris had said. An unfortunate accident. He slipped and hit his head. Kris left for boarding school the next week, and ever since, I’ve wondered if there was more to the story than Kris let on.

  Tragedy can tether you to someone. Besides love, I think it’s the strongest bond there is. Honey and I were chained together from that day forward. Even when our interests diverged, even when we started occupying different social circles, we always found our way back to one another.

  “Sometimes I’m convinced that kid is a goblin,” Honey says between sips, interrupting my thoughts of the past. “A goblin that tore apart my labia and deepens my crow’s-feet on a regular basis.”

  Honey finishes her wine, twirls the stem of the glass in her fingers, and continues: “So now I’m trying to wind down. Thought I’d give you a call while I drink this glass. Or three.”

  “Oh,” I try to hide my disappointment, but it’s too late. “So no news about Reese?”

  “No,” Honey’s eyes droop. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up. I was just thinking about you and wondering how you were.”

  “I’m still alive, if that’s what you’re wondering.” There’s an edge to my tone that slips out.

  “Come on, Ann,” she pleads as she rotates her wedding ring. “You can’t blame me for worrying.”

  “Well, there’s nothing to worry about. I haven’t found anything tangible yet. Just suspicions.”

  Honey pours another glass—a heftier amount than normal. I study Honey’s face more closely. She’s more drunk than I first realized. Stressed.

  “Everything okay with you?” I ask.

  “Me? Oh, I’m fine. Just . . . we made a business investment, and it’s not working out as well as we’d hoped.”

  “Oh.” I’m surprised. I’ve never heard Honey mention financial troubles. Or any sort of work; Honey never needed a job. I’m proud of her for branching out, trying something new. I’ve always thought she seemed a bit restless being a stay-at-home mom with two full-time nannies.

  “Well, just remember to diversify, and the good will usually outweigh the bad.”

  “Yeah, little late for that,” she huffs. She takes another long sip of her wine, swallows, and sets her empty glass down on the island. She takes a deep breath. “But anyway. Back to you. Why are you suspicious?”

  “I think Christina—she’s the host of the retreat—is lying about Reese. Christina told me Reese didn’t have a connection here.”

  “And you think she did?”

  “Honey, it’s Reese. She always had—has—a connection.” I cringe at my use of the past tense. “You know she can’t go longer than forty-eight hours without a new interest.”

  Honey evades my gaze, runs her palm across the smooth marble. The momentary wave of relief I felt at Honey’s interest starts to recede. I shouldn’t have confided in Honey; she thinks what
I’m doing is insane. That I’m insane.

  “You know Reese,” I plead. “You know she would have fawned over someone. Told everyone about it.”

  Honey nods, but she still doesn’t make eye contact.

  “I’m not crazy, Honey. I know something happened here.”

  “I know.” She rubs an eyebrow. “If you find out anything else about Christina or Reese, let me know. I’ll pick you up, call the police. Whatever you want.”

  I know she’s placating me, saying the words I want to hear. I can’t bear to be the recipient of her pity any longer.

  “Honey, I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait—”

  I hang up. Knock my head against the bathroom wall.

  No more confiding in Honey. I can’t let her or anyone else make me question myself or hinder my search for my friend. I know something happened here. I just need more information, that’s all. I need to keep digging.

  I’m not crazy.

  I’m not crazy.

  I’m not crazy.

  I tell myself this repeatedly, like I used to do when I was a child, when I would check the lock three times before I went to sleep. Or when I would check my math problems, three times each.

  “I just have to be sure. I just have to be sure,” I begged my mother. I cried one night, big fat tears, when she wouldn’t let me check the back door for a third and final time. She held me for a while, combing my hair with her hand as I pounded her with my tiny fists.

  “I just have to be sure.”

  17

  Ann

  I need a break. I’ve been socializing for a few hours now, and the cocktail party is winding down. I’ve done my part, anyway. Talked to all the men. Well, almost all the men. Not Nick. I’ve been avoiding him like the plague.