Beneath the Marigolds

by Emily C. Whitson

  “Okay. Well, if you hear from her, or if you think of anything else, would you mind giving me a call?” I handed her my business card, and Lily stared at it with suspicion. She crumpled it in her fist and nodded. Her eyes followed me as I headed back toward my car.

  “She liked ta dance,” Lily called. I leaned on the driver’s door and faced her. “She was always dancin’ when I found ’er. Never took that damn tutu off.”

  I could feel a stinging at the back of my eyes, so I just nodded. I waited until I was a mile away before I pulled over to the side of the road and rested my head on the steering wheel. I let the tears fall then. Big, fat tears that pooled in my lap. I hadn’t cried in ten years, not since my parents died, and it was like I was making up for lost time.

  I cried for a lot of things that day. I cried because Reese was gone, of course, but it was more than that. I cried for her childhood. Her career cut short. Her financial issues. But mostly, I think, I cried because she hadn’t told me about any of it. I had thought we were close enough that she would tell me if she was in trouble, but clearly I was wrong.

  The secrets hurt. Perhaps that’s why I am so focused on the retreat. If something terrible happened to her here, then she hasn’t abandoned me. But maybe I am being stupid. Yes, there are signs that point to foul play, but there are also a hell of a lot of signs that point to Reese running. Perhaps she is safe and sound somewhere, trying to get away from her demons, trying to start over. Without me.

  25

  Reese

  The tune Luca’s friend hummed was still worming its way into my head as I went downstairs. I opened the door to the kitchen, but as was my luck, it was empty. I must have been up in my room longer than I thought. I was about to turn around, search elsewhere, when a man with dark olive skin in an apron pushed open the swinging door that connected the back of the kitchen to the sitting area.

  It took me a minute to realize what I was seeing. It was so out of context, and it had been so long since I’d seen him in the flesh. His dark, curly hair had grown out, and the years had etched new lines onto his face, but it was unmistakably him. Luca.

  A lot of thoughts ran through my head at that moment. The first was a memory: the last time I saw him. It was right after I had finished performing my part in A Christmas Bell. Luca and I had had a row, right before the show started. He had thought I was cheating on him (I wasn’t), and for whatever reason, my performance set him off. He grabbed my hair and slammed my head into a wall so hard I saw stars. Someone yanked him off of me—another performer, maybe, or security.

  He apologized profusely after that (don’t they all?), but I didn’t stick around to hear it. Ann helped me get an order of protection, and Luca was smart enough to keep his distance after that. His last message to me was that he was moving to L.A. There was a restaurant opening he couldn’t pass up, and he decided it was the perfect chance to start over, to work on himself. He said if I ever needed anything, anything at all, he would help me out. I shouldn’t have taken him up on the offer, seven years later, but as I’ve mentioned, I was desperate. And he was so far away. What could he do to me from Los Angeles?

  This led me to my second thought, which was that his friends were definitely, absolutely going to find me. I was going to lose a kneecap. Maybe two.

  And the third: What were the odds, out of the hundreds of thousands of chefs they could have hired, that they ended up with this one? It was a bit too coincidental, right? Had Luca somehow figured out where I was going and tracked me down?

  He looked genuinely shocked, though, I’ll give him that. “Reese?”

  “How . . .” I stammered. “How did you find me?”

  “I—I didn’t. I got offered a sous-chef job here.” He was stock-still, but then he seemed to remember the entirety of the situation. “Shit, Reese, those guys are looking all over for you. They’ve called me, like, twenty times.”

  I didn’t know how to explain, but I tried.

  “You—they—didn’t tell me they were going to want interest. I sold my car and got evicted from my apartment to pay them back. I can’t afford anything extra.”

  “You sold your car?” His dark eyes softened. “And you moved out? Shit, Reese. I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

  “Why else would I contact you?” I yelled, the pitch of my voice increasing. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I didn’t think I needed to.”

  He was right. I should have known. I just didn’t have any other options. I rubbed my temples, hoping if I pressed hard enough, the situation might just disappear. Instead, Lamb walked into the kitchen, making my situation even worse.

  “Reese? I thought I heard your voice.” He seemed to pick up on the tension in the room. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Luca and I said at the same time.

  Lamb didn’t seem fully convinced, but after a moment of silence, he gave in.

  “Well, okay then. Reese, can I talk to you for a minute?” He gestured outside. “Out there?”

  “Uh,” I stammered. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to talk to Lamb, but I also needed to convince Luca not to contact his friends.

  “Give us five minutes,” Luca interrupted. He stepped toward me, and I flinched.

  “Reese, come on,” Luca said. He looked pained. “I’m not going to hurt you. That was a long time ago.”

  “What was a long time ago?” Lamb waved his hands in frustration. “What is going on?”

  “Nothing, man,” Luca took hold of my wrist, and I jerked it out of his grasp.

  “I’ll talk to you,” I pleaded. “Let’s just maintain some physical distance while we do so.” I gestured to an invisible space between us.

  What happened next was sort of a blur. Luca kept reaching for me. I kept pulling away. Lamb kept telling Luca to back off. Luca kept telling Lamb to back off. And then, before I knew what was happening, Lamb was pulling back his arm, winding it up to make contact with Luca’s face, and before he could do so, I caught an elbow square in my eye socket. White-hot pain clouded my vision. I stumbled backward, holding my eye, and right before I fell, I heard Christina rush into the kitchen, other her handlers in tow.

  26

  Ann

  I slow my pace as I arrive back at the mansion.

  Couples are still socializing on the outdoor patio. I hear laughter, splashing in the pool, and bottles uncorking over the crash of the ocean. I head to the front of the house, hoping to avoid the scene. I’m dripping with sweat, and it glides off of me as I trudge up the steps to my room.

  Once inside, I retrieve my phone. My heart stops.

  Three missed calls from Ned.

  I throw the phone on the bed and heave the dresser in front of the doorway. It seems heavier than normal, and it catches on the carpet. I take a few deep breaths before giving it a final push. I’m melting by the time I make it to the water closet. The sweat messes with my fingerprint, and my phone shudders, remains locked. I try to dry my hand on my shorts, but they’re soaked too. Same with my sports bra. I eye the toilet paper and dab my thumb on the top of the roll. My phone unlocks. I call Ned.

  “Ann.” He answers on the first ring. “I was worried I’d missed you.”

  “Hey, sorry, I went on a run right after I called. Is everything all right?”

  “Uh, maybe. I don’t know. I found out a couple things. Are you somewhere you can talk?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Okay, good. Well, to answer one of your questions: On shows like The Bachelor, they don’t eat during dates. It does mess with the audio, so they eat off camera.”

  “Okay.” I check my surroundings in the water closet, looking for any hidden cameras. I can’t believe this is my life right now. “Let’s say, for whatever reason, this retreat is being filmed. What does that mean for Reese? Is she safe and sound somewhere, just waiting for the show to premiere? Doesn’t explain why the mystery car she got into at the airport would explode and why her wallet and phone were found
nearby. And I can’t make sense of the bizarre happenings on this retreat.”

  “Well, maybe—” He pauses. It’s unlike him to be quiet. “Maybe we can discuss this in Nashville. I can look into travel arrangements if you’d like.”

  “Ned, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” He exhales. “Okay, maybe it’s something. I found out more about Lamb Martin.”

  “That’s great news.”

  “Yeah, I got off the phone with his roommate before you called.”

  I’m growing impatient. “And?”

  Another pause.

  “Just spit it out, Ned.”

  “He never made it home from the retreat.”

  27

  Reese

  Sunshine. Birds singing. A breeze off the ocean.

  It should have been a beautiful day, but it wasn’t. Nowhere near it. I sat on the front stoop of the mansion with an ice pack on my eye, the headache to end all headaches, and Teddy rambling in my ear. After Christina’s handlers separated Lamb and Luca, Christina told me my afternoon one-on-one date was canceled. She grabbed an ice pack from the freezer, shoved it at me, and told me to go wait outside while she talked to Lamb and Luca. I hoped I could at least have a few moments alone, but Teddy had found me, plopping down about five inches too close to me. It was 2:15 p.m., and he was still a bit drunk from the night before. I normally had more empathy for people in his situation, but I was in too much pain to think about anyone but myself.

  “I jus’ don’t know why I keep blackin’ out,” he slurred.

  “It’s a total mystery,” I said. I had heard it all before.

  “I mean I only have one, maybe two drinks a night.”

  I rolled my eyes, an automatic reaction. I regretted the movement immediately—the pain was unbearable.

  “Well, I’m glad we’re in it together.” He sighed. “We’re lucky to have each other.”

  “I’ve never felt luckier in my life.” I flipped the ice pack on my swollen, broken eye and cringed at the few seconds of sunlight. I thought I was going to throw up.

  I desperately needed an AA meeting. I hadn’t been to one in five days, hadn’t spoken to a sponsee in five days. I know AA isn’t a cure-all. For some people, it does more harm than good. Ann was one of those people. Meetings tended to make her sullen, depressed, anxious—hearing those bleak stories that were shared over and over again brought her to a dark place. For the longest time, I thought she was just being dramatic, but after one particularly mournful gathering two years into her sobriety, I couldn’t get her to lighten up.

  I took her to lunch after the meeting because I could tell something was bothering her. “Okay,” I had said after watching her plate of food remain untouched.

  “Okay, what?” she replied, eyes downcast.

  “Okay, you don’t have to go to meetings anymore. If they make you sad.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. But promise me three things.”

  She nodded eagerly.

  I held up my index finger. “One, you’ll tell me if your cravings get worse.”

  “Okay, done. No problem.”

  “Two, you still have to spend time helping others. Volunteer, and when you get to a place where you can afford it, take on pro bono work.”

  “No problem.”

  “And three.” I sighed and closed my eyes. “Never tell anyone that I, as your sponsor, told you it was okay to forgo AA meetings.”

  She laughed then, the first time all day. It was a beautiful sound—Ann had one of those laughs that made you laugh. A deep belly chuckle that used every muscle in the body.

  “I promise,” she said. “I’ll make you proud.”

  And she did. Still sober, eight years later. Just like I had found what worked for me—dance, AA meetings, being a sponsor—she found what worked for her: being a total boss at her job, wearing ugly pantsuits, running a gross amount of miles every week, and telling me I slept around too much.

  I didn’t know why I was thinking about Ann’s life when mine was going up in flames.

  Once, someone announced in a meeting—you meet a lot of wannabe philosophers and great ponderers of life in AA—that we tended to zero in on qualities in others that we disliked about ourselves. For example, the speaker hated that her mother was always fifteen minutes late. But then she realized that she was always fifteen minutes late too. Crazy!

  So, maybe Ann’s desire to go at it alone rather than ask for support resonated with me on some level.

  That’s when I remembered another one of my exes—the tattoo artist. I wondered about his new side gig, helping people disappear. I contemplated his clientele, the process. What it might be like to vanish into thin air.

  28

  Ann

  My mouth starts to water—a warm, sweet taste on my tongue. My focus goes in and out, so I close the lid of the toilet and sit down. I focus on the cool ceramic on the backs of my legs.

  “Okay,” I tell Ned. “Start from the beginning.”

  “All right, so Lamb was originally supposed to fly from Honolulu to Panama City—that’s the closest airport to Watercolor. However, he changed his flight the day before to go to Jackson, Wyoming. He texted his parents and his roommate that he decided to extend his travel plans so he could paint at the Grand Teton National Park. He said he’d be gone a couple of months, and he would turn off his phone for the majority of the trip to focus on his work. He also told his roommate that he would send two months’ worth of rent.”

  “Let me guess,” I say, massaging my temple. “No one has heard from him since.”

  “Nope. Not a word.”

  “What did the police say?”

  “They’re not involved.”

  “What?” I sit up straighter.

  “Apparently Lamb goes off the grid a lot. He’s an artist,” Ned emphasizes the word with a hint of disdain, “so he travels most of the year to paint various nature scenes. He’s not big on technology, so both his parents and his roommate weren’t surprised that they hadn’t heard from him. They didn’t even bother to call until I begged them.”

  “What is wrong with these people?” I mutter.

  “I don’t know. The mom did get a little worried when I told her about the situation with Reese, so she said she would let me know if she hears back. The dad was completely la-te-da about the situation. He told me this was all part of the creative process and that Lamb shouldn’t be disturbed during such a crucial time. Artists,” Ned huffs. “I don’t understand them. Why do they act so—?”

  “What about the roommate?” I interrupt. I need Ned to concentrate.

  “Ugh, total stoner. I could hear him inhaling during the entire conversation. He was all, ‘Dude, I hardly ever see that guy. It’s so chill. He’s only here for a couple months out of the year, he pays on time, and he doesn’t bother me. It’s a sweet setup.’ And I was all, ‘Dude, this is serious. No one has heard from this man or seen him in close to five weeks, and the woman he was with for a month is missing too. Please, for the love of Pete, call him right now.’”

  “Did he?”

  “Yeah, but it took a lot of simple words and repetition. He said he’d contact me if he gets a response. I doubt he’ll remember with all that Mary Jane clouding his brain, so I’ll follow up a few times.”

  “Thanks, Ned. Did Lamb happen to give his parents or roommate an address?”

  “Nope. Just the city. And I did check with the airline, and Lamb—or someone with Lamb’s information—boarded the flight to Jackson. I’ve asked Pat to see if he can get airline footage.”

  “Surely the FBI will get involved now that there are two missing people?” I know Ned’s response before he says it. My shoulders slump.

  “Pat said he’d talk to some old colleagues, but without more evidence, it’s unlikely they’ll investigate. If Lamb were reported missing, that might spur an investigation.”

  Fuck. I don’t want to visit Wyoming.

  “Okay, I’ll keep di
gging here.”

  “And I’ll work on finding a complete list of employees for the movie Happily Ever After. And look into that Nick Keyser guy. I did a brief search on him when I couldn’t reach you, and from what I can tell, he’s not too worrisome. Dabbled in acting. Never been in much trouble. I’ll go through police records, though. See if I can get an old friend in the Nashville PD to do me a favor.”

  “Thanks, Ned. I really appreciate all your help. You know that, right? I know this is completely above your pay grade.”

  “Hey, don’t sweat it, Ann. If it was anyone else asking, I might think it was crazy, but you’re one of the most levelheaded people I know.”

  I stare at my feet and keep quiet. Ned’s only seen one side of me.

  “Heck, it’s kind of fun. I feel like Sherlock Holmes. Or Watson, actually. You’d be Sherlock.”

  I laugh, but it’s a half-hearted attempt.

  “Ann?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It could just be a coincidence. Lamb could be painting. And Reese could be with him, safe and sound.” I know he’s just saying this to make me feel better, to ease my anxiety.

  “Maybe.” A beat of silence.

  “If I don’t hear from you for a twenty-four-hour span, Pat and I will take action. I promise. Even if it’s Christmas Day.”

  “Thanks, Ned.” Bile creeps up my throat. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Bye, Ann. Be safe.”

  A minute after I hang up, Ned texts me an image of Lamb. I’ve started sweating again, so I try to focus on the accompanying message: Here’s a recent photo, just so you have it. His mom took it about a year ago.

  My eyes move to the image.

  The picture of Lamb was taken in a studio. He stands next to an easel with a finished painting of the beach—presumably in Watercolor, although the scene is remarkably similar to the one outside my window. The plant life, in particular, is what causes my déjà vu: the palm trees, the taro, the dog tail. The painting is so realistic, it’s hard to believe it’s not a photograph.