A Killer Retreat

by Tracy Weber

  I flinched. Had I said that out loud?

  I peeked around the corner again, half-expecting to find myself nose-to-agitated-nose with a stiletto-heeled blonde. I saw the back of her jacket instead. She faced away from me, phone still firmly glued to her ear.

  “I told you, I’m working on it. First I have to get those interminable alimony payments stopped.” She took a final drag from her cigarette and dropped the butt on the ground. “Yeah, well, we’ll see how guilty Bruce feels when I tell him her little secret.”

  Michael yelled from the parking lot. “Kate? Are you coming?”

  She glanced furtively toward the sound. “Someone’s coming. I have to go.” She hung up the phone with an audible click, shoved it into her jacket pocket, and scurried away.

  I emerged from my hiding place, stomped out her still smolder-ing cigarette, and shook my entire body, like Bella did when she forced water from her deep black coat.

  I tried to reassure myself that my discovery wasn’t all bad. True, the Beach Witch and I would have to coexist on the same ninety acres for the next several days. But on the plus side, she didn’t seem like the yoga type. She’d probably kick a down dog before she’d practice one.

  I chose to ignore the quiet voice in my head urging me to grab Bella and race back to Seattle, while we could still escape.

  _____

  Michael and I followed the map to our cabin and parked directly outside of it.

  “I’ll bring the bags inside in a minute,” Michael said. “Let’s go check out the space.” He led me to the tiny deck and opened the door with a flourish. “After you, Madame.”

  I stepped into the living room and flipped on the lights. One of the two remaining bulbs in the overhead fixture flickered, sizzled, and went out, plunging the room into dingy grayness.

  This is it? Seriously?

  Our cabin was, to put it mildly, a dump. It looked nothing like the opulent, eco-sensitive, fair-trade-decorated accommodations bragged about on Elysian Springs’ website. Nothing at all.

  The accommodations online featured gleaming bamboo floors, brightly colored area rugs, and soothing indoor water fountains. Our cabin boasted scuffed pine flooring, an ancient, filthy welcome mat, and water dripping from a leaky kitchen faucet.

  At first I felt profound disappointment, but after a few moments I let go of my expectations and tapped into the energy of the space. The energy felt deep. Quaint. Peaceful. To my surprise, I liked Michael’s and my new dumpy digs, even if they would never grace the cover of House Beautiful.

  Bella didn’t share my initial dumpy-digs disappointment. She charged gleefully through the door and explored her new surroundings, completely ignoring the “Please Keep Dogs Off Furniture” signs. First she ran into the kitchen and placed her paws on the counter, hoping to find pot roast, I assumed. Then she jumped on the couch and furiously dug, as if searching for buried treasure. Finding nothing of interest there, she leaped onto the room’s only guest chair, sat, and regally stared across the room at Michael and me. A German shepherd queen commanding her subjects.

  “Bella, off,” I said uselessly.

  Bella atypically complied. Living room secured, she galloped off to the bedroom, where she jumped on the sagging, headboard-free mattress, turned a quick circle, and flopped on her belly. The ancient box spring groaned in metallic complaint; Bella moaned in pure canine pleasure. She rolled to her side, spread her body diagonally across the mattress, and claimed it as her own. Evidently, Michael and I could sleep on the floor.

  While Bella took a well-earned nap and Michael brought in the luggage, I did some exploring of my own. A little cleaning was definitely in order. A fine layer of dust covered the windowsill; intricate cobwebs decorated the corners; dust bunnies peeked out from under the sofa. The chipped porcelain sink in the kitchen was bare, except for a single threadbare towel draped over the faucet. I opened the cupboards and discovered several mismatched plates, four plastic glasses, and an assortment of chipped coffee mugs.

  I vowed to take a dust rag to the place the next morning and brighten the living room with a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers. In the meantime, I grabbed the first two duffle bags off the floor and started unpacking the myriad of treats, toys, food, and medicines that I had packed for Bella. I opened one of the plastic containers of Bella’s food and admired my handiwork. A small pile of powdered medicines sat at the top. I laid its twenty-nine identical friends out on the table and lined them up like soldiers in formation.

  Michael set the final two bags on the floor. “Didn’t you say we were staying in a cabin for four?”

  “I thought so. When I agreed to take lodging as part of my fee, they said I could bring up to three friends.” I gestured around the room. “But where would the other two sleep?”

  Michael tugged at the edge of the couch. It flopped open in an undignified a flurry of dust, fur, animal dander, and debris.

  Bella charged from the bedroom and skidded to a stop. An exposed, uninaugurated surface would never do. She jumped onto the middle of the sofa bed, flipped on her back, and proceeded to roll back and forth, waving her paws in the air. Michael sneezed.

  I laughed. “It’s a good thing Rene and Sam didn’t come, after all. Can you imagine Rene sleeping on that hide-a-bed?” Rene was my best friend, my touchstone. During the tough months after my father’s death, she had even been the source of my sanity. But her idea of roughing it was staying in a suite without in-room Jacuzzis. I’d never live it down if she had to sleep in the middle of this dust bowl.

  “Have you heard from her since we left?” Michael asked.

  I pulled the Yoga Chick out of my purse and pressed on the screen. For once she magically came to life. Still no missed calls. “No, she hasn’t called once.”

  “That’s not like her.”

  “No, it’s not. Neither is cancelling at the last minute.” I bit my lower lip. “Do you think I should be worried?”

  “Anyone can get the stomach flu, Kate. You’d just be stressing out over nothing.” He paused a beat. “But then again, when has that ever stopped you?” He grinned and scooted away before I could hit him with one of the couch’s throw pillows.

  Michael meant well, but he didn’t know Rene—not the way I did. Rene’s stomach was tougher than mummified shoe leather. In the eighteen years she and I had been friends, Rene had never missed a meal. And she lived for the opportunity to make my life miserable. Forgoing a week-long vacation with nothing better to do than torture me? She’d have to be terminal.

  “I don’t know, Michael. Rene never gets sick. I hope she doesn’t have something serious.”

  “Don’t worry. She’ll be back on her feet in no time.” Michael took my hand, led me to the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the sagging mattress. The springs let out a world-worn, metallic moan. “Besides, we could use a little alone time.” He flashed a crooked smile.

  Affection tickled the pit of my throat. A more urgent sensation pulsated quite a bit lower. I leaned in and gave Michael a long, meaningful kiss. I might not be ready to make a baby with Michael—or anyone else for that matter. But that didn’t mean we shouldn’t practice, practice, practice.

  _____

  A loud crash jolted me upright. “What was that?” I fumbled around in the darkness and flipped on the reading lamp.

  Michael covered his eyes with his forearms and groaned. “It’s just some thunder, Kate. Turn off the light and go back to sleep.”

  Fat chance of that.

  My heart hammered in my chest, beating an out-of-synch rhythm with the rain pelting the roof. I glanced at my watch. Three-fifteen. It could be a very long night. Thunderstorms didn’t often declare war on the Pacific Northwest, but when they invaded, they made a statement. A flash of light whitened the room, followed by more deep, rolling thunder.

  Michael sat up next to me. “Where’s Bella?”

 
I found her in the bathroom, hiding behind the commode. Saying Bella didn’t like loud noises would have been the world’s biggest understatement. She had cowered behind my bed every night for a week after the Fourth of July, even on the maximum dose of Xanax. Next year I planned to double the prescription and take it myself. At least then one of us would get some sleep.

  With Bella’s vet 120 miles away in Seattle, neither of us would find chemical relief tonight. Bella panted and shivered and whined and cowered. Drool dripped from her jaw. Her glassy eyes opened wide, displaying the whites around her irises.

  “Come here, girl,” I said, murmuring softly. “It’s OK.”

  Bella slinked uncertainly toward me, head hung low. I lightly grabbed the loose skin between her shoulder blades and guided her back to the bedroom. “Come and sleep on the bed with Michael and—”

  A jarring bang shook the room, obliterating the rest of my sentence. Bella flew to the bed, but rather than jump on top of it as I had suggested, she tried to squeeze her hundred-pound body into the two-inch space underneath it. Failing at that, she scrambled around the room, looking for any space that might provide shelter: Michael’s suitcase, the closet, even under the dresser.

  I tried to restrain her, but she struggled against my grasp. I leaned down and whispered into her trembling ears. “Bella, relax. It’s just a thunderstorm.”

  Bella responded by coldcocking me. She bashed her skull into my jaw. My teeth cracked together. My head flew back. Pain jolted my brain like a cattle prod, transforming worry into misplaced anger.

  “Knock it off!” I bellowed. I grabbed the scruff on either side of her neck, placed my face an inch from her nose, and glared directly into her eyes. In a voice normally used by sleep-starved mothers of tantruming toddlers, I yelled at my poor, panicked dog. “Calm down. Now!”

  Bella reacted the way any intelligent being would in her circumstances: trapped in a strange house, surrounded by monsters, and held down by a madwoman. She lashed out like a mental patient resisting a straightjacket. She squirmed, she bucked, she roared, she clawed. I rode Bella like a bucking bronco. Or she rode me. It was difficult to keep track of who was on top in the midst of the chaos.

  “Michael, help me! I’ve never seen her like this.”

  Michael stood next to the bed, looking helpless. “I guess you were right. We should have brought her crate.”

  For a moment, time stood still. My mouth gaped open. My head pounded, about to explode. Of course I was right. Ever since her prior owner’s death, Bella’s crate was the only place she always felt safe. But in what universe was it useful to tell me that now?

  I should have taken some deep breaths. I should have counted to ten. I wasn’t even mad at Michael; I was furious with myself. Bella was my dog—my responsibility. I knew the abuse she had suffered. I knew she still panicked when stressed. I knew she needed—and deserved—special care. Leaving the crate behind may have been Michael’s idea, but I was the idiot who went along with it.

  Adrenaline-laced panic overpowered me. Thoughtless words spewed from my mouth like spit from a cobra. “If she gets hurt, it’s your fault.”

  Michael flinched, as if slapped.

  Thunder roared through the room again.

  Bella wiggled free from my grasp and bolted for the bed. She clawed at the space behind it and ripped her nails against the metal frame. I imagined blood pouring from her soon-to-be-dislocated toes.

  Michael finally took action. He grabbed the bottom of the frame and yanked it away from the wall, leaving behind four long, jagged scratches on the hardwood floor. Bella scrambled behind the bed and buried herself—nose to shoulders—underneath the frame. The rest of her body remained crammed into the two-foot space Michael had created behind the mattress.

  Bella stopped whining. Her breathing slowed. Her muscles relaxed. The energy surrounding her softened. Lightning still lit up the sky, but in Bella’s mind, her world was safe. I wasn’t sure burying her head like an ostrich was the most effective survival strategy, but for now, it would do.

  My own energy eased as well. I crawled back into bed, rested my head in the crook of my elbow, and stared at Michael’s rigid back.

  “I’m sorry for yelling at you, sweetie. I didn’t mean it; I was just scared. Bella and I are lucky to have you.”

  Michael didn’t answer, but he didn’t ignore me, either. He rolled on his back and nuzzled my neck. Hours ticked by. I stared at the ceiling, listening to Bella’s soft breathing, Michael’s not-so-soft snoring, and the deluge of rain still bombarding the roof. At least a century passed before I fell back to sleep.

  three

  I awoke the next morning to silence. No rain on the rooftop, no purr-like puppy breathing, no soft boyfriend snores. I glanced at the clock. Seven o’clock. The perfect time to snuggle against Michael’s warm, rippled chest. I rolled over and reached out my arms, planning to cuddle up to my favorite six-foot-tall bed warmer.

  My hands connected with nothing.

  No one occupied the space beside me. No one longed for my loving embrace. No one even gave me the cold shoulder in retribution for my prior night’s temper tantrum. All that lay beside me were cold, empty bed sheets.

  No problem, a fur-covered she-dog would do quite nicely. “Bella, up,” I said, patting the bed. No response. I sat up and scanned the room, but found no snoozing shepherds. I peeked in the two-foot-wide storm shelter Michael had created behind the bed. No creatures there either, unless you counted the dust bunnies. Apparently, I slumbered alone.

  Bella’s single, sharp bark sounded from the kitchen, followed by Michael’s voice, goading her on. “That’s right, Bella girl. Go wake up Kate.”

  At seven in the morning? On vacation? I groaned and covered my head with the pillow, determined to ignore them both until a more civilized hour. Like noon.

  Three sharp barks later, Michael changed tactics. The bitter-sweet smell of caramel-laced caffeine wafted into the room. Nice try. It would take more than designer coffee to get me out of this bed.

  Like carbohydrates.

  The oven door squeaked open. Sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla beckoned me like a siren.

  A few frustrated barks, I could ignore. Coffee, I could drink any day of the week. But cinnamon rolls? My mind and my body declared war, fighting for dominance. My mind craved deep, dreamless sleep; my stomach, gooey cinnamon pastry.

  My stomach won.

  I slipped on a pair of sweatpants and staggered out of the bedroom. Before I could adequately stuff my belly with coffee and pastries, I needed to make a pit stop. I veered to the left and trudged, zombie-like, into the bathroom. I didn’t bother to open my puffy eyes; I already knew the room’s layout from the prior night’s explorations. Instead, I staggered to the far corner, stifled a yawn with my fist, and lowered my bottom into a perfect Half Squat—right before I fell into the toilet.

  That was one way to wake up. Muttering words never used in yoga class, I slammed down the open toilet seat, grabbed a towel off the towel rack, and wiped the morning dew off my backside, grateful that Michael at least had the decency to flush. One thing was certain: my eyes were wide open now.

  Michael and I had spent multiple sleepovers together, but always at my house, since his apartment didn’t allow dogs. Looking around the disaster that used to be the bathroom, I realized that I hadn’t fully grasped the dearth of his housekeeping skills.

  Red, white, and green gore oozed from an open toothpaste tube and semi-permanently adhered itself to the sink. My small, well-organized makeup bag competed for space with a medley of male personal hygiene products ranging from shaving cream to the world’s most disgusting flattened toothbrush to a deodorant labeled “Just for Men.”

  The rest of the room fared no better. A pair of wrinkled underwear lay bunched in one corner; a wilted black sock occupied another. Juniper-scented soap melted down the edge of the bathtub,
oozing an Irish Spring slug trail that led to a bottle of antidandruff shampoo. The pièce de résistance was a tube of medicated cream designed to cure a multitude of fungal infections, up to and including jock itch. Gross!

  I swallowed back my disgust and joined Hurricane Michael in the kitchen. He grinned at me from the table. “Hey there, sleepy head! It’s about time you got up. Miss Bella and I have been waiting for you since five. I knew putting those cinnamon rolls in the oven would do the trick.”

  I stifled an impolite reply and poured some delicious, caramel-smelling brew into a chipped “I Love Tofu” coffee mug. Two swigs later, I took a huge bite of buttery, hot cinnamon pastry, trying not to imagine globs of cellulite swelling my thighs. Vacation food didn’t have calories, right?

  Michael sorted through several flyers he’d retrieved from our welcome packet. “What’s on today’s agenda? We should try to fit in as much as possible before you start teaching tomorrow.” He pointed to a map. “How about hiking the trail around Mountain Lake?”

  He ruffled Bella’s ears. “What do you think, Bella girl? Are you up for a seven-mile loop?”

  Bella responded with an enthusiastic bark.

  I gaped at them both. “Seven miles? I’d have to ride Bella out. I thought we could hang out here at the center and relax.” I punctuated my point by leaning back in one chair and putting my feet up on another.

  Michael pursed his lips in a lopsided grin. “Fine. No hike then. We can start with the hot tubs.”

  Now he was talking. Hot tubbing was my kind of vacation. Sleep in until noon, hang out in the spa, practice some yoga, maybe get a massage or two …

  He handed me a full-color pamphlet filled with warm, inviting pictures. Happy-looking adults relaxed in four hot tubs that had been sunken into an expansive cedar deck. Puget Sound’s blue waters sparkled in the background. According to the flyer, the wooden building behind the deck housed bathrooms, showers, a steam room, and sauna. I turned the page over and read the section titled “Spa Rules and Regulations.”