A Killer Retreat

by Tracy Weber

  “Closed for cleaning from eight to ten each morning.” No problem there. We could start at eleven. “No lotions, oils, or cell phones allowed.” I could live with that. I’d check the Yoga Chick before we left. She probably wasn’t waterproof, anyway. “No glass containers or alcoholic beverages allowed.” Bummer. But who drank before noon, anyway? “Patrons must sit on a towel at all times.”

  Huh?

  The final line leaped off the page, searing my eyes. “Parents take note: All of our spa facilities are clothing optional.” I shuddered from the roots of my hair follicles to the tips of my toenails.

  “Michael, these are naked hot tubs!” I dropped the offending pamphlet, as if it had scalded my fingertips. “I can’t hang out in some naked hot tub, especially not with future yoga students.” I pointed down at my legs, which appeared to have tripled in size. “Believe me, no one wants to see these thighs naked.”

  “Don’t be silly, Kate,” Michael chided. “I love your chunky thighs.”

  Was that supposed to be a compliment?

  “Besides,” he continued. “It’s not a naked hot tub. It’s clothing optional. Wear your swimming suit.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Great. Then I’ll be the only puritanical prude covered up in a towel, while everyone else gets their jollies by letting it all hang out.” I shuddered. “Nope. No way. I’ll only be naked with total strangers.”

  Michael snorted so hard that coffee came out of his nose.

  I swatted him on the rear with a towel. “Knock it off. You know what I mean. Now stop mocking me and clean up the dishes. I’ll get Bella’s food started, and we can take her for a walk while it incubates.”

  Michael stopped arguing, picked up the plates, and haphazardly stacked them next to the sink. I grabbed the first of my thirty dog food containers and began the chemical experiment that was Bella’s food preparation. I opened the eco-friendly, compostible vessel and confirmed that the mountain of powdered medicines I’d added at home was still on top. Then I poured the contents into a large mixing bowl and vigorously stirred, envisioning each separate molecule of kibble being coated with powder.

  Next up was adding the water. I carefully measured twelve ounces from the tap and tested it with my finger. Satisfied that the temperature was appropriately warm—not hot—I poured the water onto the powdered food and stirred exactly one hundred times, until the disgusting-looking concoction was the consistency of overcooked oatmeal. I stepped back, assessed my artistic creation, and frowned. Something was off. I stirred some more, then frowned again. “This doesn’t feel right. Maybe I should do it over.”

  Michael—who had finished piling the dishes next to the sink five minutes before—drummed his fingers on the counter impatiently. “Kate, come off it. How hard can it be? I’m beginning to think Rene is right. I know you love Bella. I love her, too. But seriously? You’re becoming dog food obsessed.”

  Six months ago, I’d have thought I was crazy, too. Only the owner of a dog with EPI could understand my anal-retentive dog feeding ritual. Rene even teased that—in addition to my fear of beards—I was developing a brand new Kate-specific neurosis: orthorexia nervosa by proxy. Sufferers of orthorexia nervosa obsessed about the purity and quality of the food they ingested. In my case, I obsessed about Bella’s: the ingredients and quality of her kibble, the exact amount she ate daily, and the rigid specificity with which it must be prepared. The only thing I monitored more closely than Bella’s input was her output. But I tried not to think about that so close to mealtime.

  Neurotic or not, my ritual had proven effective. Six months of obsessive-compulsive food preparation after she entered my life, Bella was only three pounds shy of her goal weight.

  Michael pulled on his boots and clipped Bella’s leash to her harness. “Kate, we’re waiting …”

  I tipped Bella’s food bowl to check the mixture’s consistency. It seemed runnier than normal. “I don’t know, Michael. Something’s not right. I should make it over, just in case.” I pulled container number two off of the countertop, prepared to start over.

  Michael snatched it from my hands. “Come on, Kate. Making dog food isn’t rocket science, and I should know. I sell it for a living. Let’s go!”

  I looked skeptically at the goop incubating inside Bella’s bowl. Maybe the water was different on Orcas …

  Bella let out a series of three sharp barks.

  “Are you coming or not?” Michael opened the door and Bella bounded through it. The screen door slammed behind them, leaving me in the cabin, alone.

  Michael was probably right. Being neurotic was bad enough; there was no need to act certifiable. I grabbed the Yoga Chick off the counter, checked quickly for messages, then tossed her into my jacket pocket and jogged out the door.

  “Hey you guys, wait for me!”

  When I caught up with them, I grabbed Bella’s leash in one hand and held Michael’s fingers in the other. The three of us crunched along the center’s network of interconnecting trails as we explored our new territory in the daylight. Bella weaved happily back and forth at the end of her leash, sniffing for hidden treasures, while I took deep breaths of pine-scented air, which was still redolent with ozone from the prior night’s storm. Golden oak leaves waved from the branches above and peppered the permanent carpet of pine needles covering the ground.

  Last night the grounds seemed desolate; this morning, they bustled. Fellow vacationers sipped mugs of coffee and smiled friendly hellos. Maintenance staff scurried by on electric golf carts. Gardeners harvested, fertilized, and planted cover crops in a huge, fenced-in garden. A sign at the gate read, “Welcome to the Garden of Eden. Visitors are welcome, but please keep pets outside.” I smiled at the word play. Eden was the name of Elysian Springs’ organic vegan restaurant. The garden must supply at least some of the restaurant’s produce.

  We wandered along the fence past beds of dark green kale, deep purple cabbage, and beige, peanut-shaped butternut squash. A few feet from the end of the garden, we discovered the free range enclosures of several of the center’s happy-looking animal residents. A dozen clucking hens seemed to smile as they pecked at the earth around their whitewashed henhouse. Next door, several ducks splashed happily in a bright blue wading pool, near a pair of fluffy white rabbits who sunned themselves in the corner of a huge fenced-in hutch. We even found a half-dozen floppy-eared goats eating their way through a wall of blackberry bushes in an otherwise vacant field.

  We hiked on the center’s property for over forty-five minutes, discovering quaint wooden cabins, hidden camp sites, even an old, rusted-out boat that had been abandoned on one of the property’s two private beaches. At the end of the beach, we turned left and continued walking—uphill now—away from the water. The trail ended at the edge of a cliff and a campsite labeled “Suicide Bluff.” Obviously someone’s idea of a joke. A squirrel chirped angrily from above, as if warning us away from his favorite hiding place.

  I stood near the bluff’s jagged rock outcroppings, entranced by the view. Greenish-blue water extended for miles and birthed powerful waves that crashed over fifty feet below. The smooth, crescendoing sound was both calming and awe-inspiring at the same time. I moved closer to the edge, as if hypnotized.

  “Kate, what are you doing? Get away from there.” Michael pointed to a sign several feet behind me.

  “Danger. Cliffs are unstable. Walking prohibited less than three feet from edge.”

  As if on cue, a rock broke free and clattered over the edge. I took several large steps back. “Suicide Bluff” suddenly felt more like a warning than a quip. The steep, dark cliffs dared me to come closer. Goaded me. Urged me to jump. An inexplicable chill frosted the back of my neck. I couldn’t explain it, but the cliffs felt malevolent—evil somehow. Like they hungered for human sacrifice.

  I looped Bella’s leash handle around my wrist and pulled her in closer. Gorgeous view or not, I wouldn’t co
me back here again. I didn’t trust this place.

  “Michael, let’s go.”

  The wary look on his face mirrored my own. He laced his fingers through mine and we hurried away, back toward our cozy little cabin, where the three of us would presumably be safe.

  four

  I was wrong.

  Danger didn’t hibernate in dark, rocky cliffs; it napped in warm sun puddles. We almost made it back to our cabin. Another minute or two, and Michael, Bella, and I would have been safely ensconced inside our tiny-but-serviceable kitchen, snacking on leftover pastries. The only obstacle remaining was a multi-acre field dotted with newer-looking cabins.

  Each freshly stained structure was architecturally different—designed to look unique. A few were tiny studios, barely more than glorified bedrooms; others were multistoried mansions with wraparound decks and private hot tubs. Some towered over the landscape, offering unobstructed Puget Sound views; others hid, peeking from underneath old-growth Douglas fir trees.

  I meandered through the supposedly diverse development with a vague sense of unease—like an unsuspecting stranger visiting a Stepford Wives’ neighborhood. In spite of their superficial differences, each building’s energy felt exactly the same—and not quite genuine. Each cabin had been sided with uniformly stained cedar shingles and accented with container gardens of dark green flax grass and burnt-orange pansies. Each entry was shielded from mud tracks by recycled rubber mats in a variety of bright, primary colors. The entire area exuded a creepy, not-quite-real energy, feigning diversity while demanding conformity.

  No doubt about it, these supposedly upscale cabins paled in comparison with the dingy-but-cute place I now thought of as my own.

  Except one.

  I stopped and stared at the huge building in front of me—a two-story structure over three times the size of my Ballard home. “Michael, look at that place. Can you imagine the view? It looks right out over the ocean. Bella could lounge on the deck and—”

  I stopped midsentence.

  This was no good. No good at all.

  Bandit, the terrier we’d encountered at the beach near the ferry terminal, napped in a warm patch of sun near the edge of the deck, wearing no oppressive collar to impinge upon his comfort. He opened one sleepy, pirate-patched eye, looked at Bella, and launched.

  He dove off the deck, yapping at full volume, and flew down the stairs. His paws hit the grass, and he sprinted across the field toward Bella. His tongue lolled; his ears pressed flat against his head; a huge doggie grin spread across his face.

  I hesitated before pulling out the vial of Spot Stop. Michael loved animals as much as I did, so when he assured me that the citronella spray was humane, but effective, I believed him. Still, that didn’t mean I wanted to use it. Using force against an animal—even relatively benign force—was clearly against yoga’s principle of nonviolence. I firmly believed in ahimsa. I tried to live by it. But if by using force I could prevent harm? Well, I might have to make an exception.

  I moved the spray’s nozzle off safety.

  “Call your dog!” I yelled across the empty field. I was in luck, or at least I thought so. Somebody heard me. The cabin’s door opened and disgorged Bandit’s red-fingernailed owner. She stood on the deck, watching, as her dog barreled toward us.

  Bandit didn’t stop when he reached us. He didn’t even slow down. He just kept running. He zoomed around Bella, Michael, and me in ever-decreasing circles, orbiting Bella like a low-flying raptor circling its prey. Only faster. And more determined. And juiced up on cocaine.

  Bella didn’t move a muscle. She didn’t even twitch. She crouched forward, ears pricked at high alert, as if waiting for the right moment to strike.

  I prayed to God, the universe, or whoever else was listening. Please don’t let today be the day.

  Bella was famous for her ferocious-looking outbursts, but she’d never actually laid a tooth on another creature—at least not yet. I had a horrible feeling that Bandit might be the first. I envisioned ripping fangs, high-pitched yelps, and spatters of bright red blood in the terrier’s future.

  I didn’t consider what Patanjali—the author of The Yoga Sutras—might have done in my situation. I’m sure he would have reacted with much greater aplomb. But in my defense, I was trying to prevent bloodshed.

  I looked up at Bandit’s still-glaring, still-motionless owner and screamed, “Call your goddamned dog!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” she yelled back. “He only wants to play. Ignore him and he’ll go away.” I watched, horrified, as she stomped back into the cabin and slammed the door behind her.

  I was completely out of Bandit-control options. “I’m going to have to spray him!”

  “Do it, already!” Michael yelled.

  I pointed the nozzle at the circling terrier, silently begged for forgiveness, and pressed down on the plunger, expecting to douse the unsuspecting canine in a fire hose of pressurized chemicals.

  A low-pressure squirt of lemon-scented water drizzled out of the opening. Bandit yapped excitedly, entranced by this new game. He alternated between leaping over the ineffectual stream and dodging out of its reach. After less than a minute, the drizzle stopped. The canister was empty. Bandit stopped running and glared at me, clearly disappointed that I’d broken his new water toy.

  That was the opportunity Bella had been waiting for. She lunged after Bandit, teeth thrashing and voice roaring. I managed to hang on to her leash—barely—but she pulled me to the ground. Michael tried to prevent doggie homicide by becoming a human shield. He threw his body toward the spinning fur ball but missed and fell face-first into the muck. Bandit alternated between nipping at Bella’s toes and vaulting over Michael’s prostrate, red-faced, and loudly swearing form.

  The cabin’s door opened again, and a tall man wearing beige khakis and a blue polo shirt rushed outside. “Bandit, come,” he yelled. “I have a cookie!”

  The c-word stopped Bandit in his tracks. He peeled off and ran back to the stranger. My new hero clipped a collar on the little beast and tied him to the porch.

  Meanwhile, back on the battlefield, Michael, Bella, and I started to shake off our recent trauma. I slowly sat up and tried to catch my breath. Bella whined at the end of her leash, as if mourning the loss of her fur-covered breakfast. Michael rolled from his belly to his back, groaning. Brown muddy guck was smeared from his boots to his eyebrows. He lay on the ground, glowered, and grunted, like a foul-tempered hog wallowing in an unacceptable trough. I tried, unsuccessfully, not to giggle.

  “What’s so damned funny?” he snapped.

  I was saved by the bell—or at least by the ring tone. Bart Simpson’s annoying, nasal voice interrupted:

  “My best friend’s calling me. My friend loves me. You don’t got a friend like this.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Ignore it, Michael. It’s Rene. She’ll leave a message.”

  “Seriously, Kate? Bart Simpson?”

  I shrugged. “Wasn’t my idea. Rene programmed my ringtones, and I can’t figure out how to change them. She picked this Bart Simpson one for her number. She thinks it’s funny.”

  If he didn’t like Bart, he’d abhor the “I’m too sexy” ringtone she’d chosen for him. I turned off the phone in case she’d added any other surprises that Michael might not appreciate.

  Michael tried to stand up, but his feet slipped in the wet grass and he fell on his rear, right back into the mud. He covered his face with his hands. “Can this trip get any worse?”

  I bit my lower lip to keep from answering. Now probably wasn’t the best time to point out that the muck on his thighs looked suspiciously like deer dung.

  The stranger-hero emerged from his cabin and rushed toward us, carrying two large bath towels. He handed one to each of us, apologizing profusely. “I’m so sorry about that. Bandit’s my wife’s dog, and she hasn’t traine
d the little monster.” His ears turned red. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm, but he’s definitely a handful.”

  This must be Bruce, the spouse the Beach Witch had mentioned on the phone last night. If so, they epitomized the phrase “odd couple.” He looked at least fifty; she at most thirty. He wore round wire-framed glasses and a poorly done comb-over that didn’t quite cover his prominent bald spot. She wore diamond earrings, expensive leather jackets, and waaaay too much makeup. I couldn’t help but feel bad for him. Granted, I didn’t know him yet, but Bruce seemed like a nice guy, and from what I’d heard last night, I suspected his wife was cheating on him.

  I took the proffered towel, stood, and wiped the mud stains off my knees. Michael looked down at his pants, lifted his hand to his nose, and softly swore. The stranger took a tentative step toward us and cleared his throat.

  “Let’s start over. I’m Bruce. I don’t blame you two for being upset about what happened.” Michael and I both remained silent. He shifted uncomfortably and continued. “I’m sorry about my wife. She’s just so …” His words trailed off.

  Awful. I silently replied. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I smiled at him and said, “It’s OK. We’re Kate and Michael. I pointed toward the hundred pound welcome-dog whining beside me. “And this is Bella. Bella, say hello.”

  As taught, Bella walked up to Bruce, sat down, and offered him her paw.

  “Well aren’t you a sweet thing?” He shook Bella’s paw and ruffled her ears.

  Bruce looked up again. “Are you two here for Emmy and Josh’s wedding?”

  “No,” I replied, then corrected myself. “Well, actually yes, sort of. I’m teaching yoga here this week.”

  His face broke into a huge grin. “Oh! You’re that Kate! Emmy told me about you. So nice to meet you, Kate.” He pumped my hand vigorously. “I’ve never done yoga, but I might have to give it a try this week. Emmy’s so excited to have a yoga teacher on site. She’s hoping you’ll teach a private class for the wedding guests from New York.”