The Last Resort

by Marissa Stapley

  “He’s on his phone. We’re supposed to put them away.”

  Johanna heard the man say something about a safety check. “We’re responsible for these people,” he said in an urgent voice. “Shortcuts aren’t an option here. Redo it. Yes, the entire thing. I’ll wait.”

  “Well, we’re not inside the resort yet,” Johanna said. “You had yours out.”

  “Workaholic,” Ben whispered. She understood. He needed to feel they were somehow ahead of the class. To believe that, in comparison to all the others, their marital problems were minor. We always knew he was going to work in law, his mother liked to say. He knows the rules to everything. He also liked to argue—but that was another matter.

  The van was at the edge of a circular driveway beside the sprawling white jewel of a building. The engine shut off. Towers, turrets, balconies, white railings, a steep terra-cotta roof and the individual villas scattered like diamonds leading to the beach. There were so many villas. More than necessary, it seemed, for only twelve couples. “Recharge your marriage in a stunning and intimate fairy-tale setting,” said the pamphlets Ben had brought home the morning he had gone to church with his parents and come back with a desperate plea in his eyes. Please, let’s do this. Don’t leave. Let’s fix us. The place really was like a fairy tale, but Johanna was remembering the dusty collection of stories she had discovered as a child on her grandmother’s shelf, tales she had read in childish horror—a horror that is always tempered by delight at finding something not really meant for impressionable minds—about pecked-out eyes and a dead beast, or a love-struck mermaid turning herself into sea foam to save her lover. True love, Johanna had learned at a very young age, had consequences. Happy endings always cost you something.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Ben said.

  Outside the van, workers in white linen were unloading the luggage. She smelled sea salt on the breeze, sunbaked kelp, the sizzle-scent of garlic and chilies from some distant kitchen. Someone put a champagne flute of mango juice in her hand. She pressed the cool of it against her forehead and thought of their wedding reception at the MacArthur, only two years before. The bubbles in the champagne that day went straight to her head. Johanna had walked in on her mother-in-law crying into a friend’s shoulder in the bathroom. “I’m just so happy,” she lied when she saw Johanna.

  “She could have chosen a dress that covered those tattoos,” the friend whispered as Johanna left. Johanna had her first migraine that night. Not a great start to their honeymoon.

  She sipped the juice. She could hear the ocean far away and lounge music closer up, flowing from speakers set into the rocks. Ben walked ahead, glass in hand, and Johanna hurried to catch up. A woman was stepping forward to greet him, a woman Johanna knew—though it was disconcerting to know someone you’d never met. This was the woman pictured on the books Ben had brought home, the woman from the TED Talks he had played for her on his laptop, the voice from the podcasts they had listened to while cooking dinner. This was the gleaming smile she had seen on the clips from Dr. Oz and The View.

  “You must be Johanna,” Grace Markell said.

  Johanna forgot about her headache as Grace reached for her hand. Grace didn’t shake it, though. She held it in hers. She held it long enough for the connection to have meaning but not so long that it felt awkward. She looked into Johanna’s eyes as she did this. Her eyes were gray, like storm clouds. “Welcome to Harmony,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for having us,” Johanna murmured as Grace released her hand. A younger, shorter woman with ash-blond hair swept into a tight bun and heavy makeup on her face was standing beside Grace. She looked as if she were about to go on television.

  “I’m Ruth,” she said, pumping Johanna’s hand up and down. It was endless.

  “Nice to meet you,” Johanna said, letting her hand go limp.

  “Ruth is our assistant.” Grace checked her clipboard. “I don’t think you’re on her roster—” She shook her head. “No, you’re on mine and Ben is on Miles’s. But you’ll see Ruth around. She runs a few of the group sessions.”

  Ruth smiled brightly. There was fuchsia lipstick on her tooth. Then she held up a clipboard bearing a white piece of paper covered in black type. “You both need to sign this, please,” she said. “It’s the couples’ contract.” Johanna signed without looking at it; Ben gave it a cursory glance, then scribbled his name.

  “The porters are taking care of your luggage,” Grace said. “You’ll find a table upstairs on the terrace with your names, your check-in package and everything else you need. We’re gathering there now.”

  “Our bags...are where?” Johanna’s nervous elation turned to sudden panic. She’d put her carry-on bag on top of her luggage, and now it had vanished. She needed that bag: her pills were in there.

  “In your villas by now,” said Grace with a final smile, one that was likely meant to be reassuring.

  “I just need to go to our villa and—” Johanna began.

  But Grace was gone, moving along to greet another couple with Ruth slightly behind her, a gosling following a goose. Johanna felt bereft as Grace reached for someone else’s hand.

  Ben pulled her along. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Ruth had tucked their contracts into an envelope and was now looking back at Johanna, wide-eyed, too interested.

  I am not a subject, Johanna wanted to shout. I am a person. But she didn’t. She let her husband guide her; she let him lead.

  As Shell followed the small crowd through the lobby, she found herself behind a young couple who were holding hands. Through a veil of irritation at being stuck, unmoving, behind them, she read the woman’s tattoos:

  You are not your thoughts written in barely decipherable script on her left shoulder blade and another on her forearm: And meanwhile the world goes on.

  Or it doesn’t, she could hiss at this very young woman. You don’t know, she could say. No wonder her husband despised her so much he looked past her instead of looking at her. No wonder he was still in the van. He was married to a bitter crone. Shell stayed silent.

  But still, she imagined a parallel universe where instead of ironing her clothes until they had sharp creases, she wore tank tops with no bra and was as sexy as a pinup girl, and her husband was holding her hand instead of back in the van obsessing over safety checks for the northern Ontario gold mine that was his new lover, his new best friend, his new family, his new everything to replace all they had lost. Vacations had done this, once: stirred up fantasy.

  The woman with the tattoos smelled liked neroli and musk. Her hair curled at the ends and reminded Shell of her young daughter’s, when it dried while she was sleeping.

  These thoughts, they were dangerous ones.

  But her thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind her. “Hello there.” Shell turned and found herself looking up at Miles Markell. He was larger than he appeared on TV. Most people were smaller. “Is everything all right?”

  “No,” she found herself saying in the horrible woman’s voice she could never quite believe was now her own. “I wouldn’t be here if everything was all right, would I?”

  His teeth were white against the tan of his skin. He smiled, then laughed, then took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes before looking at her for a long, thoughtful moment. “Excellent,” he said as he replaced the dark-rimmed spectacles. “A woman after my own heart. A woman who tells the truth.” He had deep smile lines on either side of his mouth. His eyes danced, like he was suppressing some secret joke that he wanted to share. She felt like they were alone when he looked at her, and this embarrassed her. “Shell Williams, right?”

  “Yes, how did you—”

  “I like to guess at the identity of our couples,” he said. “Grace and I keep score, actually.” He winked. “But you’re not supposed to be here alone. Where’s your other half?” His mild Texas drawl was like
butter melting, nothing like the voices she heard back home this time of year, when everyone’s teeth involuntarily gritted against the winter’s cold.

  “Work call,” she said. “Still in the van.”

  Miles looked toward the driveway. “Ah. I see he’s taking advantage of our unwritten rule—you’re allowed to have phones until you set foot on resort grounds. Does he have a flask of whiskey with him, too?”

  “No,” Shell said without smiling. She supposed there was such a thing as too much truth.

  Miles lifted a manicured hand, snapped a finger and called out, “Ruth!” The young woman Shell had seen in the background of some of the Markells’ online videos, their assistant, appeared. Her voice was firm, her manner capable. Her foundation was caked in her eyebrows.

  “What can I do?” she asked.

  “Could you please help Mr. Williams out of the van?”

  “Got it,” she said, and trotted off. Shell stood behind Miles and wondered what, if anything, she should say. But before long, Ruth reappeared with Colin at her side.

  “Got him,” she said, triumphant.

  “Mr. Williams. You’ve arrived.” Miles shook hands with Colin.

  “I’ll just put this in the lockbox,” Ruth said, holding up the phone like a prize. But Shell knew Colin had another phone in his luggage. She could tell on him—but at her own peril. So she said nothing.

  “All right, get going,” Miles said. “Everyone else is already upstairs.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and urged her toward a set of stairs at the far end of the lobby.

  “I should see to our luggage,” Colin said, frowning.

  “I need to check in at home,” Shell said at the same time and Colin looked at her sidelong, but just for a second.

  “We have valets for your luggage,” Miles said. “Do you see your bags anywhere? And there’s no time to go to your villa now—but trust me, you’ll feel refreshed after the ceremony.” He put his hand on Colin’s shoulder now and pulled him forward. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Shell hung back. “I really do need to call home,” she said to Ruth, although this wasn’t true. “My daughter...” It was like a knife in her heart.

  “We try to keep all contact with home minimal. Who’s taking care of your children?”

  “My mother,” Shell found herself saying and marveled at the fact that her heart was still beating, that she could still breathe.

  “Would email be sufficient?”

  “Oh. Ah...” No. Not at fucking all.

  “Do you think that contact with your mother and daughter every other day would be enough?”

  She had no choice but to fake a smile. It was either that or grab Ruth by the shoulders and shake her until her hair came loose from her bun—and then ruin her young life by telling her absolutely everything. God, she needed a drink. “Perfect,” she said. “You’re so helpful.”

  Ruth consulted her clipboard. “Every other morning, then, just after breakfast, in the twenty-minute window you have between the meal and your first appointment. All right?”

  “Thank you,” Shell said, and felt relief as she moved away from Ruth, but not the right kind of relief.

  “Fuck,” Colin said when she reached his side at the base of the staircase. “I really need to get back on that call.”

  “Of course you do,” she said. “What could be more important than the people who work at the mine?”

  He either didn’t feel the bite in her words or he ignored it, and he headed up the stairs. The rooftop terrace was terra-cotta, like the one in the lobby. There were small, white-clothed tables dotting it, each with two teak chairs turned to face a small podium. White gossamer fabric twisted in the gentle breeze. The fabric was tied to pillars, crisscrossed above. There were little centerpieces on all the tables: caper berry and dust-colored air plants inside glass orbs. An infinity pool began where the tiles ended, ringing the terrace and dropping off into nothing. All the tables were occupied but one, close to the front. As she walked toward it, she saw a place card that said Mr. and Mrs. Colin Williams. It seemed so old-fashioned, to write their names out that way. And so strange, to look down and see herself entwined with her husband. She felt something like a remembering, something like a softening. But then Miles’s amplified voice invaded her thoughts and she found herself wondering how he had gotten up there so fast.

  “Spectacular, isn’t it? The village you see at the base of the mountain is Zihua. Right now, to the villagers, because of the design of the building and the way the sun illuminates the windows, we look like we’re engulfed in flames. Ironic, no? Since you’ve all come here in an attempt to save your marriages from hell.” He laughed and there were a few guffaws in return. “Puerto Morelos is farther along the coast there, then Akumal. But we might as well be in another world.” Was that a self-satisfied smirk? For a moment, she wondered if he saw himself as above all the little fishing villages, both literally and figuratively. Then the smirk was gone and maybe she’d imagined it. “Now, have we all found our tables? Please do not turn on your microphones until it’s your turn to speak or we’ll have an issue with feedback.”

  Miles moved between the tables now, holding a clipboard and a microphone, juggling both as he stopped at each table, nodding his head, writing on the paper.

  “Forgive me,” he said into the microphone. “I’m terrible at multitasking.” Shell wondered where Ruth, the capable assistant, had gotten off to. She didn’t see her anywhere on the terrace.

  “Let me help you.” Grace approached her husband and took the clipboard from his hand.

  “Thank you, darling,” Miles said. For a moment, it was just the two of them standing there in the center of the terrace, smiling, adoring, oblivious to the crowd in front of them. Miles covered the microphone and said something to Grace, then pointed to the clipboard. She examined it for a moment before walking the perimeter of the terrace, making marks on it as she walked. Eventually, she made her way to the front, where she sat on a stool and crossed her legs. Her shoes slid off and landed on the floor.

  “All right,” Miles said like an excited boy. “Are you ready for our icebreaker exercise?” No one moved. The few couples who had been talking stopped abruptly. “We want to know what you know about your partners. We want to know what you don’t know. We want to know where we’re starting.”

  Grace had her own microphone now. “Why don’t you just explain to them what you need them to do, honey?” she said. “Look how scared they all are.”

  “Why don’t you?” Miles said, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance. “You’re so much nicer than I am. People always like things better when you say them.”

  “Okay,” Grace said. “So, we’re partnering y’all up. Everyone in the first row must move one row back and join the couple directly behind them. Those in the back row move one row up, and join the couple directly in front of you. Let’s start there.”

  There was a flurry of movement. Shell and Colin were joined by the woman with the tattoos who Shell had seen earlier in the lobby, and her husband. He reminded Shell of a handsome puppy, all floppy hair and easy smile.

  “Now, here’s how it goes,” Grace continued. Her Texan drawl was present, but not as strong as Miles’s. They both sounded self-assured and velvety. “You’re going to introduce yourselves to each other—and then, when time’s up, you’re going to introduce each other to the group. Very simple.”

  “Well, actually, it’s not that simple,” Miles said. “This exercise requires careful listening. If you don’t listen, if all you do is sit there worrying about what you’re going to say—and let’s face it, we’re all guilty of that, a lot of the time—you’ll be in trouble. Seems like a lot of pressure, right? And that’s the point.” A grin spread across his face, and Shell began to recognize it as his trademark. “We have only two weeks, and in therapy terms, that’s not long. In any terms, that
’s not long. The odds are stacked against us all, but we will succeed.” A bit of nervous chatter. He waited a moment while the couples at the tables settled. Then a hand shot up close to the front: a woman with a lank blond bob and a T-shirt that slid down her small, bony shoulders.

  “Do we have to do this introduction thing? My husband isn’t great with public speaking...”

  “Then you keep on doing the talking,” Miles volleyed back. “This isn’t optional, so put aside your stage fright and your fears and your excuses. You’ll be washing dishes at Treehouse for the rest of the week if you don’t do this. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. You know the saying—Texans don’t lie.”

  “That’s not a saying, honey,” Grace said.

  “Well, it is here.”

  There was a server by their table now with a tray of rolled-up towels in his hand. He handed them out with a pair of golden tongs. They were silky and cool to the touch. Shell watched as the auburn-haired woman now seated across from her unfolded her towel and pressed it against her forehead, closing her eyes.

  Next, a female server put a jug filled with cucumber and lime water on their table with four long-stemmed glasses. The floppy-haired husband lifted the jug and poured a glass for everyone at the table. Shell couldn’t define why this irritated her so much.

  “Our water, by the way, is the best in the world,” Miles was saying. “Triple filtered, remineralized and alkaline. Y’all are going to feel better than you ever have by the end of this week.”

  “All right, we should get on with things,” Grace said. “Any other questions?”

  Another hand rose at the table beside them, that of a small man with short dark hair going gray in a line at the roots. Shell pictured him in his bathroom, using Grecian Formula. He had glasses and a goatee and was wearing a V-neck sweater that looked too hot for the weather. “How long do we have to speak?” he said.

  “Two or three minutes, but we don’t formally time you,” Grace said. She had patience, Shell thought, to deal with these people, their questions and needs, day after day, week after week.