15
ERIN
I sleep a fitful eight hours, wake to Sabine’s phone call, and am whisked to the airport by Ben. They’re quite the magicians, my friends. Able to make me disappear in the blink of an eye.
The first flight to Miami, the seemingly endless second leg to Saint Lucia, and the ferry ride to Ile Saint Sigo happen without incident, but I barely register any of it. I’m too shaken from the intervention—but also Ben’s incessant apologizing on the way to the airport. He jabbered the whole way, saying he was the worst kind of douchebag, explaining why he’d done such a shitty thing like kissing me (he “didn’t know what the hell he was thinking”), and repeating how terrible he felt for taking advantage of me when the intervention was literally about to happen just on the other side of my front door.
Mostly to shut him up, I told him that I forgave him. But, really, I do forgive him. I mean, I’m an adult who makes my own decisions. And I put my arms around him, there on my front stoop, kissed him, and pressed my body against his. It would probably behoove me to examine the reasons why. Right now, however, it’s all I can do to think about how my life has gotten away from me so quickly. One minute, I’m seeing my daughter off to her freshman year of college. The next, I’m on my way to rehab.
Excuse me. Restoration.
It’s late afternoon when the driver meets me at the ferry terminal—if you can call the rickety wooden shack at the edge of town that houses a tiny ticket booth and a row of turquoise-painted benches that. He’s driving a sparkling town car, this freakishly good-looking guy in his twenties with a head of artfully mussed hair. And he’s dressed in khaki board shorts and a spotless white polo with a Hidden Sands logo embroidered in navy right over the swell of his perfectly proportioned pectoral muscle.
He’s Grigore from Moldova—my concierge, he says—and as he shakes my hand, his silver flat-link bracelet flashes in the bright sun. His hands and smile are warm and reassuring. I’m not exactly unappreciative. He’s cute. I guess this is one way of disarming your clients, preparing them for the regimen ahead.
After Grigore loads my duffel in the trunk and settles behind the wheel, he asks if I’d like a quick tour of this side of the island before we head inland to the resort. I agree, and as we embark, he gives me the rundown. Ile Saint Sigo, eight nautical miles off the east coast of Saint Lucia and a total of five miles square, shore to shore, boasts a total nontourist population of roughly four hundred. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, it was a thriving sugarcane plantation, until after emancipation, when it fell into disrepair. The islanders who didn’t head for Saint Lucia in search of work subsisted on fishing and sporadic tourism until the early eighties.
That was when hotel magnate Edwin Erdman, wintering at his personal compound on Saint Lucia’s Jalousie Beach, spotted the tiny paradise during his morning helicopter ride. He built Hidden Sands and purchased three-quarters of the island, all owned under the Erdman International banner. When his daughter Antonia came of age, he handed the reins of the resort—and island—over to her. The town basically exists to support Hidden Sands, although there are still a few fishermen and farmers continuing to scratch out a living.
Oh, and there’s a volcano, way up at the northernmost tip of the island. Apparently there’s a collapsed crater where, heated by magma, springs boil at upward of 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
“The actual crater is off-limits to Hidden Sands guests,” Grigore says at the conclusion of his spiel. “There was an accident a few years back.”
He switches on the music. I toss my purse aside, sigh, and rest my head on the seat. It’s kind of ironic. Here I am at rehab, and even though I’m normally not much of a drinker, I’m craving the taste of rum. It must be the tropical heat and humidity and gorgeous spicy smell hanging in the air. My brain’s switched over into vacation mode.
“Water? Fruit juice?” He checks me in the rearview mirror.
“No thank you. What’s that smell?”
“Incense. They make it from the sap of the lansan tree that grows in the interior of the island. They burn it in the church over there.”
As he rambles on about the wide variety of exotic vegetation on the island, I look at the humble plaster church we’re rumbling past and think of the priest who swung the smoking incense at Ben and Sabine’s wedding. Perry and I have never attended church. He didn’t like the formality, and I was on the fence myself about all things religious, so we used our Sundays for rest and play.
Maybe that’s part of my problem—instead of believing in God, I fastened all my hopes on the frail, imperfect humans around me. Or rather, one human. And when he left me, I was lost.
I think back to this morning, after I’d gotten out of Ben’s truck and called Sabine. Talk to Gigi, I’d said. Find out where she was when I was in Auburn.
Seriously? Sabine said. You think Gigi went out to the mean streets of Mountain Brook, scored some GHB, then drove to Auburn and put it in your drink? Without somehow attracting all the attention in the room to her? That woman can’t set foot inside a restaurant or a hotel without demanding to see the manager. You know that.
Well, it could’ve been Ben, I guess, I snapped. He certainly was there.
It was an unkind thing to say to his wife, to my best friend, and she didn’t bother answering me. But I knew what she was thinking—that it was the stress talking. That Perry’s death had finally pushed me into the land of paranoia. To a place where I imagined my friends and family were organized against me.
And maybe Sabine saw the truth. Maybe I really was losing it.
Grigore drives us through a small town, which consists of several paved roads that meet at a large stone fountain that seems to have been dry for a very long time. The roads are crammed with tiny shops and restaurants and open-air stands selling trinkets and produce. People fill the narrow sidewalks. Locals, it looks like, not tourists. Down a few alleyways lined with brightly painted houses, I spot children running and riding skateboards and electric scooters.
We drive down a few more streets, then abruptly we are in the thick, leafy jungle. The dirt road winds and winds for what seems like an eternity, and my exhaustion envelops me. My eyes shutter, and instantly I am lost to sleep. Sometime later, I awake to the sound of the trunk popping open. We’ve drawn up under a portico constructed of huge wood beams, rough-hewn and stained a dark coffee color. To my left, a tall, clover-shaped fountain, this one working, splashes arcs of water onto lily pads and some kind of extravagant orange blossom. To my right, a pair of massive wood doors banded by iron and set in a pristine white stucco wall are being held open by two young men wearing the same board shorts, polo, and sunglasses as Grigore. They have the same haircut too.
Welcome to Hidden Sands. My really expensive ascetic rehab complete with eye candy.
Grigore opens my door, a dazzling, sexy smile on his face. His teeth are straight and a blinding shade of white (like everything else here), and suddenly, irrationally, inappropriately, I think of kissing him. Which brings to mind what I did with Ben on the front stoop of my house less than twenty-four hours ago—with Sabine sitting mere yards away in my kitchen.
I burn with shame all over again. How could I have done that to Perry? To his memory?
If I had been the one who died, he would never have done such a thing. He wouldn’t have dreamed of it—running to Sabine for comfort. Lacing his fingers through her hair. Opening his mouth on hers . . .
What the hell kind of person am I?
Maybe Gigi was right. Maybe I really can’t manage my life.
“Remove your shoes, please.”
Grigore has shouldered my duffel. It’s all Hidden Sands allows their clients to bring to the island: personal toiletry items and underwear. The rest—clothing, pajamas, workout wear, shoes—the brochure said they would provide. It was a psychological tactic, probably. Deny you the comfort of your own clothing and make you dependent on them. Prime you for compliance.
I blink at him, th
en slip off my flats and hand them over. On our way to the double doors, we’re immediately swept aside by a phalanx of handsome, tousled-haired men and gorgeous, impeccably groomed women who are heading inside too. They are all clad in the Hidden Sands uniform and flank a thin brunette woman who’s got a phone pressed to her ear. A black silk scarf holds her hair back, massive gold-rimmed aviators rest on a perfectly pert nose, and her designer jeans threaten to fall off her tiny frame. I recognize her immediately—an actress, with at least a dozen multimillion-dollar-grossing films under her belt, who’s now starring in a wildly popular TV series. She sweeps by me, and I catch a whiff of a very particular, spicy scent. One I haven’t smelled since I was a much younger woman.
What the . . .
“Fucking Antonia,” she snaps into the phone. “L’Élu was a nightmare the first time I did it, and she’s going to make me do it again. I will tell you this, if she doesn’t let up with this Survivor bullshit, I’m never coming back.”
She stops just short of the door, pirouettes, and catches my eye. Her mouth twists into a snide grin, and she winks, like we’re sharing some kind of secret. Then she glides through the double wood doors, her entourage swarming behind her, bearing bags and totes. No single-duffel rule for movie stars, I guess.
“Shall we?” Grigore gestures toward the open doors.
The lobby—an architect’s dream of concrete, glass, steel, and white plaster—is blessedly frosty and smells like cucumber and mint. Enormous bamboo fans whir overhead, and at my feet, a deep, pebble-lined stream stocked with koi ripples through the center of the room, powered by some unseen pump. Concrete ledges extend out into the indoor stream, providing stepping stones across the space.
The room itself has just the slightest green tint to it—a soothing glow coming from some light source I can’t see. And there are flowers everywhere. Not just tropical flowers—roses and peonies and lilies and ranunculus and foxglove and even sprays of hard green blackberries budding from the stalk. They must spend a fortune shipping them in.
More staff—male and female—glide across the room. A couple of them smile and murmur welcomes to me. They’re all in their twenties or early thirties, all easy on the eyes. Like, improbably so. I try to avoid eye contact; not that I have anything against attractive people, but so much pretty in one place is striking me as peculiar.
I wonder how much my friends and family know about Hidden Sands. How much research they did before shuttling me off here to Supermodel Island to get fixed.
“This way.” Grigore puts a glass of water in my hands. There’s a tiny purple blossom floating on the top, and the water tastes like the room smells. Suddenly overcome with thirst, I chug most of it, flower and all. At a desk tucked in an unobtrusive corner sits a lovely (of course) woman. She’s dark skinned, with close-cropped platinum-dyed hair and a narrow gold ring in her nose. A silky white sarong is knotted under her arms. She smiles at Grigore.
“Un, deux, ou trois?”
Grigore nods at her. “Trois. Erin Gaines.”
The woman smiles and extends her hand. “Ms. Gaines, welcome to Hidden Sands. To body, soul, and spirit restoration. Anything you need during your stay, anything at all, if you’ll just leave a handwritten note on my desk, I’ll take care of it.” She waves her hand behind her. There’s a stack of notecards and a glass of pens. No computer or phone that the guests could use. “I trust you had a pleasant flight and ferry over?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Cell and bag, please.” She eyes my purse, and I hand them over. She deposits the phone in a drawer, and after a quick inspection, returns my bag. “Your phone will be locked in a safe for the duration of your stay. You aren’t on any medications, correct?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“We have a roster of experts at your disposal: a naturopath, iridologist, hypnotherapist. In our Ayurvedic spa, we offer Reiki, acupuncture, and volcanic mud facials.”
“Straight from your own personal volcano,” I say.
She smiles. “That’s right. Additionally, for a more in-depth Hidden Sands experience, may I suggest our Life Odyssey program? It’s an immersive—a three-day alternative course of curated experiences, based on ancient techniques and modern clinical practices, designed and supervised by our owner, Antonia Erdman.”
“Sounds fun.”
The woman laughs. “More like life changing. And if you’re wondering, no, it’s not described in the brochure. Many of our experiences aren’t. We use the brochure—and the website—as more of a way to draw people in, people who might feel skittish about rehab.”
“So no tennis or golf?”
“We believe restorative work is best done in a competition-free environment.”
I’m nodding and smiling, resisting the urge to laugh in disbelief. If Jax lied on our advertising like that, we would catch all kinds of trouble, but it appears down here in the crazy Caribbean, nobody gives a shit.
“Sound good?” She gently removes the empty glass from my hand.
“Yes.” And then, like a reflex, I think of all the ways it’s not going to be good. And I don’t feel like laughing anymore.
The woman says something to Grigore in French—demain is all I catch—and hands him a key.
“What did you just say about tomorrow?” I ask. They both stare at me. I guess they’re not used to guests asking questions. “Sorry, I only have a little bit of French.”
The woman laughs. “No problem. I just said you’ll be beginning your personalized program tomorrow.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Grigore will show you to the prep station and then your room.” She sweeps her hand toward the rear of the building. “Dinner’s at eight thirty in the dining hall.”
We traverse the clear rippling stream with a series of skips across three floating concrete pads. We head down a long hall and stop at a set of frosted glass doors. The word PREP is etched in the glass. We enter a dim, quiet room with wood-paneled walls and a smooth concrete floor. Piped-in music plays, a soothing classical guitar. Another woman behind another desk smiles warmly at me.
“Erin Gaines, trois,” Grigore says.
“Hello, Erin,” she says. “Ready to shower?” She pulls a bundle from under the desk, and Grigore scoops it up.
“This way,” he says.
I follow him down another hall that ends in another frosted glass door. He hands me the bundle and takes my purse.
“This is your regulation Hidden Sands clothing. After undressing, leave your clothes in the bins. The staff will launder and hold them until the day of your release.” He unzips my duffel, allowing me to pull out a fresh set of underwear, then zips it back. “Several more outfits are in your room, where I’ll leave your purse. I’ll be back for you in fifteen minutes.”
My hair cascades down my back and, startled, I turn. Grigore is holding my scrunchie, and I can’t help but stare at him. The last person who touched my hair was Ben. On my front porch when we were kissing. And I can still feel the pressure of his fingers. Why does that particular gesture feel so invasive? So intimate?
“No hair ties,” Grigore says simply. “Antonia asks her clients to wear their hair natural.”
I shake my head to clear the memory and snort. “Okay. For argument’s sake, we’ll call this natural.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s lovely,” he says in a gentle voice, which makes me feel about a hundred different ways I don’t want to feel. Foolish. Needy.
Alone.
“It’s a psychological tactic, right?” I say. “To make us feel vulnerable and uncomfortable, so we’re more malleable? So you can break us.”
“See you in fifteen” is all he says, then he spins on his heel and heads back down the hall.
I head toward the shower room. On the other side of the door, I pause, pinch the bridge of my nose, and tell myself there’s nothing to do but roll with it. With whatever this place throws at me. I’m on a mission—to get done whatever it is I have to do to ob
tain my release. Get back home, to my daughter and my company.
The shower room is a cavernous tiled space with rainfall showerheads and shower curtains that encircle each stall. Right now the room is empty, all the curtains pushed back. I shed my clothes, step inside a stall, and pull the curtain. I turn the lever. When the torrent of steaming hot water shoots out, I duck under and groan in delight.
After I’ve stood there for probably longer than I should, I remember to lather up with the minty body wash and shampoo. White suds stream into the drain at my feet, and for the first time, I start to feel calm. Then I hear the door to the shower room open, and what sounds like a group of women enter the room. No one speaks, the only sound the shucking of clothes and shoes. I peek from behind my curtain.
An assortment of clothes—mud-caked shorts and T-shirts, hiking boots, and underwear—lies heaped on the floor. Four women surround it—two white, one black, and one Latina. They’re all coated in the same filthy brown dirt, hair matted and greasy. I see the way the naked skin of their bodies contrasts with their grime-streaked arms and faces as they move toward the showers. The Latina woman is young, in her early twenties, short and round. She wears glasses and is limping.
She enters the shower next to me. The minute I hear the spray of water, she yelps.
“Agnes? You okay?” one of the other women says.
“Sí,” she says.
I stay motionless under my shower. And then I hear a low murmuring. One phrase repeated over and over again, in a quivering voice, barely audible above the sound of the water.
“Dios te salve, María . . . llena eres de gracia.”
There’s maybe less than a foot separating my curtain from hers, and a bit of a slope to the floor, and after a few seconds her runoff water streams across the tile, pooling around my feet and gurgling down into my drain. I back away, toward the wall, my eyes wide. There’s something red mixed in the dingy brown water.
Until the Day I Die Page 7