I note that, on either end of the sandy crescent, high cliffs block any view. In spite of the string of cottages that line the ridge on either side of mine, I feel isolated. Perfectly and completely alone in this place. No one’s on the beach below my balcony, not one sunbather, not even a yoga class. I am suddenly filled with longing for Shorie. I wonder if Dele is looking after her. I hope so.
“Perhaps you could meditate instead.” Grigore gestures to the nearby cottages.
From my vantage point, I can see the balconies of the other cottages, and on at least half of them are women, dressed in the Hidden Sands uniform, their hair loose. Their eyes are closed, expressions serene, doing their thing. It looks peaceful. Bees swarm the purple blooms creeping up the side of the balcony and up onto the overhang. I close my eyes too. Their music fills my head. Even then, it doesn’t drown out the memories.
When Shorie was young, she was deathly afraid of bees, especially the fat kind that didn’t sting but dive-bombed her head every time she went outside. One day, after swimming at the neighborhood pool, Perry pointed out a lilac bush that had just bloomed. Mom loves lilacs. They’re her favorite flower, he told her. Which was true, even though I’d only mentioned it once, back when we first met our freshman year at Auburn. Perry always remembered those kinds of things—the small details that other men usually forgot.
Shorie was terrified, but she’d always been willing to do anything for Perry, and a little bit later they came home with armfuls of the fragrant purple blossoms. That night when we were in bed, Perry pulled up a video on his phone.
Shorie, hair wet, shivers in her beach towel next to the lilac bush at the end of our street. Her eyes are closed, freckles standing out on her snub nose, brown lashes fluttering because she’s concentrating so hard on standing still. The bees swarm her and swarm her, and after a moment or two, a slow grin transforms her face. She’s blissed out. “They’re singing me a song,” she says, then tilts her face back and starts to giggle. The shot tightens on her face. Shorie laughs and the bees laugh and my handsome, loving, big-hearted husband laughs with them all, making the camera shake so much that he loses Shorie altogether and it’s just a series of quick pans of a lilac bush and the grass and the blue, cloudless summer sky . . .
And then I think of Shorie’s face, looking at me across the kitchen table yesterday afternoon. I’ve failed her in so many ways. Messed everything up so badly that now I’m at a rehab facility, for the love of God. How did I let things get so out of hand?
When I open my eyes, Grigore has vanished. And so has his golf cart. I pad back into the bare room and sit on the bed and wonder what I’m supposed to do next. The tropical vibe makes me want a fruity rum drink or maybe to order up room service and watch movies in bed. But this isn’t vacation, and there’s no TV or bar in my room. There’s nothing here but my own crowding, guilt-inducing thoughts about Perry and Shorie.
I amble out onto my cottage’s miniscule front patio. The sun’s already set, but there are lights everywhere—lanterns on the cottages and rows and rows of blazing iron tiki torches. I look to my right, down the line of cottages that stretches along the jungle path, maybe as far as the cliffs. It’s hard to say; the darkness and the leafy tangle obscure my view. To my left, there are at least a dozen cottages separating mine from the main building. I set off in the direction of the spa—no locking the door, as they don’t believe in keys around here, apparently. There’s about forty-five minutes before dinner, and since Grigore didn’t leave me with any instructions, I’m guessing I’m free to explore the place.
I keep to a narrow grass path, which is soft and spongy under my feet. I only notice it now—all the landscaping around here is reversed. The paths are grass; the beds, gravel sprouting with palms and birds of paradise and frangipani. The message is clear. Stay on the paths.
I sense someone behind me and jump.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” It’s a woman, tall and pretty in that aging cheerleader way, with a perfectly highlighted blonde bob, sharp eyes, and a husky voice. Her face is lined—delicately so, probably from hours on the tennis court—but something about the twist of her lips and the no-bullshit light in her eyes raises my antennae. She’s either an entrepreneur or an executive, has to be.
“I’m in cottage nineteen. Deirdre,” she says. “Are you new too?”
“Twelve. Erin Gaines. Just got here a couple of hours ago.” We shake and start back down the path side by side. “Did your guy, your concierge, give you a schedule or a map or anything?”
“Nope,” she says. “Too busy strutting around, flexing his arms, trying to give me a lady boner.”
“They are all strangely good looking,” I agree. “Are you un, deux, ou trois?”
“Trois. I think it’s the people without major drug or alcohol addictions.” She eyes me, and I suddenly realize how awkward it’s going to be here, trying to meet people without prying into their lives.
“Sounds about right. I’m here just to take a break from work.”
She grins. “Ah, work. The ultimate addiction.”
“You’ve got that right.”
We arrive at the main building, and the doormen open the doors for us. The lobby is the same as it was an hour ago. And yet somehow different. Still deliciously cool and fragrant and buzzing with insanely attractive staff, male and female. And then it hits me. The light is no longer green. It’s salmon colored—the gentle pink-orange of a sunset.
No one’s manning the concierge desk, and as we navigate our way over the stream and down one of the corridors, none of the staff takes notice of us. Halfway down the hall, we find a frosted glass door with the word YOGA etched into it.
I can just make out the dimly lit wood-paneled room on the other side, hear the flute music playing in the background. The instructor, an ethereal-looking redhead, so pale the veins in her neck stand out like tattoos, holds a graceful tree pose, arms overhead. Her eyes are closed, face lifted, nostrils flared. Tendrils of damp hair encircle her neck; tufts of reddish hair fur her armpits. The class follows her lead, a dozen or so women in the room, every size and shape of glistening body completely naked.
“Oh dear,” I whisper.
“I am so doing that,” Deirdre says.
“I am not doing that,” I say simultaneously.
Suddenly the door, which is automatic, apparently, and which I’ve activated, slides into its pocket with a neat shunk. Deirdre and I are standing in full view of the whole class. The teacher opens her eyes, and a couple of the students twist around.
“Join us, ladies?” the redhead says.
“No,” I practically scream.
“Later, for sure,” Deirdre says.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say.
We slink away, giggling like a couple of preteen girls. Behind us, I hear the automatic door hiss closed. “That better not be mandatory,” I say and head for another door labeled WELL SPA. I wave my hand, and the door obligingly slides open. Deirdre slips in, beckoning me with a conspiratorial grin.
This room is a perfect jewel of rose-veined white marble—walls, floor, and ceiling—and plush, low-slung leather chairs. The whole length of wall facing us is a waterfall, running over green glass tiles, foamy and white. Every other wall is lined with planters overflowing with varieties of succulent and vine and fern. It smells like a combination of rosemary and lavender and jungle.
From one of the back rooms, we hear a woman shriek.
Deirdre’s eyes go wide. “What the hell?”
“Somebody getting a massage?” I whisper.
I imagine myself on a table, naked under a sheet. Letting someone dig into the knots in my neck and shoulders and lower back that seem to have formed and made themselves a permanent part of my body in the past five months.
What would it feel like to let go of them after holding on so long? Would I wail like that? I feel a rush of panic, and I’m suddenly bathed in sweat. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through an entire mo
nth in this place.
There’s another wail. Not a scream exactly, something more subdued. Then the woman starts to sob. Deirdre and I exchange wide-eyed glances.
“Jesus,” Deirdre breathes.
Then we hear a woman’s voice, low and controlled. “Agnes, talk to me.”
“I don’t want to talk,” comes the subdued reply. “I just want you to let me go home.”
“You know I can’t allow you to do that. Your family sent you here, and they insist you not return until you’ve earned your L’Élu certificate.”
More sobs.
The woman continues. “Agnes. What you need to understand is that L’Élu is not just a physical challenge. It’s a vision quest. A chance to shut out all the noise of the world—all the things that distract us from what’s most important—and accept what the universe is trying to tell us.” A beat, then the woman speaks again, slowly. Deliberately. “The universe is trying to tell you something, Agnes. Can you hear what it’s saying?”
There’s no answer, only the sound of crying.
“It’s saying that your life is not your own. But that you are part of a family and must subjugate your desires to the greater need. It is saying your father has found a wonderful opportunity for you, to marry a man who can take care of you for the rest of your life. It is saying you need to gratefully accept the opportunity. Do you understand, Agnes?”
A muffled, “Yes.”
“I’ve spoken with your father and told him that, instead of kicking you out, I’m willing to give you one more chance. I’ll be sending you on another L’Élu. Not L’Élu un. L’Élu trois—have you heard of it?”
“No.”
“I think it’s just the right experience for you, Agnes. So you can get to the heart of what’s bothering you. Sound good? You’ll leave tomorrow morning, so I suggest—”
“Ladies?”
Deirdre and I spin to face a young woman—Filipino, I think, another ten, with a slicked-back ponytail and white sarong. She’s standing behind us and smiling. I wonder how long she’s been there.
“It’s almost time for dinner,” the woman says smoothly. “Would you like me to show you the way to the dining hall?”
“Sure,” Deirdre says with just enough snark in her voice to show she’s not buying into this whole Hidden Sands thing and can’t be bossed around, even by a beauty queen in a sarong.
I’m not quite as plucky. After hearing the conversation down the hall, I feel distinctly sick to my stomach. Something is definitely wrong with this place. And I do not belong here, no matter what Sabine and Ben and the rest of them think.
But, “Thank you,” I say, because I can’t exactly make a run for it now, and the beautiful woman escorts the two of us out of the marble waterfall room.
18
SHORIE
Not only is this Rhys’s office, but apparently he’s the boss. I know this because when we walk in, a kid yells out, “Hey, boss!” Then another one says, “Hide the cocaine!” and the rest of the room bursts out laughing. Rhys does not look amused.
There’s music playing, but no one’s partying. Instead, they’re sitting around on the tattered furniture, tapping away on computers or talking in groups in hushed voices.
“Um, everybody,” Rhys says. “This is Shorie. Shorie, everybody.”
Everybody—which, as far as I can tell, is just a bunch of college students—looks up and smiles and says, “Hi, Shorie,” in unison. I murmur a hello, and they go back to what they were doing.
Rhys steers me into a dark hallway. Before we can get to wherever it is we’re going, though, a lanky guy with a mop of blond hair, green frames, and unbuttoned shirttails that flap over a worn NASA T-shirt blocks our way. He’s holding up a brown bottle, some kind of craft beer I don’t recognize. He offers the beer to Rhys with a hat-tip flourish, even though he’s not wearing a hat.
Rhys hands the beer to me. “What the hell is going on in here, Low?”
“Campus Wi-Fi melted down. I told everyone to come here and we’d do a verbal. Get through it super quick. Tristan and Mackenzie brought snacks, and we had some of the stuff from last time, but you have no idea how hard it’s been to keep them out of your stash. I had Carly hide it in her . . . in the . . .” He suddenly takes note of my presence. “Oh, good! Are you the new comp girl? My God. You’re so pretty. You sure you’re not lost?” He guffaws.
“She’s not the new comp girl, Lowell. But could you . . . could you just excuse us a minute?”
Lowell grins a toothy grin. “I’m Lowell. Rhys’s assistant.”
“Shorie Gaines.”
His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “Oh! Right! Of course.” I glance at Rhys, but he’s staring at Lowell with great intensity. Lowell and I shake, and Lowell does the goofy hat-tip thing again, this time at me. “It’s a pleasure, Shorie. Really. Welcome aboard. And well done, my man, if I do say so myself.”
“Okay, off we go.” Rhys grabs my hand, tugging me down the hall.
“Get her to fix our lame-ass website, while you’re at it!” Lowell calls after us, just as Rhys kicks open a slightly crooked door and hustles us inside a dimly lit room. He moves to shut the door behind me, but I catch it before he can. Our eyes meet, and I flash to a memory.
My dad, chasing five-year-old me through the house in a game of hide-and-seek and chanting a song: Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. I will find you wherever you go . . .
The creepy way he used to sing it as he prowled around always scared the shit out of me. So much so that at one point, I decided to turn it around on him. I hid in a closet and waited until I saw the doorknob just begin to turn. Then I shoved open the door and jumped out at him, letting loose with a high-pitched little “boo!” The plot had its intended effect. I don’t think I’d ever seen an adult scream like that.
Now, standing here in this guy’s bedroom, I’m overcome with all the same jittery hide-and-seek feelings. I have no idea what’s going to happen next. What I do know is that I’m the one who holds the power of “boo.”
I stand as straight as I can. “Does that guy know me?”
“No . . . ,” Rhys begins, flustered.
“He sort of acted like he did. And he congratulated you like you just bagged a trophy elephant.”
“That’s not what he meant, I swear. His social skills are rudimentary, at best. He’s like the antithesis of a wingman. He repels women away from his friends.”
He didn’t answer the question, and whatever that nonsense was that he did just spout, I’m not buying. But I don’t say anything, because I’m basically struck speechless at the sight of his room.
First of all, it’s huge. With a mega-expensive-looking platform bed on top of an antique rug. Persian, I think. There’s a painting on the wall—a tiny abstract oil of some kind of still life with oranges and a milk bottle on a rumpled tablecloth that looks like something you’d see in a Dutch museum. Up against the wall is a giant desk topped in black marble that looks like it belongs in a CEO’s office. Three huge, 4K monitors on the desk display elaborate-looking spreadsheets. Rhys must see me taking it all in because he moves to the desk and claps shut his laptop. The monitors go dark.
“What the hell was that?” I ask.
He sits in the chair—a black plastic futuristic thing that leans back with a sleek pneumatic whoosh. “It’s my business.”
“Shawarma-Rama?” I draw closer, magnetized by the information that just vanished from the screens.
“No. That’s where my buddy works. He was doing something for me, so I filled in for him.”
“He was doing something for you?”
“For my business.” He does a kind of half-hearted gesture at the computer screens.
“That’s your business? And all those kids out there?”
He swallows, and for the first time, it occurs to me that he seems nervous. Which is kind of a surprising development. Usually I’m the one feeling awkward in situations like these. Not that I’ve ever been in a situation quite li
ke this.
“So,” he starts. “Here’s the thing. Lowell does know who you are. I do too.”
“Okay,” I say slowly.
“Shorie Gaines. Freshman, Amelia Boynton Hall, roommate Adelia Foster. Majoring in comp sci and software engineering. Full academic ride, with all the trimmings. Meal plan, books, box seats for home games.”
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling suddenly very shaky. And deeply regretful that I’ve just followed a boy I don’t know back to his house at the end of a gravel road in the middle of a field in the country. At night.
“How do you know all that?” I ask in a faint voice.
“It’s something I do for my business. For recruiting purposes.”
I feel like I can’t move. This guy researched me? For his business?
“I swear, it’s not as creepy as it sounds,” he adds lamely.
“Wait. Are you a student? How old are you?”
“On and off. I’m twenty. Just turned.”
“And you knew who I was when I walked up to the food truck?”
“Yes.”
“So why didn’t you pitch me on your business thing then? Why did you close the window?”
He clears his throat for a really long time. “I guess I didn’t feel like I was ready. I’d seen your pictures and all. But when you walked up to the truck, it was like . . . you weren’t what I expected.” He looks flushed, embarrassed. “And then you threw the napkins, and I thought it was really . . .” He seems uncertain. “I thought that was pretty feisty, so then, I decided what the hell.”
Okay, I’m definitely confused. For a second, it seemed like Rhys might be nervous because he liked me. But now he’s telling me he thinks I’m feisty. Which, I’m not sure, may be code for bitchy. So here I am, hanging out with a guy in his oddly grown-up-looking bedroom, alone. A guy who knows about me for some strange, stalker-y reason, who brought me back to his bedroom. Where we are now hanging out, just the two of us. In the semidarkness.
I put down my beer. “I should go.”
“We would’ve met eventually anyway,” he goes on quickly. “We usually try to arrange it so the pitch is more natural, though. Through a friend of a friend. Or at a party.”
Until the Day I Die Page 9