Until the Day I Die

by Carpenter, Emily

  “Ouf. My apologies. Something just hit me.”

  “The food?”

  “Oh, no. The food was perfect.” She clutches her stomach. “Probably just the travel.”

  “Would you like me to dial the nurse?” Antonia says. “We have a fully outfitted clinic if you need anything. Holistic treatments for any ailment.”

  Deirdre waves her hand. “No, I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

  Antonia stands. “Hold on,” she says, and disappears behind a door.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Deirdre.

  She moves to the credenza, expertly slides the bottle of bourbon under her wrap and into the depths of her yoga pants, then returns to her chair. I almost laugh at how smoothly she does it, and how outrageous a move it is.

  Shortly Antonia reappears with a bright-pink bottle. “The good stuff. From my private stash.”

  Deirdre shakes her head. “I can’t take your Pepto.”

  Antonia waves her off. “I’m fully stocked. Take it, and we’ll see you in the morning.” She attends to something on her computer, and in a flash, Deirdre’s through the door. My heart thunders, as if I were the one who just swiped a bottle of liquor.

  Antonia turns from her computer and smiles at me. I smile back.

  “Did you see that?” she asks me. “She took the whiskey.”

  I hold my breath. I don’t know Deirdre well, but I’m not sure I want to rat out a fellow guest to the owner of the spa. It feels like stepping into a minefield.

  Antonia flutters her hand. “My best guess is she’s taking that bottle right back to her cottage, where she’s going to share it with her concierge. Which is fine, as she’s not here for a drinking problem. Or a sex addition, that I’m aware of.”

  It takes all my self-control to keep my mouth from dropping open.

  “Have you met Dimitri?” she asks.

  “Ah, no.”

  “An interesting young man. Handsome, of course, as they all are. Pleasant disposition. Smart-ish.” She leans back in her chair. “He’s nowhere close to as interesting as Deirdre’s husband, though, in my opinion. Did Deirdre tell you anything about him?”

  I shake my head, dumbfounded at the turn in the conversation.

  “His name is Michael. Forty-four, freelance writer and college journalism professor. Doesn’t make a lot of money, not the kind Deirdre wants. But he works around the clock, and he loves her. Hard to fathom preferring Dimitri over a man like that. But I guess we all make our choices, don’t we?”

  A strand of her white-blonde hair has come loose from the braid, the tendril framing her face. Shock has all but immobilized me. I am stunned at everything she’s just said. Has this woman ever heard of a breach of confidentiality? What the hell kind of rehab is this?

  One surrounded with a cadre of waving red flags, that’s for sure.

  Her lips part, and a tip of pink tongue darts up over her top teeth as she leans forward, templing her fingers. “I know you’re dying to ask me. Don’t you want to know why Deirdre’s really here?”

  I can’t look away from her. I’m stunned at her behavior but also, in a strange way, mesmerized. I feel like I’ve woken up in some alternate universe.

  “Of course, it’s none of your business. And normally, this kind of information is for my eyes only. But you’re an exception, Erin. I really respect you . . . and would be interested in your perspective. Rest assured, this conversation would be just between you and me.”

  It feels all kinds of wrong, but her words have ignited my curiosity, and it’s quickly overtaking my caution. I take in a measured breath.

  “Okay. Why is she here?”

  She stares at me over the peak of her fingers. “She’s in the rub-and-tug business. Our lovely friend, Deirdre Galliani, who lives in Boston with her devoted husband, Michael, and her two young children, happens to run a wildly successful massage operation in a high-end community in central Florida. Dozens of employees, beautiful young women, working their way through college mostly. Three locations, all rental houses in exclusive neighborhoods. She’s made a lot of money for years, all tax free, of course.” She winks. “Been lying for years about the business to her family back in Boston. Told them she was in the importing business.” She lets out a delicate little snort. “Why do they always say that? That they’re in the importing business? It’s so obviously a cover.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  “They just found out—her husband, parents, and children. Saw all the dirty details, pictures, documents, the whole nine yards. So her husband sent her to Hidden Sands to reconsider her life. To decide whether she wants her family—her life with them and position in the community—or the business.”

  She hesitates, her voice slow and girlish and just the faintest bit shy. “I have a confession—I was hoping she would take the alcohol so you and I could chat alone.” She leans forward, eyes sparking. “I know who you are, Erin. What you and your late husband did with your friends—creating a breakout app thousands of miles away from Silicon Valley. I’ve got to say, I admire you so much. In fact, I’m kind of starstruck just to be sitting here with you.”

  It’s a line—utter bullshit—but her words send a small thrill of pride up my spine anyway.

  She flushes, stammering a little. “As a businesswoman, you are such an example to me. To all young women. Starting a business in your forties.”

  “Well, I didn’t do it alone.”

  “Of course not. Who does? I’m just saying that what you did do is really inspiring to me. You know”—she lays one delicate hand on her chest—“as a person who other people would like to write off.”

  “Write off?”

  “You know. Young, privileged daughter of a wealthy man. I’ve got the fancy degree and all the right connections. I’m the person everyone loves to hate. So when I heard you were coming, I just felt . . .” She puts her hand over her heart again. Her nails are manicured in an intricate black and pale-pink ombré that I can’t tear my eyes from. “I’m obsessed with Jax. Of course, Hidden Sands uses a modified merchant budget. And when anyone starts to work for me, I insist they sign up for Jax as well. It’s really the foundation of all good financial decisions.”

  “You’ve got to stop,” I say. “I’m going to start crying or self-deprecating or something.”

  “Oh God, not the dreaded self-deprecation.” We both laugh, and she sends me a shy smile. “I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable.”

  “No, not at all. I’m flattered.”

  Flattered, I think, just not fooled.

  “Erin.” She pushes aside her tray, filet still untouched. “In your own words, why exactly are you here?”

  I shift in my seat. “The night I dropped my daughter off at college, I had an episode. I blacked out, apparently borrowed a friend’s car without asking.”

  “Do you have a drinking problem? Because that’s not what your intake file says.”

  “May I see it?” I ask.

  Antonia cocks her head. “How about I summarize it for you instead? You haven’t been taking care of yourself properly since your husband’s death. You’ve been working around the clock, but not fulfilling your responsibilities in an adequate manner. Sleeping a lot. Neglecting your daughter and the rest of your family.”

  I swallow down the lump in my throat. “Okay.”

  “Do you think you needed rehab for that, though? Why couldn’t they have just sent you on a luxury Mediterranean cruise? Or at least something a little less rigorous than this place? I mean, come on.” She laughs.

  I want to agree, but I’m wary. I just watched this woman set up Deirdre, right in front of me, then break all kinds of confidentiality rules. And although I realize the whole episode was just a bit of amateur theater so she could show me who was boss, I don’t trust her. She’s got a chip on her shoulder and something to prove. And people like that can be dangerous. I’m thinking the smartest thing for me to do is to let Antonia Erdman scratch her dominance itch—and
then, hopefully she’ll feel like expediting my L’Élu and early release.

  I shake my head. “I guess my friends and family thought I was on a destructive path. That I was about to make an unwise decision.”

  “Oh? What decision?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  She studies me. “Fair enough. But let’s talk about how you feel. Do you think you belong at Hidden Sands?”

  “I think I can get something out of the experience.”

  “Diplomatic answer. A person like you, a smart person, can get something out of any experience. I am a firm believer in the therapeutic model we’ve developed here at Hidden Sands. But I don’t think it’s for everybody. And I don’t think it’s what you need right now.”

  I wait.

  “You’ve been through a terrible trauma, Erin. And the way I see it, you could really use a break. An opportunity to drop all your cares and worries and responsibilities and just let go.”

  I think about that kiss with Ben on my front steps. The feel of his rough cheek against mine. The easiness of being in his arms. It had felt so good to let down my guard, to not be sad about Perry or guilty about Jax or worried about Shorie. It had been such a relief just to be.

  “It sounds wonderful, actually,” I admit.

  “It can be therapeutic to escape,” she says. “From the days that keep marching by. The relationships that weigh us down with so many expectations. A break can allow you to let down your defenses. Heal the way your psyche wants to.”

  I feel like the conversation has taken yet another turn. One I don’t fully understand. Jesus. What is it with this woman?

  “I’d like to offer you another Hidden Sands experience,” Antonia says evenly. “The VIP experience. There is a second L’Élu group. L’Élu II. It’s strictly off the books—an alternative program we offer to a select few who do not wish or do not need to go through the traditional L’Élu I.”

  She’s watching me expectantly, and now not only red flags are waving, but also flags of every other color of the rainbow.

  “In a nutshell, for a substantially higher fee, you’ll spend five days of absolute freedom at an undisclosed location on Ile Saint Sigo—to do whatever you want, with whomever you want, enjoying the kind of privacy and discretion only afforded by Hidden Sands’ top-notch staff.”

  I stare at her. She waits.

  “You mean,” I finally say, “like, whatever.”

  She smiles. “In terms of the legalities of the particular activities you may choose to indulge in, we’re a mostly privately owned island, under the jurisdiction of the Royal Saint Lucia Police. But they aren’t known to take much notice about what’s going on here.” She lifts her eyebrows. “I do what I want on the island. And what I want is to offer you five full days and nights to do what you want—even if that’s just Netflix and nap.”

  I level my gaze at her. “So, you’re telling me, while my friends and family think I’m completing some kind of arduous, vision quest–style recovery program, really I’m sitting in the sun, drinking wine, and watching movies?”

  “If that’s what you choose, yes.” She leans back in her cushy chair. “And at the end of the five days, you still go home with an authentic, verifiable Hidden Sands L’Élu certificate accepted by any doctor or court in the States.”

  I laugh in disbelief. Netflix and nap. Spooky how she knows exactly what I’d want to do if I had free time. I definitely underestimated this woman.

  She continues. “We can access your account immediately. I take wire transfers through Jax, as it happens.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand. Why would you offer me this?”

  “I like you,” she says simply. “And I admire what I’ve read about you. Other women I’ve liked and admired have appreciated the chance to experience L’Élu II. So much so that after they returned home, many chose to partner with Erdman International, in one way or another.”

  She regards me from across the desk. I smile.

  Ah, yes. Here it is. The catch . . .

  “I think we might work well together,” she says. “I think I could add value as, I don’t know, maybe a board member, or a consultant.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “For example, have you considered who sent you here, Erin? Is there any reason they might have to want you out of the picture for a while? So they could have full and free access to Jax while you’re gone?”

  I haven’t considered that. Not really. Not until just this second.

  “Because I thought of it. And I think it’s only right that I should mention it to you. You deserve partners who are going to look out for your best interests.”

  “It’s not an issue,” I say, but that’s a lie. The intervention in my kitchen felt like a pile-on. Like it had been planned for a while, and Ben and Sabine and Layton and the rest of them were just waiting for me to mess up in a big enough way so they’d have their excuse. Like Antonia suggested, could there now be something going on back at Jax? Some kind of coup?

  “Look, I want you to succeed, Erin. But I think you should do it on your terms. And, as someone who admires you greatly, I’ve got to be honest. I don’t think you belong at Hidden Sands.”

  I don’t either, I want to shout. For the first time in months, I feel like someone understands that I’m neither okay nor a wreck. I’m just somewhere in between. And now there’s a way for everybody to get what they want.

  But how will Shorie react if she discovers I paid extra to take some kind of shortcut? To cheat? She’ll be furious. And I don’t know if I can deal with that. I’ve already let her down in so many ways. Not to mention Ben and Sabine.

  Goddammit. No. I refuse to give any of them the satisfaction of saying I didn’t finish what I started. I refuse to let them win. So I’m going to take my medicine with a big, fat smile on my face.

  I stand. “I appreciate the offer, Antonia. I really do. But I think I’m going to stick to the traditional experience. I may regret this, but I think I’ll just complete the program, like everybody else.”

  She stands too and extends her hand, like I’ve just opted to skip dessert. “Of course. Whatever you prefer. I just wanted to put the offer out there in good faith.”

  And yet, somehow, this whole conversation has felt miles and miles away from good faith.

  “Thank you for dinner,” I say.

  She gestures to the door. “Have a wonderful night, Erin.”

  When I find myself standing in the now midnight-blue lobby, Grigore is there. He tells me he can give me a ride in his golf cart, which is wedged into the gleaming line of town cars under the portico. While we wait for the caravan to move, four women spill out of the heavy wooden doors. Their knot tightens as they embrace one another. It’s the L’Élu group I saw earlier in the showers, only now they’re clean and dressed in civilian clothing.

  Antonia appears in the portico, says a few words of farewell to the women, and kisses each of them on the cheek. All except one woman—the young Latina woman with glasses who showered next to me. Agnes. The one who was crying in the spa services room. The woman who failed her L’Élu because she didn’t want to marry the man her father selected for her.

  I wonder what it means for me. Would Antonia still give me my L’Élu certificate even though I turned down her offer to come on board at Jax? And would there be any other repercussions? Our conversation in her office had felt like a trap, maybe even a touch threatening—but maybe it had just been nothing more than two businesswomen talking.

  After Antonia disappears, the three departing women load into the town car in front of our cart. A blond concierge takes Agnes’s elbow, and she hobbles beside him down the path. A white bandage peeks out from below the hem of her yoga pants.

  As Grigore maneuvers the cart past her, I notice a bottle of Veuve Clicquot nestled in the compartment behind the seat. I turn away, though, steeling myself. It’s probably being delivered to the mysterious L’Élu II, that hush-hush bacchanal somewhere up in th
e shadowy hills of Ile Saint Sigo. What I wouldn’t give for a phone right now. To tell Ben and Sabine and the rest of them that they’ve sent me to the sketchiest rehab in the Caribbean.

  They probably wouldn’t believe me. I barely believe it myself.

  I climb out of the cart and catch Grigore’s eye. “You wouldn’t want to come in, would you? Open that champagne?”

  He’s very still for a second. “I don’t think so.”

  I feel my face heat up. “Right.”

  “It’s just that . . . it’s a trap, you know.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I don’t mean you. I mean that”—he lifts his chin back at the bottle—“is a trap. Antonia’s little sadistic treat. You drink it tonight, what comes in the morning is that much more painful.”

  “Oh, right. I should’ve known.” I give him a look. “So what’s coming in the morning?”

  “Can’t tell you that. But, trust me, I’m doing you a favor.”

  Well, at least there’s one person on the staff of Hidden Sands who’s a straight shooter. That’s certainly refreshing.

  “What time should I wake up?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry about that. Everything’s taken care of.” He waves and unlocks the brake. I watch him go, observing the cart’s quiet journey down the path and to who knows where after that.

  20

  PERRY’S JOURNAL

  Friday, March 8

  TO DO:

  Dorothy McDaniel Florist—lilacs for Erin

  Ask Scotty to keep an eye out for similar Error Message or any other deadlocks/potential glitches in the servers

  Spider Beanie Baby—eBay? Etsy?

  WORK ON SHORIE’S LETTER

  Send Shorie message re: new Jax budget

  Globalcybergames.org

  License my roving hands, and let them go

  Before, behind, between, above, below.

  John Donne, “To His Mistress Going to Bed”

  My roving happinesses

  My roving harbors

  My roving hardwares

  My roving harms, harvests, hazards . . .