The Writing Retreat(14)
“No need, it’s all taken care of.” It was strange seeing Joe head-on after the forty-five minutes in the car. He was similarly taking stock of me, his expression serious. “You two be careful, okay?” He reached out and I shook his hand.
“Thank you, Joe! You’re the best!” Poppy cried, wheeling her suitcase to the front steps. I followed, glancing back to see Joe already pulling around the drive.
“Okay, girl.” Poppy grinned, her hand hovering over the circular doorbell. “Ready?”
For a second I couldn’t breathe, but I nodded and Poppy pushed. A deep thrum came from inside the house, like a purr or a growl. My fingers tightened on my suitcase’s handle as the door slowly creaked open.
Chapter 6
A woman poked her head out, her expression impassive, as if faintly annoyed we’d appeared on her doorstep. She was maybe in her late forties, with pale skin, delicate lines ringing melancholy sea-gray eyes, and bleached hair pulled tightly into a bun.
“Uh, hi,” Poppy said after the woman remained silent. “Is this… we’re here for the retreat.” She glanced at me. “I mean, obviously.”
“Okay.” The woman squinted and pulled open the door. “Come in.” She had an accent, something Slavic. Now she motioned impatiently for us to pull our suitcases inside. She wore a cherry-red velour tracksuit that hugged her curves. Poppy widened her eyes at me—WTF?—and I shrugged, hiding a smile. The woman reminded me of an imperious countess I’d been seated next to at an immersive dinner theater in college.
The second we let go of our bags, our host grasped them and took off. Her glutes swayed and the pink soles of her gym shoes flashed. Poppy hesitated and then rushed after her. I hurried after them both, my wet boots squeaking on the marble floor.
We zoomed through the entryway into a large front hall that rose at least fifty feet above us. An enormous marble staircase swept down from a second-floor landing. Large paintings filled the walls—to the left, abstract shapes, to the right, looming figures. A chandelier hung suspended over the staircase, casting light with hundreds of electric candles.
The space was grand, majestic, and a stream of giddiness filled my veins. I was here. I was in Blackbriar. I wanted to go back and tell my younger self, reading Devil’s Tongue in Barnes & Noble: Keep going. Despite all the bullshit, magical things are coming to you.
The woman veered off to the right, past a marble table topped with a vase of orange flowers. We followed her down a long hall lined with plush Moroccan rugs and marble statues, lit by stained glass wall sconces. Paintings dotted the velvety green walls. My eyes were trained on one that appeared to show a dead cow lying in a field when I slammed into Poppy.
“Oof!” she muttered while I cried, “Sorry!”
Poppy had stopped because our hostess had stopped. Still clutching our suitcases, the woman gestured with her chin at a nearby doorway. Through it, female laughter and the sounds of clinking glasses could be faintly heard.
“You go in there, with the other girls,” she said. “Okay?”
“Yes, thank you so much, and one quick question.” Poppy held up her phone. “What’s the Wi-Fi password? I’m not getting any reception.”
The woman watched her with barely hidden disdain. “No password.” She motioned to us. “Coats.” We obligingly slipped off our coats and handed them to her. She pointed to our hats and we gave them to her too. Somehow she managed to take hold of everything and rolled on, disappearing down the long hall.
“No password?” Poppy’s forehead crinkled beneath her freed crown of golden hair. She frowned at her phone screen. “But I’m not seeing any networks.”
“If everyone else is in there, they can probably tell us.” I was amazed at the calm in my voice. At the sounds of other women, my heart had started thudding, throwing itself against my chest like a caged animal. Wren.
“Yeah, okay, you’re right.” Poppy slipped her phone into her purse. “Let’s do it.” She squared her shoulders and went inside.
We both softly exclaimed as we entered the library, which, from my research, I’d always thought was the most spectacular room. Roza Vallo’s famed library. Ten thousand tomes. As a child—maybe still now—this would’ve been my fantasy: to be surrounded by so many books. The shelves stretched up to the high ceiling, more books than anyone could read in a lifetime. At the far end, windows shone pale light on an assortment of plush couches and chairs grouped around a massive stone fireplace. A table nearby was heaped with platters of cheese, meats, fruit, and about five bottles of wine. One woman’s back was to us as she loaded her plate. Another appeared to be lying on a couch, but all I could see was a striped, socked foot resting on the arm.
“Hi!” Poppy called as we approached.
The woman by the food turned and the other’s head popped up.
My heart slowed. No Wren.
It was funny: I hadn’t even considered the other women who would be at the retreat. Who they would be, what our group would feel like.
I plastered a smile on my face. First impressions were important—and especially if Wren was going to arrive after me, it’d be helpful to have a head start in getting everyone on my side.
“Heyyy!” The girl on the couch had a mischievous grin and freckles sprinkled over sharp, fox-like features. Her short blond hair was tinged with a faded green dye, which added to the overall elvish effect. She lifted her glass, and her loose, falling sleeve revealed colorful tattoos that glowed against her pale skin. “Welcome, friends! Come get some motherfucking wine!”