The Writing Retreat(54)

“Good evening, ladies.” Roza swept in wearing a clinging floor-length black dress. Her hair was pinned back and she looked like a high priestess from the Middle Ages. I tried to tamp down my anger. Wren was not going to make me lose it again in front of Roza.

Behind Roza, Chitra carried two trays of candy—gummy bears and candy hearts—to the table, greeting us affably.

“Chitra, can you stay and hang out?” Taylor asked.

“I wish. But I need to go and finish dinner preparations.” She gave Taylor a playful wink.

Roza sat at her normal place in the red chair nearest the fireplace. She accepted the glass from Taylor without looking at her. Taylor plopped into the chair next to her, appearing a bit put out—presumably that Roza hadn’t appreciated or even noticed her creative outfit.

Poppy sat next to Wren on the couch, and Keira and I settled onto the love seat.

“And so we reach the midpoint.” Roza grinned. She turned, noticing Taylor’s shirt. “Oh, my, what’s this?”

Taylor straightened her paper-coated sweater and smiled proudly. Roza gave a little laugh. “Brilliant. How appropriate it is that we get to be together on the traditional day of love.” Roza’s makeup made her even more striking than usual.

“Does everyone know the true story of Valentine’s Day?” Taylor asked in her snooty faux–English teaching voice.

Roza smiled and gestured. “Do tell, darling.”

“Well, it started in ancient Rome,” Taylor said in her normal voice. “In those days the Romans celebrated a festival called Lupercalia. It fell over a few days in mid-February. And it was pretty kinky.” She moved her head from side to side. “The strong, hunky men would sacrifice animals and use the hides to whip the ladies. They thought it bestowed fertility. And”—she gestured with her glass—“they had a fun little lottery where the guys would pull female names to have a… companion, shall we say, for the rest of the feast.”

“A true bacchanalia.” Roza beamed.

“But where did the name Valentine come from?” I asked.

“Good question. It was the Catholics. They actually martyred a couple different Valentines. And seeing as how they liked to reclaim pagan holidays, they decided to just go with it.” Taylor raised her glass and drained it. “You’ve got to hand it to them, naming a fun new holiday after people you’ve murdered is pretty bold.”

“Gross,” Poppy said.

Taylor jumped up with her empty glass, eyes on the punch bowl.

“That’s enough,” Roza said sharply. Taylor froze, her mouth slightly agape.

“You don’t want more than one glass,” Roza said more kindly.

“Why not?” Keira asked, stifling a yawn.

“There’s a special Valentine’s Day ingredient.” Roza pulled up her feet to sit cross-legged. The dark dress fluttered over her lap.

“There is?” Poppy held up her nearly empty glass. Mine was empty, too, with just a pink crystalline drop rolling at the bottom.

“Wait, what?” Keira straightened. “You put something in the punch?”

I looked around; Wren’s drink was nearly gone. Keira had the most left, maybe a half inch.

Roza tapped at her empty glass. “Ladies, do you trust me?”

My stomach dipped like I’d been walking on solid ground only to find my foot plunging through air.

“Actually, no.” Keira set the glass on the coffee table. Her face was a mask.

“Oh, darling.” Roza gazed at her. “You know how much I care for you all. That I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“Okay, what’s going on?” Poppy asked, sounding uneasy. Wren sniffled into her tissue, looking befuddled.

“But my goal is to make you better.” Roza’s smile dropped away. “The process is not always enjoyable or easy. In fact, it can—and should—be very painful. I’ve noticed that as we reach our midpoints, we’re all feeling much too comfortable. We’re not taking risks. We’re not pushing ourselves. We need to go deeper. We need to let go.”

“So…” Keira indicated her glass. “What does that have to do with the punch?”

“Did you drug us?” Taylor asked. In the stunned silence, she let out a laugh. “You drugged us!”

“You make it sound so predatory.” Roza rolled her eyes.

The information took a second to sink in. I felt dazed as I set the glass on a side table. Did I feel drugged? I couldn’t tell. I felt off, but then again the whole situation felt off. It brought me back to college, to the mantras we all knew. Don’t leave your drink unattended. Don’t let a guy buy a drink for you.

A hysterical thought arose: Who would’ve thought my first drugging would be from my feminist heroine?

“Roza, I’m sorry, but this is not okay.” Keira’s sharp voice broke through. “It’s unethical, not to mention illegal.” For once, Keira’s careful guard was down. Her face was tight with anger, her hands curled into fists.

“Well, darling.” Roza seemed unfazed. “We could discuss the ethical implications, certainly. But it’s not illegal. You all signed the paperwork. You agreed to fully participate in this retreat.”

“?‘Participate’?” Keira scoffed. “Are you serious right now?”