Until the Day I Die(21)
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, then 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.