Until the Day I Die(22)
What the . . .
“Fucking Antonia,” she snaps into the phone. “L’élu was a nightmare the first time I did it, and she’s going to make me do it again. I will tell you this, if she doesn’t let up with this Survivor bullshit, I’m never coming back.”
She stops just short of the door, pirouettes, and catches my eye. Her mouth twists into a snide grin, and she winks, like we’re sharing some kind of secret. Then she glides through the double wood doors, her entourage swarming behind her, bearing bags and totes. No single-duffel rule for movie stars, I guess.
“Shall we?” Grigore gestures toward the open doors.
The lobby—an architect’s dream of concrete, glass, steel, and white plaster—is blessedly frosty and smells like cucumber and mint. Enormous bamboo fans whir overhead, and at my feet, a deep, pebble-lined stream stocked with koi ripples through the center of the room, powered by some unseen pump. Concrete ledges extend out into the indoor stream, providing stepping stones across the space.
The room itself has just the slightest green tint to it—a soothing glow coming from some light source I can’t see. And there are flowers everywhere. Not just tropical flowers—roses and peonies and lilies and ranunculus and foxglove and even sprays of hard green blackberries budding from the stalk. They must spend a fortune shipping them in.
More staff—male and female—glide across the room. A couple of them smile and murmur welcomes to me. They’re all in their twenties or early thirties, all easy on the eyes. Like, improbably so. I try to avoid eye contact; not that I have anything against attractive people, but so much pretty in one place is striking me as peculiar.
I wonder how much my friends and family know about Hidden Sands. How much research they did before shuttling me off here to Supermodel Island to get fixed.
“This way.” Grigore puts a glass of water in my hands. There’s a tiny purple blossom floating on the top, and the water tastes like the room smells. Suddenly overcome with thirst, I chug most of it, flower and all. At a desk tucked in an unobtrusive corner sits a lovely (of course) woman. She’s dark skinned, with close-cropped platinum-dyed hair and a narrow gold ring in her nose. A silky white sarong is knotted under her arms. She smiles at Grigore.
“Un, deux, ou trois?”
Grigore nods at her. “Trois. Erin Gaines.”
The woman smiles and extends her hand. “Ms. Gaines, welcome to Hidden Sands. To body, soul, and spirit restoration. Anything you need during your stay, anything at all, if you’ll just leave a handwritten note on my desk, I’ll take care of it.” She waves her hand behind her. There’s a stack of notecards and a glass of pens. No computer or phone that the guests could use. “I trust you had a pleasant flight and ferry over?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Cell and bag, please.” She eyes my purse, and I hand them over. She deposits the phone in a drawer, and after a quick inspection, returns my bag. “Your phone will be locked in a safe for the duration of your stay. You aren’t on any medications, correct?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“We have a roster of experts at your disposal: a naturopath, iridologist, hypnotherapist. In our Ayurvedic spa, we offer Reiki, acupuncture, and volcanic mud facials.”
“Straight from your own personal volcano,” I say.
She smiles. “That’s right. Additionally, for a more in-depth Hidden Sands experience, may I suggest our Life Odyssey program? It’s an immersive—a three-day alternative course of curated experiences, based on ancient techniques and modern clinical practices, designed and supervised by our owner, Antonia Erdman.”
“Sounds fun.”
The woman laughs. “More like life changing. And if you’re wondering, no, it’s not described in the brochure. Many of our experiences aren’t. We use the brochure—and the website—as more of a way to draw people in, people who might feel skittish about rehab.”
“So no tennis or golf?”
“We believe restorative work is best done in a competition-free environment.”
I’m nodding and smiling, resisting the urge to laugh in disbelief. If Jax lied on our advertising like that, we would catch all kinds of trouble, but it appears down here in the crazy Caribbean, nobody gives a shit.
“Sound good?” She gently removes the empty glass from my hand.
“Yes.” And then, like a reflex, I think of all the ways it’s not going to be good. And I don’t feel like laughing anymore.
The woman says something to Grigore in French—demain is all I catch—and hands him a key.
“What did you just say about tomorrow?” I ask. They both stare at me. I guess they’re not used to guests asking questions. “Sorry, I only have a little bit of French.”
The woman laughs. “No problem. I just said you’ll be beginning your personalized program tomorrow.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Grigore will show you to the prep station and then your room.” She sweeps her hand toward the rear of the building. “Dinner’s at eight thirty in the dining hall.”
We traverse the clear rippling stream with a series of skips across three floating concrete pads. We head down a long hall and stop at a set of frosted glass doors. The word PREP is etched in the glass. We enter a dim, quiet room with wood-paneled walls and a smooth concrete floor. Piped-in music plays, a soothing classical guitar. Another woman behind another desk smiles warmly at me.