Until the Day I Die(27)
He smiles. “If you did, you’d just roll down the hill and end up with a couple of bruises or a twisted ankle, tops.”
I note that, on either end of the sandy crescent, high cliffs block any view. In spite of the string of cottages that line the ridge on either side of mine, I feel isolated. Perfectly and completely alone in this place. No one’s on the beach below my balcony, not one sunbather, not even a yoga class. I am suddenly filled with longing for Shorie. I wonder if Dele is looking after her. I hope so.
“Perhaps you could meditate instead.” Grigore gestures to the nearby cottages.
From my vantage point, I can see the balconies of the other cottages, and on at least half of them are women, dressed in the Hidden Sands uniform, their hair loose. Their eyes are closed, expressions serene, doing their thing. It looks peaceful. Bees swarm the purple blooms creeping up the side of the balcony and up onto the overhang. I close my eyes too. Their music fills my head. Even then, it doesn’t drown out the memories.
When Shorie was young, she was deathly afraid of bees, especially the fat kind that didn’t sting but dive-bombed her head every time she went outside. One day, after swimming at the neighborhood pool, Perry pointed out a lilac bush that had just bloomed. Mom loves lilacs. They’re her favorite flower, he told her. Which was true, even though I’d only mentioned it once, back when we first met our freshman year at Auburn. Perry always remembered those kinds of things—the small details that other men usually forgot.
Shorie was terrified, but she’d always been willing to do anything for Perry, and a little bit later they came home with armfuls of the fragrant purple blossoms. That night when we were in bed, Perry pulled up a video on his phone.
Shorie, hair wet, shivers in her beach towel next to the lilac bush at the end of our street. Her eyes are closed, freckles standing out on her snub nose, brown lashes fluttering because she’s concentrating so hard on standing still. The bees swarm her and swarm her, and after a moment or two, a slow grin transforms her face. She’s blissed out. “They’re singing me a song,” she says, then tilts her face back and starts to giggle. The shot tightens on her face. Shorie laughs and the bees laugh and my handsome, loving, big-hearted husband laughs with them all, making the camera shake so much that he loses Shorie altogether and it’s just a series of quick pans of a lilac bush and the grass and the blue, cloudless summer sky . . .
And then I think of Shorie’s face, looking at me across the kitchen table yesterday afternoon. I’ve failed her in so many ways. Messed everything up so badly that now I’m at a rehab facility, for the love of God. How did I let things get so out of hand?
When I open my eyes, Grigore has vanished. And so has his golf cart. I pad back into the bare room and sit on the bed and wonder what I’m supposed to do next. The tropical vibe makes me want a fruity rum drink or maybe to order up room service and watch movies in bed. But this isn’t vacation, and there’s no TV or bar in my room. There’s nothing here but my own crowding, guilt-inducing thoughts about Perry and Shorie.
I amble out onto my cottage’s miniscule front patio. The sun’s already set, but there are lights everywhere—lanterns on the cottages and rows and rows of blazing iron tiki torches. I look to my right, down the line of cottages that stretches along the jungle path, maybe as far as the cliffs. It’s hard to say; the darkness and the leafy tangle obscure my view. To my left, there are at least a dozen cottages separating mine from the main building. I set off in the direction of the spa—no locking the door, as they don’t believe in keys around here, apparently. There’s about forty-five minutes before dinner, and since Grigore didn’t leave me with any instructions, I’m guessing I’m free to explore the place.
I keep to a narrow grass path, which is soft and spongy under my feet. I only notice it now—all the landscaping around here is reversed. The paths are grass; the beds, gravel sprouting with palms and birds of paradise and frangipani. The message is clear. Stay on the paths.
I sense someone behind me and jump.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” It’s a woman, tall and pretty in that aging cheerleader way, with a perfectly highlighted blonde bob, sharp eyes, and a husky voice. Her face is lined—delicately so, probably from hours on the tennis court—but something about the twist of her lips and the no-bullshit light in her eyes raises my antennae. She’s either an entrepreneur or an executive, has to be.
“I’m in cottage nineteen. Deirdre,” she says. “Are you new too?”
“Twelve. Erin Gaines. Just got here a couple of hours ago.” We shake and start back down the path side by side. “Did your guy, your concierge, give you a schedule or a map or anything?”
“Nope,” she says. “Too busy strutting around, flexing his arms, trying to give me a lady boner.”
“They are all strangely good looking,” I agree. “Are you un, deux, ou trois?”
“Trois. I think it’s the people without major drug or alcohol addictions.” She eyes me, and I suddenly realize how awkward it’s going to be here, trying to meet people without prying into their lives.
“Sounds about right. I’m here just to take a break from work.”
She grins. “Ah, work. The ultimate addiction.”
“You’ve got that right.”
We arrive at the main building, and the doormen open the doors for us. The lobby is the same as it was an hour ago. And yet somehow different. Still deliciously cool and fragrant and buzzing with insanely attractive staff, male and female. And then it hits me. The light is no longer green. It’s salmon colored—the gentle pink-orange of a sunset.