Until the Day I Die(32)

I smile.





19

ERIN

The lobby’s changed colors. It’s now a soft twilight lavender, and there’s not a soul in sight. The Filipino woman leads us beside the rippling indoor stream and toward the back.

A series of columned arches opens up into a large wood-paneled room scattered with round tables. The only sound is the muted clink of cutlery against china. About thirty or so women, dressed in the Hidden Sands outfit, have already started the meal. Heads down, they all chew in silence. Deirdre and I exchange glances.

“Bon appétit,” the Filipino woman says and leaves us.

At the buffet, we heap salad, a vegetarian couscous concoction, and grilled fish onto plates monogrammed with a gold HS, then sit at a table with three other women.

“Hi,” I say, nodding all around. The women jerk up their heads and stare. Deirdre bursts into laughter.

Bang!

We look up to see a tall, red-cheeked woman, dressed in chef’s whites, standing at our table. She’s just thwacked the table with a huge metal cooking spoon. Her eyes narrow at Deirdre.

“Honor the food,” she says. “Engage all the senses as you eat. Be mindful. Start with the salad. Small bites, ten chews before swallowing. At the bell, move on to the entrée.”

A laugh wants to bubble out of me, but at the woman’s stern look, I stifle it.

“No talking,” she repeats, and spins on her heel.

“I’m calling that one Aunt Lydia.” Deirdre shoves a mountainous bite of couscous into her mouth, chews loudly a couple of times, and then swallows it down.

From the lavender glow of the main reception area, a woman appears beneath the arch. Her gaze sweeps over the room; then she spots us and strides toward our table. Up close I see that she’s young, closer to Shorie’s age than mine. She stops at our table.

“Hello.” She has a cherub’s face, sunny and makeup free. Her white-blonde hair is woven in a complex system of braids forming a crown around her head. Her nose is just pert enough to give her a childlike, innocent look. She’s wearing the same thing as Deirdre and me—the pajama pants from heaven, tank, and cardigan. Underneath she’s got a knockout body.

She smiles warmly at us. “Newcomers, would you follow me, please?”

We leave our plates, and outside in the shadowy reception area, she clasps my hand in hers. “Erin Gaines, it’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. I heard you arrived later this afternoon, after the morning orientation. I’m Antonia Erdman, the owner of Hidden Sands.” She glances at Deirdre. “And Ms. Galliani, of course. So happy to have you both here.”

In the lavender light, the woman looks like a teenager. It seems hard to reconcile that somebody so young could possibly own a huge resort like this. But of course, as Grigore said, her wealthy father gave the place to her. A playhouse to keep the princess occupied. Must be nice.

Antonia sneaks a glance into the dining hall, then tilts her head in the other direction. “Would you two like to come back to my office and eat with me? Where we can talk in private?”

“Absolutely,” Deirdre says.

“Sure,” I say.

In a few minutes, we’re through the lobby and down another shadowy corridor that leads us to Antonia’s office. The space is expansive, all blond wood and Hidden Sands White and filled with expensive modern furniture. At one end of a floating credenza sits a tidy collection of bottles—high-quality scotch, rye, and bourbon, ringed by a set of crystal tumblers. I almost do a double take. A rather unexpected sight in the office of the owner of a rehabilitation center.

We sit on either side of an impressive acrylic-and-wood structure that looks more like a piece of art than a desk, and I examine the room. A cluster of silver-framed photos sits on the credenza behind her desk—the Erdman family on a sailboat, and the elder Erdman, about Arch’s age from the looks of it, and his gorgeous, much younger, blonde wife at a formal event. There’s also a photo of teenage Antonia, arm in arm with another teenager, a tall boy in sunglasses and a blue baseball cap.

I check out the walls. A series of four small paintings hangs on one wall. Jagged black slashes of paint, cut with random splotches of gold and pink.

“You’re familiar with Tachism?” Antonia asks.

I shake my head. “Not really.”

“Oh, you should look into it. It’s such an unbridled expression of freedom.”

A spectacularly good-looking young man (of course) delivers a stack of silver trays. I’m starving, and the meal looks like a delicious departure from the rabbit food they were serving in the dining room. Rare filet mignon, mashed potatoes, asparagus drizzled with hollandaise. Dessert is some kind of complicated fruit parfait. I try not to shove it in my face all at once, but by the time I’m halfway through the potatoes, I look up and notice that Antonia is watching me.

I send her a sheepish smile. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

“No, that’s great. Go for it.” She nods at me. “I wholeheartedly approve of the female appetite, in every way.”

Okay.

“What do you think so far? Of Hidden Sands?” She’s directing the question at me.

“I think it’s amazing. I just . . .”

Antonia smiles encouragingly. “Go ahead. Say it.”

Where to start? The bizarrely attractive staff? The grossly misleading brochure? The ever-so-slightly threatening private lecture happening in the spa? If I’m being honest, I want explanations for all of it, but I know better. This woman holds my immediate future in her hands. I need to keep things friendly.