Until the Day I Die(33)

“I’m a little surprised that somebody so young owns all this,” I say.

Antonia’s bright expression doesn’t waver. “Yes. A lot of people look down on me because I didn’t earn my position the bootstrap way, the way they like their one percent to get rich, but I can’t help that. Caring what other people think is the fastest way to get yourself stuck. And what I lack in years I’ve made up for in personal experience. I struggled with addiction for a couple of years, when I was younger. Got into some trouble and spent some time in juvenile detention.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I learned so much through the whole experience. That’s why I keep those liquor bottles out. Every day those bottles and I fight a battle. And every day I win.”

Not exactly your conventional twelve-step program, I think. And maybe unwise, having alcohol sitting out in the open like this in a place swarming with addicts. But it’s not a mistake. Antonia Erdman may be young, but she strikes me as being far from careless.

“My addiction gives me a certain level of understanding of human nature,” Antonia continues. “The tendency we have to use people. To gain power over others in our fight for survival.”

She pushes aside her plate, the steak and potatoes untouched. She digs a spoon into her parfait, slides it into her mouth, licks it. “My father inherited a boutique hotel company from his father, and back in 1983, he bought this place. It was his favorite because it was so isolated. So pristine. He ran it personally for many years, then . . . well, after I ran into a little bit of trouble—for the third or fourth or fifth time—he decided I needed something to keep me busy, and he turned it over to me.” She practically glimmers with pride. “I expanded the program far beyond what my father ever expected. Hidden Sands is one of Erdman International’s highest-earning assets.”

“It’s a beautiful place,” I say. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“That’s why I call it a restoration facility rather than a rehab. We have traditional rehab services for those who require them, but truthfully, we’re here for anyone, at any point in their life. For any reason whatsoever. You choose your poison. So to speak.” She grins. “I know you won’t have your official tours until tomorrow, but in the meantime, is there anything you’d like to ask? Anything you’re curious about?”

“My concierge’s relationship status,” Deirdre says.

“Actually, yes,” I cut in. “Who were those women who came in earlier, into the shower? They looked really . . . beat up.”

Antonia dips her spoon into her parfait again. “Ah, yes. They’re our latest L’élu group. Our wilderness survival experience. After a certain number of days at Hidden Sands—enough time to assess if you’re ready—you partake in the experience.”

“One of them was bleeding.”

“It can be an intensely challenging experience. Accidents happen.”

“Can we do something else?” Deirdre asks. “Naked yoga for a week?”

“No. Everyone has to complete a L’élu at the end of their stay to officially graduate from the program.”

I lean forward. “You said ‘a certain number of days.’ Does that mean we could get out of here sooner than a month?”

“Well, it all comes down to satisfying the family’s request and occasionally a court order, but, all things being equal, yes. A few women who really want to dig into their recovery can attempt one sooner to try for early release.”

Early release. The words ring out like the chime of a church bell. I hadn’t realized that was a possibility, but now my head pulses with images: An early flight from Miami to Birmingham, the quick drive down to Auburn. A dinner out with Shorie, during which I apologize for being Mom in absentia for the past several months and invite her to tell me exactly how she feels. Ben too. Maybe not a dinner, though. A talk at the office.

The point is, with both of them, I would own up to my lack of self-awareness and fragility in the wake of Perry’s death. I would apologize—thoroughly and completely—for all my failures.

Swear to do better. To be better . . .

Beside me, Deirdre groans softly and pushes her tray back. Antonia leans forward, a look of concern on her face. “Deirdre?”

“Ouf. My apologies. Something just hit me.”

“The food?”

“Oh, no. The food was perfect.” She clutches her stomach. “Probably just the travel.”

“Would you like me to dial the nurse?” Antonia says. “We have a fully outfitted clinic if you need anything. Holistic treatments for any ailment.”

Deirdre waves her hand. “No, I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

Antonia stands. “Hold on,” she says, and disappears behind a door.

“Are you okay?” I ask Deirdre.

She moves to the credenza, expertly slides the bottle of bourbon under her wrap and into the depths of her yoga pants, then returns to her chair. I almost laugh at how smoothly she does it, and how outrageous a move it is.

Shortly Antonia reappears with a bright-pink bottle. “The good stuff. From my private stash.”

Deirdre shakes her head. “I can’t take your Pepto.”

Antonia waves her off. “I’m fully stocked. Take it, and we’ll see you in the morning.” She attends to something on her computer, and in a flash, Deirdre’s through the door. My heart thunders, as if I were the one who just swiped a bottle of liquor.