Until the Day I Die(34)

Antonia turns from her computer and smiles at me. I smile back.

“Did you see that?” she asks me. “She took the whiskey.”

I hold my breath. I don’t know Deirdre well, but I’m not sure I want to rat out a fellow guest to the owner of the spa. It feels like stepping into a minefield.

Antonia flutters her hand. “My best guess is she’s taking that bottle right back to her cottage, where she’s going to share it with her concierge. Which is fine, as she’s not here for a drinking problem. Or a sex addition, that I’m aware of.”

It takes all my self-control to keep my mouth from dropping open.

“Have you met Dimitri?” she asks.

“Ah, no.”

“An interesting young man. Handsome, of course, as they all are. Pleasant disposition. Smart-ish.” She leans back in her chair. “He’s nowhere close to as interesting as Deirdre’s husband, though, in my opinion. Did Deirdre tell you anything about him?”

I shake my head, dumbfounded at the turn in the conversation.

“His name is Michael. Forty-four, freelance writer and college journalism professor. Doesn’t make a lot of money, not the kind Deirdre wants. But he works around the clock, and he loves her. Hard to fathom preferring Dimitri over a man like that. But I guess we all make our choices, don’t we?”

A strand of her white-blonde hair has come loose from the braid, the tendril framing her face. Shock has all but immobilized me. I am stunned at everything she’s just said. Has this woman ever heard of a breach of confidentiality? What the hell kind of rehab is this?

One surrounded with a cadre of waving red flags, that’s for sure.

Her lips part, and a tip of pink tongue darts up over her top teeth as she leans forward, templing her fingers. “I know you’re dying to ask me. Don’t you want to know why Deirdre’s really here?”

I can’t look away from her. I’m stunned at her behavior but also, in a strange way, mesmerized. I feel like I’ve woken up in some alternate universe.

“Of course, it’s none of your business. And normally, this kind of information is for my eyes only. But you’re an exception, Erin. I really respect you . . . and would be interested in your perspective. Rest assured, this conversation would be just between you and me.”

It feels all kinds of wrong, but her words have ignited my curiosity, and it’s quickly overtaking my caution. I take in a measured breath.

“Okay. Why is she here?”

She stares at me over the peak of her fingers. “She’s in the rub-and-tug business. Our lovely friend, Deirdre Galliani, who lives in Boston with her devoted husband, Michael, and her two young children, happens to run a wildly successful massage operation in a high-end community in central Florida. Dozens of employees, beautiful young women, working their way through college mostly. Three locations, all rental houses in exclusive neighborhoods. She’s made a lot of money for years, all tax free, of course.” She winks. “Been lying for years about the business to her family back in Boston. Told them she was in the importing business.” She lets out a delicate little snort. “Why do they always say that? That they’re in the importing business? It’s so obviously a cover.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“They just found out—her husband, parents, and children. Saw all the dirty details, pictures, documents, the whole nine yards. So her husband sent her to Hidden Sands to reconsider her life. To decide whether she wants her family—her life with them and position in the community—or the business.”

She hesitates, her voice slow and girlish and just the faintest bit shy. “I have a confession—I was hoping she would take the alcohol so you and I could chat alone.” She leans forward, eyes sparking. “I know who you are, Erin. What you and your late husband did with your friends—creating a breakout app thousands of miles away from Silicon Valley. I’ve got to say, I admire you so much. In fact, I’m kind of starstruck just to be sitting here with you.”

It’s a line—utter bullshit—but her words send a small thrill of pride up my spine anyway.

She flushes, stammering a little. “As a businesswoman, you are such an example to me. To all young women. Starting a business in your forties.”

“Well, I didn’t do it alone.”

“Of course not. Who does? I’m just saying that what you did do is really inspiring to me. You know”—she lays one delicate hand on her chest—“as a person who other people would like to write off.”

“Write off?”

“You know. Young, privileged daughter of a wealthy man. I’ve got the fancy degree and all the right connections. I’m the person everyone loves to hate. So when I heard you were coming, I just felt . . .” She puts her hand over her heart again. Her nails are manicured in an intricate black and pale-pink ombré that I can’t tear my eyes from. “I’m obsessed with Jax. Of course, Hidden Sands uses a modified merchant budget. And when anyone starts to work for me, I insist they sign up for Jax as well. It’s really the foundation of all good financial decisions.”

“You’ve got to stop,” I say. “I’m going to start crying or self-deprecating or something.”

“Oh God, not the dreaded self-deprecation.” We both laugh, and she sends me a shy smile. “I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable.”