Page 130 of Nobody's Fool

Why?

I guess I’ll have to ask her.

We get off the highway, make too many quick turns, and then we drive down a long, narrow, tree-lined street until we reach an unmarked dead end. There are no visible structures on this road. No signs either. Nothing. If you don’t know where the Solemani Recovery Center is, you’re not supposed to find it. It’s that kind of place. We start up the small dirt drive until—yep, you guessed it—we reach a guard booth and a gate. The guard approaches Gary’s car as we slow down.

“May I help you?”

I roll down my window and do the talking. “I’m here to see Caroline Burkett.”

“Name?”

“Sami Kierce.”

The guard saunters back to his little hut. He picks up the phone, his baleful eyes on me as if worried I might steal the silverware. A moment later, he hangs up and comes back out. “Drive up to the guest lot. It’ll be on the right. Someone will meet you there.”

I salute him.

The guard leans into the car. “Sir?” He is talking now to Gary.

“Yes?”

“Please do not leave the vehicle for any reason.”

“Got it.”

The gate is one of those arms. The guard presses a button, and the arm lifts. We start up the drive.

“Suppose I have to pee,” Gary says.

“What did you do when you’d have to pee in the middle of a golf course?”

“Duck behind a tree.”

“Seriously?”

“Literally, every man does it. It’s almost a rite of passage.”

I shake my head. “Golfers are weird.”

Buildings of rain-gray stone emerge. Old buildings. Classy buildings. But you feel the solace, the refuge, the nature. If you’re rich and an addict, the Solemani seems like a pretty sweet getaway.

A young woman in a golf cart is waiting for us in the guest lot. She wears a peach aviation scarf like a flight attendant.

“May I see your ID, please?”

I hand her my driver’s license. She takes out her mobile phone, snaps a pic of my ID, and hands it back to me. Then she invites me to sit with her in the cart.

“Caroline is waiting for you in Brocklehurst Hall. I’ll take you there.”

As we drive up the hill, we pass a fountain with a statue of what looks like the Virgin Mother. I look at her. She smiles.

“Until 1978, this place was a Catholic convent. My understanding is it was full of nuns.”

Well, yes, I think. If it’d been a convent, there would indeed be nuns.

“All the nuns who lived here took a vow of poverty.”

“If you’re going to take a vow of poverty,” I say, “this seems a nice place to do it.”

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