Page 10 of The Retreat

“You’re a cynical one, aren’t you?” He tilts his head, studying me. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

“I don’t trust anybody.” Learned that the hard way. “But it’s interesting, nonetheless.”

“Many of the people who stay here grow to love it.” He pins me with an enigmatic stare I have no hope of interpreting. “You’ll see.”

A little shiver ripples over me, like a million butterflies dancing across my skin, and I suppress the urge to shake it off.

“Here we are,” he says, stopping outside a door at the end of the corridor. It’s not numbered and has an ornate wrought-iron doorknob with a keyhole beneath it. “This sticks sometimes, so you’ll need to jiggle it.”

He rams a key in it to demonstrate, doing a half twist as he rattles the doorknob until it turns. The door creaks as it swings open and I stifle a grin. This place is really taking the gothic atmosphere to extremes.

“Hope you’re comfortable here.” He stands aside, allowing me to enter the room first, and I struggle not to gape.

A giant four-poster bed monopolizes the room, set high on a raised platform and draped in more of that purple velvet I’d seen in the foyer. It’s covered in a black satin duvet and matching pillows, with a weird compass symbol embossed on everything.

There’s an antique full-length oval mirror next to a chest of drawers, and a matching mahogany wardrobe opposite, but that monstrous bed dominates the room and I can’t tear my eyes away from it.

Either Harlan doesn’t see me gawking or he pretends not to notice, crossing the room to open a door. “There’s a private bathroom through here. It’s stocked with everything you may need. Towels are laundered twice weekly, and I can show you where all that happens later. We share meals in the dining room or outside, wherever you’re more comfortable. And I’ll give you the grand tour of the grounds once you’re settled.”

I take a tentative step into the room, feeling like I’ve stepped into a fairytale. But I gave up believing in those a long time ago, around the time Mom sold all my books to buy vodka when I was nine, and I can’t let my guard down, no matter how amazing this is.

“You’re overwhelmed,” he says, approaching me cautiously, as if scared I’ll bolt. “Take your time. Get settled. And come outside to meet everyone when you’re ready.”

I finally unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Okay, thanks.”

“My room’s at the other end of the corridor.”

I don’t know why he’s telling me this, but as our gazes lock, something undefinable sizzles between us and that shivery sensation is back, making me want to rub my arms.

“I’ll see you later,” he says, his smile genuine, but secrets lurk in his eyes as he heads for the door.

I wait until he closes it before sinking to the floor and hugging my knees to my chest, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.

Chapter7

Lucy

Cora hadn’t been kidding about the rooms. With the ash floorboards, slanted roofline, ecru furniture, and sleek gray bathroom, my home for the next week is ultra-modern and I love it. I’ve never stayed in anything so opulent.

Our brownstone in Manhattan is sparse and understated. Mom made it into a sanctuary and it’s home to me, but this space is something I envisage myself living in once I’m a world-famous author. Ha. As if. I actually have to get words down on paper for that to happen and with a severe case of writer’s block for the last few weeks, that’s increasingly unlikely.

I know I’m being hard on myself because all I’ve done is wallow since Mom’s devastating death, but I’ve lost the urge to write completely and can’t see it returning. I’ll give it time, but the spark just isn’t there anymore and I wonder if I’ll ever find joy in writing again.

My eyes immediately zero in on the small bookcase near the bed and I cross the room to squat and peruse the titles, an eclectic mix of genre fiction, biographies and historicals. I slide a hardcover out, OUTER BANKS TREASURE, intrigued by the now-familiar Viking compass on the spine. I give it a quick flick-through, knowing I’m going to read this cover to cover over the next week because I need to discover the link between the compass emblem and Mom, so I place it on the bedside table.

I’m not sure how forthcoming Cora’s going to be with information. She seems friendly enough, but the way she looked at me earlier, like she knows I have an ulterior motive for coming here…it gave me the creeps.

I open the blinds and can’t see much beyond a lit path leading to a pavilion I assume is the day spa. Darkness descends quickly here and I slide open the heavy glass door and step onto a small balcony, inhaling the tangy brine from an ocean I can faintly hear. The grounds are quiet and nothing like the gardens at the hotel I stayed in at Atlantic City once for a librarian conference, where guests mingled outside any time of day or night.

Without access to televisions, computers or any digital devices, I’m not sure what guests do here at night and I hope I’m not expected to join in any group activities. I have no desire to make small talk or feign interest in other people when I’m here for one reason only: to discover why my mom had that Viking emblem tattooed on the sole of her foot and how it’s linked to Arcania.

I hear a soft knock at the door and head back into the room. When I open the door, I struggle not to stare at the man holding a large tray covered in two silver cloches. Not that there’s anything particularly remarkable about him, but he’s vaguely familiar and I’m struggling to work out how I could recognize someone here when I’ve never been beyond the state of New York.

The way he’s staring at me, like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out, makes me wonder if he’s experiencing the same odd déjà vu as me.

“Excuse me, Ms. Phillips. Cora said you wanted dinner in your room tonight?”

“Yes, please, come in.” I step back, slightly annoyed at Cora’s presumptuousness. When she mentioned me eating in my room, I envisaged ordering something from a room service menu, not being served like a child with no choice.

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