Page 14 of The Retreat

The corridor is short and opens into a stunningly modern room with soaring wood-lined ceilings, pristine white walls that are unadorned, and ivory marble tiles on the floor that are so clean I could eat off them. A long ash table that seats thirty dominates the room, with a juice bar in one corner and a buffet table covered in fruit and cereals in the other. There’s no one around and I head for the juice bar, pleased to see a selection of pre-made smoothies in takeout cups.

After selecting an exotic blend of papaya, lychee and pineapple, I retrace my steps, and this time choose the corridor leading to the recreation rooms. I pass a yoga studio, a Pilates room filled with intimidating equipment, a gym, and a meditation room. All are empty. The corridor ends at a heavy glass door that leads outside and that’s when I spy a few hardy souls—two couples—doing yoga on a patch of grass dappled with sunlight. The serenity is inviting and I could do with a stretch, but I want to explore. I only have a week to discover how Mom is connected to this place, and I can’t afford to dither.

There are orchards to my left and two paths on my right. One’s a swamp walk, the other leads to the beach. After hearing how Cora’s daughter drowned in the swamp, I choose the path to the beach. It’s a leisurely walk through bushes that soon gives way to dunes, the soothing pounding of the ocean in the distance a welcome reprieve from my thoughts.

I’m not sure what I expect to find at Arcania, but unless I start asking questions my week will be over all too soon and I’ll be back in Manhattan still wondering about Mom. But I can’t barge into this. I need to be discreet and I know who to start with.

Spencer.

Last night, he’d mentioned working here for over forty years, so if Mom spent any time here, he’d know her. She had me at eighteen and I want to know what drove a young, possibly pregnant, teen away from here and why.

As if my thoughts conjure him up, Spencer appears on the path walking toward me. He’s wearing a wetsuit and holding diving equipment and stops when he sees me.

“Hey.” I raise my hand in greeting and he manages a stiff nod.

“Good morning. Sleep well?”

I nod. “I did. Must be the sea air.”

“The tranquility is a welcome reprieve for many,” he says, sounding like he’s reciting a rehearsed spiel from Arcania’s website and already glancing over my shoulder like he can’t wait to get away.

“I bet.” I point to his equipment. “At the risk of stating the obvious, you’ve been diving?”

“Yes. Arcania was known for it back in the day, and I can’t seem to break the habit.”

“Do guests have the opportunity to dive?”

“No.” Short, sharp, curt. “It’s too dangerous out there for the less experienced.”

“I had a quick flip through a book in my room last night, something about Outer Banks treasure. I expect there are plenty of shipwrecks around here. Are you diving for gold?”

I expect him to smile at my flippancy. Instead, a shadow clouds his eyes and his lips thin. “Don’t believe everything you hear about this place.”

“I have heard little, which is why I want to ask you a few questions. As I already mentioned last night, I’m a librarian and mythology fascinates me, but I don’t know much about Icelandic history and—”

“Sorry, I really have to get back,” he says, a deep frown grooving his brow as he brushes past me.

But I won’t be deterred. I haven’t come here for the ocean air. I need someone to steer me in the right direction and what better person than a long-term employee? “You mentioned you’ve worked here for four decades, so I’m hoping you can help me. Did you ever know a woman named Ava Reynolds?”

He stiffens, every muscle in his back turning rigid and clearly delineated by the clinging rubber of his suit. When he glances over his shoulder, his expression is frigid, his eyes eerily blank.

“You should leave this place,” he whispers, so softly I wonder if I’ve imagined the warning.

“Now, before it’s too late,” he adds, before turning and striding away like he can’t get away from me fast enough.

Stunned, I take a sip of my smoothie to ease the tightness of my throat. It doesn’t help and for a moment I wonder if I should heed the warning of a crazy guy who’s obviously worked here too long and is caught up in some mystical beliefs.

But I can’t dismiss the vision of my mom lying on that metal slab in the M.E.’s office and that tattoo on her foot.

Someone here has answers, and I’m determined to discover the truth.

Chapter10

Cora

THEN

The Medvilles weren’twrong when they said my role here would be ambiguous. Two weeks into my stay at Arcania and I’ve peeled thousands of potatoes with Daphne, I’ve diced onions and peppers until my fingers cramped, I’ve learned the difference between using cilantro and parsley for flavoring, and I’ve itemized every fitting in the mansion that needs replacing with Spencer.

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