A Killer Retreat (5 page)

Several minutes later, I started moving. The injuries to my shoulder—sustained while struggling with my friend's murderer six months before—had finally healed, so I indulged in a strong flow practice designed to burn off excess adrenaline.

I began with several Sun Salutations. The first repetition felt jagged and stiff, but by the third, my breath sounded smooth, regular, stable, and strong. My muscles burned in the most delicious of ways as I moved from Downward Dog, to Plank, to the core-strengthening Chaturanga.

On to some Half Squats to let my thighs join the party. Sweat formed along the back of my neck and dripped down my sides. My quadriceps, hips, hamstrings—even my glutes—quivered in delight-filled torture.

I opened my shoulders in Bridge Pose and turned my body upside down with a short stay in Shoulder Stand. A few counterposes later, I finished with a breath practice designed to balance energy. I lengthened my inhale and exhale for several breaths, then broke each into halves, pausing for several seconds in the middle. This official name for this practice was Krama Pranayama, but I called it Lithium Breathing. Like the medicine for bipolar disorder, Lithium Breathing helped balance my energy, whether it was agitated or depressed.

The practice was exactly what I needed to calm my nervous system. The glass of merlot I drank afterwards didn't hurt, either. I didn't normally drink before lunch, but given the morning's events, I figured a little liquid tranquilization wasn't uncalled for. Besides, everyone knew grape juice was brimming with antioxidants; mine was simply the fermented variety.

By the time I finished sipping the last
velvety, plum-scented dregs
from my glass, my energy was completely sattvic: relaxed and alert.

When Michael returned to the cabin, he found me curled up on
the sofa bed, pen and clipboard in hand, deep into planning the next
day's classes. He sported a huge smile. His whole body seemed relaxed; his face flushed and vital.

My energy went from tranquil to hyperaroused in three seconds flat. Michael looked good. Really good. Was his change in demeanor due to the hot tub's rejuvenating bubbles or to the nubile, naked young bodies he'd shared it with? Jealousy prickled the back of my neck.

I jumped up and chattered, trying to act nonchalant. “I'm glad you're back. We should probably get going.” I looked at my watch. “It's almost one, and we have dinner reservations at six.” I picked up my purse, still babbling. “Let's go to Eastsound, eat some lunch, and buy Bella a crate. If we hurry, we can check out one of those hiking trails you keep talking about.”

Michael wasn't fooled. He eased in close and ran his fingertips down my arm. “Hiking's overrated.” He nuzzled the back of my neck. “We have plenty of time to get Bella that crate. I had a different activity in mind …”

I could take a hint.

I grabbed Michael's arm and led him toward the bedroom. He leaned in to give me a long, slow kiss and—

Bella erupted.

She leaped from her comfy sun puddle and charged the door. She jumped, scratched, foamed, barked, and growled. Axe-wielding psychopaths had better take note: guard dog Bella was on the job.

Michael pulled back and groaned. Somehow I didn't think the sound was from pleasure.

I shrugged. “Someone's at the door.”

“You think?”

Michael waited at the door while I dragged the clawing, frothing monster-beast away and locked her in the bathroom.

A voice yelled over the clamor.

“Open up in there! Police!”

five

Michael flung open the
door. “What are you two doing here?” Granted, I couldn't see his face, but his tone didn't exactly sound welcoming.

Rene didn't seem to notice. “Hey there, gorgeous. Good to see you, too!” She gave Michael a quick peck on the cheek and pressed through the doorway wearing a wide, sparkling grin. Sam staggered behind her, loaded down with enough bags for a month long vacation—for a family of twelve.

Rene tossed her purse on the table. “The chick at the office told us where to find you. I tried calling from the ferry, but you didn't answer, so I decided to surprise you.” She opened her arms wide. “Surprise!”

I stared at her, speechless, still recovering from a severe case of about-to-coitus interruptus.

Rene took a step back, crossed her arms, and cocked her head to the side. “You two don't look happy to see me.”

“We're not. We were just about to—”

I silenced Michael with a well-placed poke to the ribs. “Of course we're glad you're here. Your timing is perfect. We were just about to go get lunch in Eastsound.” Michael didn't correct me. “But I'm surprised. I thought you were sick.”

Rene looked down at the floor and chewed on her lower lip. “Oh well … you know … I'm feeling much better now. And Sam's on a break between software projects, so we decided to come after all.”

She flashed a plastic smile, begging me to drop the subject. I would normally have forced her to cough up the truth, but this time I hesitated. Rene was hiding something. Any gullible, Santa Claus-loving five-year-old would have seen that. But if the hurt look on Sam's face was any indication, she was hiding it from him, too.

And it couldn't be good.

The woman standing before me was not my best friend. My best
friend had a never-ending supply of energy and super-defined muscles—the kind typically seen in rock music videos. Most days, if I hadn't loved her so much, I would have been forced to hate her.

Today I couldn't even drum up a spark of envy. Rene's typically flawless, alabaster skin was a sickly shade of greenish-yellow. Purple crescents underscored the pink, puffy skin underneath her eyes. Her normally confident posture was slumped, tired looking. Even her body looked—dare I say it? Soft.

I wrapped my arm around her shoulder, gave her a hug, and whispered. “Are you OK?”

She whispered back. “Shhh. I'll talk to you when we're alone.”

“You two can catch up later,” Sam grumped from behind us. “Where should I put these bags? My arms are about to fall off.”

“Sorry, Sam.” I gestured to the living room. “Put them in there.”

Sam dropped Rene's bags on the floor with a disgusted whumpf while Michael released Bella from her temporary prison. Bella gleefully skidded across the floor and greeted Rene with her unique I-love-you happy dance of whines, wiggles, play bows, and kisses.

Sam knelt down, held out his hand, and cooed, “Hey Bella baby. How are you?” Bella looked his direction, flattened her ears, sneezed once, and slinked to the opposite side of the room.

“Bella, say hello,” Michael commanded.

Bella refused. She planted all four feet firmly on the hardwood floor and glared, sending Sam an obvious message.
Don't let the door hit you on your way out
.

“I don't get it,” Sam said, sounding wounded. “I love animals. I love Bella, for that matter. Why doesn't she like me?”

“I'm sorry, Sam. I think it's your mustache. She's still funny about facial hair.”

Sam's mustache was the only reasonable explanation why Bella
hadn't taken to him. She certainly couldn't mind the rest of his looks.
With straight blond hair, surfer-boy blue eyes, and an avid biker's lean body, Sam was the six-foot-tall Ken to Rene's brunette-haired Barbie.

Bella couldn't fault his personality, either. Somehow Sam had managed not to inherit the pretty boy jerk gene. He was sweet, kind, and—most importantly—he adored Rene to a fault. Add Sam's brilliantly successful software company to all of that personal yumminess and he was—as Rene told anyone who'd listen—the perfect husband.

The disgusting, fuzzy, caterpillar-like growth marring his upper lip was his only glaring flaw. Someday I'd sneak up behind him and shave it off—if I could ever manage to get close enough to touch it without getting sick to my stomach.

Rene waved her hand dismissively. “Ignore her, Sam, and consider yourself lucky. At least Bella doesn't bark at you.” She flopped on the sofa bed. A Pigpen-like cloud of dirt, dog dander, and dust mites swirled around her. She sneezed uncontrollably into her hand and looked around the room. “This place is
tiny
. Where's Sam's and my bedroom?”

“You're sitting on it,” Michael replied.

Rene's eyes widened. “You have
got
to be kidding me.” She sneezed again. “This will never do.” She stood up and brushed the newly acquired layer of dander and dog fur off of her pants. “Tell you what, let's go have lunch. Sam and I drove past a Chinese place in Eastsound that looked pretty good. A slice of chocolate truffle pie from the pie shop around the corner doesn't sound half bad, either.

“When we get back, we'll stop at the office and see about getting Sam and me our own place.” She scratched Bella's ears. “Maybe Sam will even splurge for a larger cabin for all five of us.”

_____

The rest of the day went by in a heartbeat. We started at the Chinese restaurant. Michael, Sam, and I stuffed ourselves full of stir fry, while Rene made small piles of fried rice and pushed them around on her plate. After that, we spent the afternoon wandering around Eastsound. Sam and Michael weren't exactly enthusiastic about our choice of girlie activities, but Rene and I enjoyed browsing through the town's many quaint stores.

My budget allowed primarily for window shopping, so Rene spent enough money for us both. She wasn't in the mood to try on clothes—a first for her—but she indulged in a multitude of books, trinkets, and designer chocolates. She even managed to nibble on that coveted slice of pie.

I tried to make good on my promise to buy Bella a new crate, but the local pet boutique didn't carry any large enough for my horse-sized German shepherd. Bella would have to make do with the space Michael had created behind the bed.

Now, five minutes before our six o'clock dinner reservation, we all meandered along the path to Eden, the center's on-site restaurant. Well, three of us meandered. Rene stomped. She pouted and griped and whined and lamented, acting like a starving three-year-old who'd been denied a pink frosted sugar cookie.

“Sold out? How can the entire property be sold out?”

“It isn't, Rene,” I replied for the thousandth time. “Sam said there were plenty of campsites available.” I nudged her ribs with my elbow. “You might have even been able to score a yurt!”

She grumbled an unrepeatable reply and accelerated. I hurried to keep pace beside her. “I told you, this week is special. It's the grand opening of the new construction, and the site managers are getting married. I'm sure they have a ton of out-of-town guests.” I shrugged. “You'll have to live with the sofa bed.”

Rene pouted her way up the staircase. “Did you see the dust that came out of that couch? I've already taken a double dose of Benadryl, and my eyes are still swollen like grapefruits!

“Rene, honey,” Sam said from behind, “you look gorgeous, like always.”

He lied.

Rene looked awful. Even worse than she had earlier. A volcano-sized pimple had erupted on her normally flawless chin. Her watery eyes were laced with a web-like network of red lines. Her face was swollen and blotchy. If I hadn't been with her for the past four hours, I'd have sworn that she'd spent the day crying.

Rene's eyes pleaded with me to agree. “Kate, do I really look OK?”

I paused, searching for something—anything—truthful to say that wouldn't hurt my friend's feelings. I considered fibbing, but lying would go against satya—yoga's principle of truthfulness. Besides in this case, it would be useless. Rene could read me like a country fair psychic. What could I say that would be honest, but kind? Somehow I didn't think assuring her that she looked ten years younger with acne would make her feel better.

A bouncing fur ball solved my dilemma. Bandit jumped up and down at the top of the stairs, barking at full volume. He was restrained, for a change, by a rhinestone-studded leash.

“Well, aren't you a cutie pie?” Rene leaned down to pet him.

I snatched her hand away. “Don't encourage him.” I whispered in her ear so Michael wouldn't hear me. “The Beach Witch is here.”

“Beach Witch?” Rene asked.

I filled her in on the story as we entered the buzzing restaurant.

An amazing mixture of scents floated into my nostrils and made
my mouth water. Spicy arugula, garlic, tomatoes, and a smell that—
if I weren't in a vegan restaurant—I would have sworn was melting cheese. Photographs of freshly harvested produce and rescued farm animals decorated the walls, creating a collage of bright red tomatoes, dark purple grapes, deep green chard, and black-spotted piglets. The goats I'd seen mowing the upper pasture adorned the spot above our table. A gray-bearded, hugely smiling man knelt among them, hugging a goat under each arm. The sign attached to the photo read, “Nubian goats provided by Dale's Goat Rescue.”

The hostess filled our water glasses and handed us each a one-page paper menu labeled in bold black letters: “Welcome to Eden. Gourmet dining that respects the value of all life.” Below the title, several paragraphs described the restaurant's philosophy.

Eden only served food that was one hundred percent vegan (no eggs, dairy, or animal products of any kind), organic, and freshly prepared. Breads and pastries were baked on site daily. Many of the fruits and vegetables served were grown in the center's garden and harvested mere minutes before preparation. The rest were delivered fresh each morning by local farmers.

My stomach rumbled as I imagined the possibilities. Eating out as a vegetarian could sometimes be limiting, even with Seattle's
large vegetarian population. Most restaurants had at least one or two
meatless dishes to choose from. But a pure vegan menu from which
I could order anything I wanted? That was something special. I flipped
the page over, wondering how I'd choose between all of the delicious-sounding options.

There weren't any. Options, that is. Eden offered the ultimate in freshness, not variety. All meals were
prixe fixe
—French for lots and lots of expensive food. Each course was created based on the ingredients available that day. Tonight's dinner: Penne Arrabiatta with fresh vegan Romano. I laid down my menu with a satisfied smile. I could live with that.

While Michael, Sam, and Rene finished perusing their menus, I glanced around the room. The limited menu certainly didn't seem to be hurting Eden's business. The space was completely packed with satisfied-looking diners. Not a single table was available.

My eyes stopped at the windows, captivated by the train wreck in front of me. OK, so it wasn't a train wreck, at least at least not by the usual standards, but it was close enough. The entire ocean view window was monopolized by a long table with at least twenty diners. Most wore semiformal outfits and tense expressions, as if it took one hundred percent of their willpower to keep from strangling the person seated next to them. I could practically feel the waves of animosity flow between them.

They had to be the guests of the wedding party.

I came from a very small family. It had been Dad and me—with an occasional visit from Aunt Rita—for as long as I could remember. Still, I learned early on that weddings and funerals brought out the worst in people. In both instances, strangers who'd just as soon stay that way struggled to make small talk on one side of the room, while mortal enemies (aka family members) were forced to pretend that they liked—or at least didn't hate—each other on the other. Add alcohol to the mix and, well, who needed cable?

Psychiatrists didn't need to visit mental hospitals and maximum
security penitentiaries to discover the origins of deviant behavior. The perfect Petri dish of dysfunctional human beings incubated in forced family gatherings. As a general rule, I tried to avoid them.

But that didn't stop me from watching someone else's show.

I ignored the conversation at my own table and took inventory of the players before me, trying to decipher who was who.

Bruce and the Beach Witch were obvious. Bruce sipped from a water glass and picked at his salad. He'd ditched this morning's khakis for a dark blue suit, though his poorly done comb-over remained intact. His wife, Monica, wore a bright red cocktail dress cut to show off her ample cleavage and more makeup than the rest of the women at the table combined. A black fur stole nestled comfortably around her shoulders. What kind of self-obsessed narcissist wore fox to a vegan restaurant?

Everyone but Bruce—who raised his water glass—clinked their champagne glasses together. The young couple being toasted at the center of the table had to be the bride and groom, Emmy and Josh. Emmy—a twenty-something pixie with short, dark hair—blushed and cuddled up close to a dark-haired, pony-tailed man that had
to be Josh. Emmy's face confirmed my family-gathering-as-torture-session hypothesis. Her posture was tight, almost rigid. Worry lines
creased her brow. Her thin, tension-filled lips didn't quite form a smile, in spite of the occasion and its free-flowing libations.

Unlike his fiancé, Josh seemed completely at ease. He slouched comfortably with his arm resting lightly across the back of Emmy's
chair. His face was handsome in a scruffy, hippy sort of way—
except for the dark smattering of man fur covering his jaw and upper lip. I suspected his new-looking suit had been purchased specifically for the evening's event. He seemed like the type who would be much more comfortable in torn jeans and Birkenstocks.