A Killer Retreat (6 page)

The woman on Emmy's right looked remarkably like Emmy, if you added thirty years and about the same number of pounds. She wore dark-framed glasses and matching shoulder-length hair that was liberally streaked with gray. She must be Emmy's mother, Helen. Her age, figure, and conservative dark blue dress provided a stark contrast to Bruce's new marital choice.

Helen exchanged a few words with Bruce between deep gulps of champagne, but she pointedly angled her body away from Monica. She drummed the fingers of one hand nervously on the table top and worried her thumbnail with the index finger of the other. Her foot tapped against the floor in a staccato rhythm. I couldn't decide who seemed more tense—the bride or her mother.

Only one other person held my attention. The fiftyish woman sat next to Helen and wore a black pantsuit that matched her short black hair. At first I thought she and Helen might be sisters, but they seemed closer than that—more intimate. She touched Helen's shoulder and whispered into her ear, apparently comforting her. The connection between these two women seemed deeper than blood. They had to be friends.

The rest of the group seated at the table ranged in age from mid-teens to mid-seventies. I recognized some as fellow resort guests. Others were, I suspected, locals. The locals slouched comfortably in loose-fitting clothing. The New Yorkers wore rigid postures and facial expressions that seemed almost as tight as their well-tailored formal wear.

I entertained myself by mentally sorting them into categories:

Orcas Islander yes, Orcas Islander no. Orcas Islander yes …

Michael interrupted my pseudo-scientific study of human nature.

“Kate? Care to join the conversation at
this
table?”

I felt my face redden. “Oh, sorry.”

“I asked if you'd like to get a bottle of wine.” Michael said.

I tried to be a good girlfriend and pay attention, at least long enough to answer Michael's question, but Monica's voice boomed across the restaurant, drawing my attention back to her table like a magnet.

“I'm telling you, Emilee. That was no squirrel outside my cabin, it was a rat!” She gestured toward the kitchen and spoke even
louder. “I'll bet this place is
crawling
with the scaly-tailed vermin. We'll be lucky to get out of here without catching the plague.”

The room hushed. Emmy cringed and looked down at her wine glass. Josh sat up straighter, but said nothing.

Bruce put his hand on his wife's forearm. “Please, Monica, keep your voice down. I'm sure it was a field mouse.”

“Field mouse, my ass. That thing was bigger than Bandit. Probably even has rabies.”

Emmy gripped the table so hard her knuckles turned white. Her upper lip trembled.

Michael tapped his finger on my shoulder. “Earth to Kate—are you with us?”

I waved him away. “Shh, I'm eavesdropping!”

Emmy's mother leaned across the table until her face was less than six inches from Monica's. Her lips pulled back in an angry sneer. “I swear to God if you don't—”

The waitress picked that moment to deliver our salads. “Which one of you ordered the dressing on the side?”

“That would be her,” Michael said. “The rude one.”

I gave the waitress a distracted smile. “It's mine, thanks.”

I tried to keep spying on the other table's conversation in between sweet, crunchy bites of baby greens, roasted pumpkin seeds, and dried cranberries, but it was useless. The clamor had died down, and I couldn't make out their words. I turned my attention back to my own meal.

Rene played with her salad, barely touching it.

“Do you want my dressing?” I asked her.

She pushed the plate aside. “No thanks, I'm not in the mood for salad.”

I assumed she was saving room for double dessert.

“Let's order some bubbly,” Michael said.

“None for me, thanks,” Rene replied.

Sam's expression was worried. “Still not feeling good, honey?”

Rene smiled at him wanly. “I'm OK. It kind of comes and goes.”

The waitress set a basket of freshly baked bread and roasted elephant garlic on the table. I pulled back the cloth cover, releasing the pungent aroma of warm, spreadable deliciousness.

Rene's face turned pasty gray—the color of contaminated putty. “The garlic smell in this place is pretty overwhelming.”

Now
I was concerned. The world according to Rene had four major food groups: chocolate, sugar, caffeine, and pasta. Garlic was practically her middle name. Skipping salad to save room for dessert? That was classic Rene. Not savoring the smell of elephant garlic? She must be dying.

I laid the still-steaming slice of bread on my plate. “Are you sure you're OK?”

Rene never answered, or if she did, none of us noticed. We
were too distracted by the commotion that erupted across the room
.

“You have got to be kidding me!” Monica shoved her chair away from the table and slammed a fork onto her plate. The sharp whack of metal on china shattered the room's formerly jovial atmosphere. “There's no meat in this pasta!” She glared at Emmy, eyes narrow with accusation. “How could you be so inconsiderate? You know I get sick if I don't eat enough protein. I might even pass out!”

Tears streamed down Emmy's face. “It's a vegan restaurant, Monica,” she cried. “They never serve meat. I didn't target you deliberately.”

Helen jumped up and reached across the table. She grabbed Monica's shoulders and shook her forward and back, like a frustrated parent trying to shake sense into an out-of-control teen.
“Monica, this outburst will stop
. Immediately
. You have already hurt
this family enough.”

Monica's eyes grew wide. She took a step back.

Helen released her grasp, but the unflinching glare she leveled at Monica seemed even more aggressive than her prior assault. When she spoke, she spit out each word, accenting every syllable. “Now sit down. Shut up. And eat your dinner.”

The entire restaurant stared in shocked silence. Emmy sobbed into her napkin. Bruce looked down at the table, face so red it was purple. The two dueling women postured defiantly, each daring the other to flinch.

The wall clock ticked on, counting the seconds for at least a cen
tury. Monica finally caved. She threw her napkin on the
table and wrapped her fur stole tightly around her shoulders. “Enough
of this nonsense. Bruce, we're leaving.”

Josh slowly stood and patted his bride-to-be's hand, before soot
hing Monica with an easy smile. “Now, Monica, no need for all that.” He turned and addressed the crowd, palms forward in suppli
cation. “Hey there now, folks. It's all good. Go back to your din
ners.” He nodded to the hostess. “Give everyone a glass of
champagne on Emmy and me.”

A grateful-looking waitress popped dark green bottles of bubbly and poured everyone extra-full glasses. The crowd resumed their hushed conversations. I pretended to eat my salad, but I surreptitiously watched Josh.

He turned to Emmy, who was still crying. “No worries, Em.” He squeezed Helen's forearm and motioned for Monica to sit. “Mellow out, ladies. I'll go get the chef.” The two seething women tentatively sat down. Josh ambled to the kitchen and called out, “Kyle, can I talk to you?”

A scowling man emerged from the kitchen. He held a paring knife in one hand and a dish towel in the other.

“I'm busy back here. What's up?”

This pale, lanky man must be the chef Josh had mentioned, though he certainly didn't look the part. With his tie-dyed apron, blond dreadlocks, and oversized striped rasta hat, he looked more like a thirtyish stoner—if said stoner was in a shockingly foul mood.

Josh addressed the Bob Marley dress-alike. “Emmy's stepmom is freaking out over the menu.” He scratched the base of his skull. “Would you please talk to her and work it out?”

Josh meandered back the table, easy smile still in place. Kyle marched beside him, looking considerably less amiable.

Monica watched them approach in apparent disbelief. Her lips curled down. Her eyes widened. Her Botox-stiffened brow tried to
wrinkle. “You're the chef ?” She threw up her hands. “Why am I even
surprised?” Evidently both questions were rhetorical, because she didn't wait for a reply.

“This dinner is ridiculous. There's no main course here—just some low-budget appetizers. Bring me meat: lobster or filet mignon will do. I'm not picky.”

Kyle wrinkled his lips in disgust. “This is a vegan restaurant, ma'am. We do not serve flesh.” He crossed his arms. “Even if I wanted to serve you a carcass—which I don't—I couldn't. I don't store dead animals in my kitchen.”

Monica sighed. “Then I guess I'll have to make do. Butcher one of the rabbits in the pen out back. At least then the meat will be fresh.”

“Absolutely not!” Emmy cried. “Bugsy and Mr. Hoppins are pets!”

“You don't expect me to eat one of those filthy chickens, do you?
”

Kyle stepped his feet wide. “Let me make this abundantly clear. I will not cook flesh. Animals are sentient beings. Not snacks.”

I understood Kyle's dilemma. Doggie vegetarianism wasn't an option with Bella's digestive condition, and I cringed all the way to my tofu-eating toenails every time I fed her meat, no matter how humane the source. But a grudging part of me understood Monica's point, too. Food choices were deeply personal, rooted in health, ethics, and spiritual belief systems. Who were Kyle and I to judge hers?

Still, I had a hard time believing she couldn't survive one meatless meal.

Bruce tried to propose a compromise. “How about an omelet, then? You must have eggs, from the chickens.”

Emmy replied. “Sorry, Dad. We don't keep the eggs. We feed them back to the hens. It replenishes their depleted calcium supplies.”

Even
I
thought that was a little weird.

Monica stood and hooked her purse over her shoulder. “I can't possibly eat here.”

“Monica, please.” Emmy closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When she opened them again, her face had a determined look. “Wait a second before you leave. I have an idea.”

She walked Kyle a few steps from the table, but still close enough
for me to overhear. “I bought some salmon to serve Monica at the family dinner tomorrow. Would you please cook it for her?”

Kyle shook his head adamantly. “Absolutely not. We had an agreement. Cooking an animal goes against everything I believe in. When I agreed to take over the restaurant here, you promised—”

“Please, Kyle?” Emmy begged, crossing her wrists over her heart.
“Please? Just this one time. I can't take the fighting anymore. Monica gets worse and worse every day. I swear she's so …”

Awful
,
I silently filled in.

Emmy begged for several more minutes. Kyle didn't look happy at the end of their conversation, but he acquiesced. Thirty minutes later, a waitress served Monica a large chunk of salmon with sau
téed wild mushrooms on the side. I took my first bite of Penne
Arrabiata. Tangy, warm tomatoes burst against my tongue, complemented by fresh roasted garlic and liberal red chilies. The perfect combination of sweet, spicy, and salty. Monica didn't know what she was missing.

Conflict resolved, we all focused on devouring our food. All except Rene, that is. She picked at her pasta, moving it around with her fork and creating Lego-like structures on her plate. Like a chameleon, her skin had changed color again, this time to match the white of our tablecloth. She set down her fork and pushed away from the table. “I'll be back in a second.”

I stood up, too. “I'll come with you.”

“It's OK.” She smiled feebly. “But don't you
dare
touch my dessert.”

I didn't notice how much time passed after Rene left our table. I was too busy sipping champagne and gorging myself on peppery carbohydrates. I was vaguely aware of a conversation between the hostess, Emmy, and Bruce, after which all three of them left the room. But to be honest, their activities no longer drew my attention.

The pasta was that good.

Michael, Sam, and I were fighting over the last fragrant clove of elephant garlic when the hostess approached our table. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but the other woman in your party collapsed. We've taken her to the office.”

Sam leaped up from the table, fresh-baked bread and spreadable garlic completely forgotten. Michael and I ran close on his heels. We found Rene in the center's main office, seated strategically close to an empty wastebasket. Bruce held Rene's forearm, pressed his fingers against her wrist, and looked at his watch. Emmy hovered beside them, looking concerned.

Sam rushed up to Rene and knelt down beside her. “Honey, what's going on? The hostess said you collapsed!”

“I'm fine, Sam, really. I didn't collapse. I threw up in the bathroom, and when I stood up, I got a little dizzy, that's all. Honestly, I don't know what all the fuss is about. It's just this stupid stomach bug.”

She sagged back in her chair. “I haven't eaten since that pie after lunch. I probably have low blood sugar.” She swallowed hard. “But the thought of eating …” She shuddered. “Please, everyone. Let's call it a night. I'd like to go back to the cabin and lie down.”

“In a minute,” Emmy replied. “Let Dad take a look at you first.”

Rene made eye contact with me, pointed at Sam under the table, then gestured with her eyes to the door.

Message received.

“Come on guys,” I said. “Let's wait outside and give them some space.” Sam didn't move. “You too, Sam,” I added.