A Killer Retreat (8 page)

Obviously, I should have picked option three.

I owed Monica an apology. I washed my hands, blotted my face, and gathered my courage. One deep breath and I was ready.

I threw open the door, purposefully strode through it—and smashed into Bruce.

“Ouch!” I said, rubbing my nose.

“Oh, sorry.” Bruce glanced down the hallway. He looked oddly guilty, given the circumstances. “I didn't see you there.” He closed the door to the suite's master bedroom and tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. “Monica wants to leave. I came to get her coat.”

“I'm the one who should be sorry,” I said. “I acted horribly. I have no idea what got into me. Let me apologize to Monica before you leave.”

Bruce's skin paled. “I wouldn't talk to her now. She's not in a good mood.” He continued down the hallway, hands empty.

“Bruce?”

He stopped, then turned slowly around. His tone was sharp, as if he were disciplining a disobedient child. “I told you, now is not a good time. When Monica calms down—if she calms down—I'll tell her you're sorry, but for now, you need to leave us alone.”

“I will,” I assured him. “But I thought you were getting her coat?”

He looked down at his hands. “Damn. I forgot.” He turned back to the bedroom.

“It's not in there. She left it on a chair in the living room.”

Bruce frowned, turned back around, and continued down the hallway.

I sank to the floor, leaned against the wall, and closed my eyes, trying to shut out this interminable night. A few broken martini glasses were nothing. The cracks in my relationships—both business and personal—might prove much harder to repair.

I huddled on the floor for several minutes. I had no desire to stay at the Retreat House, but it was better than going back to the cabin. As long as I remained here, alone, I wouldn't have to explain myself. I wouldn't have to face Rene's odd evasions, Sam's beseeching eyes, and Michael's recriminations. As long I remained here, alone, the worst thing I had to face was myself.

That was bad enough.

My throat ached with unspoken apologies, but I didn't have enough energy to stand up, much less to make the long, lonely trek back to the cabin. I took some deep breaths and tried to bolster my internal fortitude.

The final impetus to move didn't come from within; it came from
the kitchen. Familiar, angry whispers floated down my safe-haven
hallway. I told myself not to eavesdrop—that I'd already done enough
damage for one night. But curiosity overcame my willpower. I stood
up and tiptoed toward the sound.

I flattened my body against the wall and peeked around the industrial grade refrigerator. Monica and Helen were finally having their standoff. Helen held Monica's arm in a death grip, her face tight with anger. “Listen to me, you husband-stealing tramp,” she hissed. “If you know what's good for you, you'll mind your own business. If you do anything else to ruin my daughter's wedding, I swear I'll kill you.”

Unfortunately for me, Monica and I were the only people who heard her.

seven

The rest of the
evening went, not as I'd hoped, but as I should have predicted. Rene and Sam were fast asleep by the time I got home; Michael pretended to be. In spite of my best intentions, I had no opportunity to make apologies, no occasion to unearth hidden secrets. Instead, I spent the seemingly endless night suffering through a haze of late-night dog walks, insomnia, and profound regret.

When I groggily turned off the alarm clock at six the next morning, I resolved to be a better person. As soon as I finished teaching my morning yoga class, I'd take the first step. I'd find the Beach Wi—I mean
Monica—
and apologize for my boorish behavior. I closed my eyes and visualized our encounter.

In my delusional daydream, Monica was also transformed. She was gracious, self-effacing, and charming. We smiled, hugged, and vowed to coexist in harmony. I even imagined a grateful Emmy, who thanked me profusely for helping to reunite her fractured family.

I was kidding myself, of course. But thoughts create reality, right?

I stumbled out of bed and said a quick goodbye to the dog snoozing behind it. Class started at seven, but none of my motley crew would be attending. Michael groaned and rolled over when I tried to wake him; Rene and Sam didn't even do that much.

I tiptoed through the living room and frowned at Rene's sleeping form.
Get ready to fess up, Missy.
Rene may have successfully avoided talking to me last night, but today would be different. Sam was right; something was wrong with her, and I was going to get to the bottom of it.

But not now.

Now I had a yoga class to teach. I slipped the Yoga Chick out of my jacket pocket and placed her on the counter. I doubted anyone would call me this early, but there was no need to risk it. A rude, ringing cell phone would be downright embarrassing in the middle of my own yoga class.

I slipped on my tennis shoes, locked the cabin's door behind me, and hiked through the cool, wet grass to Shanti House, the round wooden yurt I'd noticed the night Michael and I arrived.

I played my flashlight along the trail to the main parking lot, struck again by the architectural diversity of Elysian Springs. To my right stood a micro-neighborhood of slum-like cabins covered by sagging, moss-infested roofs, barely better than the blue tarp campsites parodied in Pacific Northwest bank commercials. The hill to the left featured a gorgeous new development of eco-friendly construction that rivaled the cover of
Traveler
magazine. I couldn't help but smile at the irony. I'd traveled 120 miles to be right back at home.

Elysian Springs, like my own Greenwood neighborhood in Seattle, was seemingly trapped between decay and renewal. The only question remaining was which I'd encounter in my new yoga space: decay or renewal.

I ascended the stairs, turned the key in the door, and flipped on the overhead lights. One word immediately popped into my mind.

Wow.

Shanti House was clearly one of the center's masterpieces. Hug
e windows pointed in every direction and provided a 360-degree view of the property's sparkling blue beaches, deep green for
ests, and expansive recreation areas. Sun poured through the east-
facing w
indows and reflected off the obviously new bamboo floor. The
single-
room structure was completely unfurnished, except for a small
altar and several shelves containing yoga mats,
blocks, bolsters, and
blankets. Strategically placed candles and a noisier-
than-I-would-have-
liked space heater added to the warmth and ambiance.

Between the early hour and my prior evening's outburst, I wasn't sure if my class would get any takers, but over a dozen students of various ages, sizes, shapes, and physical abilities chose to attend. Some brought their own yoga gear; others borrowed one of the new-smelling sapphire blue mats provided by the center. Some of my new students were Elysian Springs' employees, including the desk clerk and two people I'd seen working in the garden. Others were guests I'd met at the party the night before.

Once everyone got settled, I asked a few questions to assess the group's prior yoga experience. As I expected, the group was diverse, ranging from experienced practitioners to three women who were trying yoga for the first time. Teaching a mixed-level group class is always a challenge. The trick is figuring out how to design a sequence that keeps new students safe without boring those with more experience. Since no one in the room had acute injuries, I decided to make the class simple, but energizing.

I pulled out my Tibetan chimes and rang them three times, as I did at beginning of every practice. Like one of Pavlov's dogs anticipating a cookie, my own body began to relax.

“Close your eyes and start to settle in. Allow your mind to quiet, and feel the sensations of your breath.”

The door opened and Toni, Helen's friend, eased through it. She mouthed the word “sorry” and grabbed a mat. I smiled and pointed to an empty space in the front row.

I began with a few simple kneeling poses to gently warm my students' lower backs as they learned how to link movement with breath. The first pose I taught was Chakravakasana, also called Cat Pose.

“Please come to your hand and knees.” I coached the beginners to place blankets under their kneecaps. “Inhale and lengthen your spine, from the crown of your head to your tailbone.” As expected, each student gently extended her spine. “Exhale and fold back, bringing your hips toward your heels and your forehead toward the floor. This is called Child's Pose.” Although I saw various interpretations of my instructions, each student appeared to find the desired low back stretch. More importantly, their movements looked peaceful and coordinated with the breath.

So far so good.

Twenty minutes later, my disparate group of early morning yogis huffed, puffed, yawned, and stretched their way through the first cycle of Sun Salutes. I kept my instructions short, timing them so that each phrase would fit within a single breath.

“Inhale and raise your arms toward the ceiling. As you exhale, bend forward and place your palms on the floor. Inhale and step your right foot back. Exhale and step your left foot back next to it in Downward Dog.”

As intended, the group moved in unison, like synchronized dancers flowing with coordinated breath. The experienced students, Toni among them, closed their eyes and flowed with the grace and ease of consistent practice. The beginners moved tentatively, eyes open, glancing left and right for guidance. Everyone seemed to be enjoying their yoga experience.

Everyone, that is, except a frowning woman in the back row. I nicknamed her the Grumpy Yogini. Michael wouldn't have approved of my choice, but the term fit. Yogini meant female yogi, and this female yogi was certainly grumpy. The tiny, scowling woman wore black yoga pants and a blue tank top with the word
shanti
—Sanskrit for peace—printed on the front. I caught her eye and smiled encouragingly. She looked away, lips thinned. In concentration, I hoped.

After three Sun Salutes, I led the class through several balance postures, a few strengthening prone poses, and some gentle seated stretches. We ended with a breath practice designed to build energy, followed by a ten-minute rest in Savasana, yoga's pose of quiet relaxation.

The sea of supine yogis in front of me looked happy, relaxed, and injury free. Except for the Grumpy Yogini, that is. I tried not to take it personally each time the still-frowning, tank-top-clad woman looked pointedly at her watch. After all, my gentle, breath-centered style of yoga wasn't for everyone. She might be used to Power Yoga, Iyengar, or—I shuddered at the thought—even Hot Yoga.

I didn't get a chance to ask her. She scooted out the door without making eye contact as soon as we finished saying Namaste—the Sanskrit greeting exchanged at the end of each class.

I pushed any lingering feelings of inadequacy deep into my subconscious, said goodbye to the rest of the participants, and invited them to return the following morning. Most students departed quickly after class, heading off to breakfast and the rest of their morning adventures. Toni stayed and straightened the yoga props.

After the final student left, I sheepishly approached her. “How did everything go the rest of last night?”

“Most everyone left before you and I cleaned up the mess. Monica slinked out the door a little after you did.” She smiled. “After that, the rest of the night was uneventful.”

My face flashed hot. “I'm sorry I caused such a scene.”

“Don't be. You only said what everyone else has been thinking.” She continued speaking as we slipped on our shoes and walked outside. “But that's not why I waited for you.”

I locked the door and steeled myself, afraid of what she might say next. Was Toni some sort of emissary, sent by Emmy to fire me? Maybe she'd come to tell me that Monica had taken out a restraining order. Heck, it might even be good news. Maybe Michael and I had been banned from the wedding.

Toni smiled. “I've practiced yoga for years, but I've never taken a class like this one. The breath work was amazing!”

I had no idea how tense I'd become until I felt my shoulders relax. She wanted to chat about yoga. Yoga was safe territory. Yoga, I could talk about for hours. “Thanks. The style I teach is called Viniyoga. I'm sure you can find it in New York. If you'd like, I can—”

My words were cut off by a high-pitched scream. The scream of a terrified soprano plummeting off the edge of a skyscraper. The scream of a patient undergoing surgery without anesthesia. The scream of unbridled, tortured terror.

Toni and I gave each other one quick look, then tore across the grass toward the bloodcurdling sound. Frantic voices punctuated each shriek.

“Somebody catch him!”

“He's going to kill them!”

I imagined dozens of unspeakable evils as I ran toward the commotion: teenaged psychopaths, gun-wielding terrorists, duct-tape-wrapped suicide bombers, disgruntled yoga students …

I rounded the corner and discovered—

A fifteen-pound black and white terriorist.

Bandit had discovered his life's purpose.

Rabbit hunting.

He dug, nipped, ripped, and clawed at the rabbit hutch, trying to get to the creatures inside. A small crowd of people struggled, unsuccessfully, to stop him. Each time someone got close, Bandit leaped out of their grasp.

I wanted to throttle the little devil, but I couldn't blame him. He'd been born for this day. Jack Russell terriers were bred to hunt—raccoons, rats, foxes, and yes, even bunnies. All that stood between Bandit and fulfilling his destiny were a half-dozen two-legged buzz killers and some old, rusty chicken wire.

Bugsy and Mister Hoppins didn't appreciate the game. Cornered
by a vicious killer with no means of escape, they had only one option: scream like their lives depended on it, which of course, they did. If someone didn't stop Bandit soon, both rabbits might die. Their tiny hearts couldn't take the stress.

“Where's his owner?” someone yelled.

No one answered. Monica either didn't know about the trouble her dog was causing or—more likely—she didn't give a damn.

Bandit hurled his body at the cage. The rabbits screamed.

My head exploded.

Anger spread like a cancer, metastasizing throughout my body. My heart pounded; my muscles cramped; my nerve endings sizzled. Even my skin pulsated with rage. Allowing Bandit to charge after Bella was bad enough; Bella could defend herself. Letting him attack helpless rabbits? Well, that was war. My peacemaking resolutions went exactly where those terrified bunnies wished they could go: right down the rabbit hole.

That's it. I'm going to kill her.

Bandit's success was ultimately his undoing. He grabbed a loose corner of chicken wire and tugged, opening a terrier-sized hole along the edge of the hutch. The action distracted him long enough for his would-be captors to surround him. A male body flew through the air and landed face-first on the ground.

“Got him!” yelled the triumphant-sounding teenager.

The crowd applauded as their brown-haired hero carried his squirming, whining captive away from the rabbit hutch. The bunnies stopped screaming and huddled together, unharmed.

“Does anyone know who he belongs to?” someone asked.

My teeth clenched tightly together; my lips barely moved. “I do. And I swear to God, if that red-clawed witch doesn't start using his leash, I'll strangle her with it!”

The air became pin-drop silent. Six pairs of shocked, silent eyes stared at me. Even the bunnies wrinkled their noses, as if scowling at me in disapproval.

Oh no. Had I really said that?

Blood poured from my head to my stomach. I glanced around for Toni, hoping to beg for forgiveness. The last thing I needed was for Emmy to hear that I'd threatened to kill her stepmother. Again. But Toni was gone.

I faced the gape-mouthed crowd instead. Part of me wanted to apologize for the outburst. Part of me wanted to explain. Part of me wanted to assure the shocked strangers that my mouth and my intentions sometimes didn't match up. That of course, I'd never strangle Monica. I'd never hurt anyone.

But I was too mortified to speak. So I covered up my embarrassment with pretend indignation. I stomped up to the Bandit-carrying teen and reached toward him with vibrating, claw-like hands.

“Give him to me.”

I held tight to the squirming dog's collar, marched to Monica's cabin, and pounded my fist on the door.

I stood at the door for several grumbling, impatient, foot-tapping seconds until Bruce finally answered. Loose, puffy skin pillows hung underneath his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was less than friendly. “What are you doing here? I told you, Monica doesn't want to talk to you.”