A Killer Retreat (3 page)

“I don't know, Michael. Rene never gets sick. I hope she doesn't have something serious.”

“Don't worry. She'll be back on her feet in no time.” Michael took my hand, led me to the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the sagging mattress. The springs let out a world-worn, metallic moan. “Besides, we could use a little alone time.” He flashed a crooked smile.

Affection tickled the pit of my throat. A more urgent sensation pulsated quite a bit lower. I leaned in and gave Michael a long, meaningful kiss. I might not be ready to make a baby with Michael—or anyone else for that matter. But that didn't mean we shouldn't practice, practice, practice.

_____

A loud crash jolted me upright. “What was that?” I fumbled
around in the darkness and flipped on the reading lamp.

Michael covered his eyes with his forearms and groaned. “It's just some thunder, Kate. Turn off the light and go back to sleep.”

Fat chance of that.

My heart hammered in my chest, beating an out-of-synch rhythm with the rain pelting the roof. I glanced at my watch. Three-fifteen. It could be a very long night. Thunderstorms didn't often declare war on the Pacific Northwest, but when they invaded, they made a statement. A flash of light whitened the room, followed by more deep, rolling thunder.

Michael sat up next to me. “Where's Bella?”

I found her in the bathroom, hiding behind the commode. Saying Bella didn't like loud noises would have been the world's biggest understatement. She had cowered behind my bed every night for a week after the Fourth of July, even on the maximum dose of Xanax. Next year I planned to double the prescription and take it myself. At least then one of us would get some sleep.

With Bella's vet 120 miles away in Seattle, neither of us would find chemical relief tonight. Bella panted and shivered and whined and cowered. Drool dripped from her jaw. Her glassy eyes opened wide, displaying the whites around her irises.

“Come here, girl,” I said, murmuring softly. “It's OK.”

Bella slinked uncertainly toward me, head hung low. I lightly grabbed the loose skin between her shoulder blades and guided her back to the bedroom. “Come and sleep on the bed with Michael and—”

A jarring bang shook the room, obliterating the rest of my sentence. Bella flew to the bed, but rather than jump on top of it as I had suggested, she tried to squeeze her hundred-pound body into the two-inch space underneath it. Failing at that, she scrambled around the room, looking for any space that might provide shelter: Michael's suitcase, the closet, even under the dresser.

I tried to restrain her, but she struggled against my grasp. I leaned down and whispered into her trembling ears. “Bella, relax. It's just a thunderstorm.”

Bella responded by coldcocking me. She bashed her skull into my
jaw. My teeth cracked together. My head flew back. Pain jolted my brain like a cattle prod, transforming worry into misplaced anger.

“Knock it off!” I bellowed. I grabbed the scruff on either side of her neck, placed my face an inch from her nose, and glared directly into her eyes. In a voice normally used by sleep-starved mothers of
tantruming toddlers, I yelled at my poor, panicked dog. “Calm
down.
Now
!”

Bella reacted the way any intelligent being would in her circumstances: trapped in a strange house, surrounded by monsters, and held down by a madwoman. She lashed out like a mental patient resisting a straightjacket. She squirmed, she bucked, she roared, she clawed. I rode Bella like a bucking bronco. Or she rode me. It was difficult to keep track of who was on top in the midst of the chaos.

“Michael, help me! I've never seen her like this.”

Michael stood next to the bed, looking helpless. “I guess you were right. We should have brought her crate.”

For a moment, time stood still. My mouth gaped open. My head
pounded, about to explode.
Of course
I was right
.
Ever since her prior
owner's death, Bella's crate was the only place she always felt safe. But in what universe was it useful to tell me that
now?

I should have taken some deep breaths. I should have counted
t
o ten. I wasn't even
mad at Michael; I was
furious
with myself. Bella
was my dog—my responsibility. I knew the abuse she had suffered. I knew she still panicked when stressed. I knew she needed—and deserved—special care. Leaving the crate behind may have been Michael's idea, but I was the idiot who went along with it.

Adrenaline-laced panic overpowered me. Thoughtless words spewed from my mouth like spit from a cobra. “If she gets hurt, it's your fault.”

Michael flinched, as if slapped.

Thunder roared through the room again.

Bella wiggled free from my grasp and bolted for the bed. She clawed at the space behind it and ripped her nails against the metal frame. I imagined blood pouring from her soon-to-be-dislocated toes.

Michael finally took action. He grabbed the bottom of the frame a
nd yanked it away from the wall, leaving behind four long, jagged scratches on the hardwood floor. Bella scrambled behind the bed and buried herself—nose to shoulders—underneath the frame. The rest of her body remained crammed into the two-foot space Michael had created behind the mattress.

Bella stopped whining. Her breathing slowed. Her muscles relaxed. The energy surrounding her softened. Lightning still lit up the sky, but in Bella's mind, her world was safe. I wasn't sure burying her head like an ostrich was the most effective survival strategy, but for now, it would do.

My own energy eased as well. I crawled back into bed, rested my head in the crook of my elbow, and stared at Michael's rigid back.

“I'm sorry for yelling at you, sweetie. I didn't mean it; I was just scared. Bella and I are lucky to have you.”

Michael didn't answer, but he didn't ignore me, either. He rolled
on his back and nuzzled my neck. Hours ticked by. I stared at the ceiling, listening to Bella's soft breathing, Michael's not-so-soft snoring, and the deluge of rain still bombarding the roof. At least a century passed before I fell back to sleep.

three

I awoke the next
morning to silence. No rain on the rooftop, no purr-like puppy breathing, no soft boyfriend snores. I glanced at the clock. Seven o'clock. The perfect time to snuggle against Michael's warm, rippled chest. I rolled over and reached out my arms, planning to cuddle up to my favorite six-foot-tall bed warmer.

My hands connected with nothing.

No one occupied the space beside me. No one longed for my loving embrace. No one even gave me the cold shoulder in retribution for my prior night's temper tantrum. All that lay beside me were cold, empty bed sheets.

No problem, a fur-covered she-dog would do quite nicely. “Bella
, up,” I said, patting the bed. No response. I sat up and scanned the room, but found no snoozing shepherds. I peeked in the two-foot-wide storm shelter Michael had created behind the bed. No creatures there either, unless you counted the dust bunnies. Apparently, I slumbered alone.

Bella's single, sharp bark sounded from the kitchen, followed by Michael's voice, goading her on. “That's right, Bella girl. Go wake up Kate.”

At seven in the morning? On vacation? I groaned and covered my head with the pillow, determined to ignore them both until a more civilized hour. Like noon.

Three sharp barks later, Michael changed tactics. The bitter-sweet smell of caramel-laced caffeine wafted into the room. Nice
try. It would take more than designer coffee to get me out of this
bed.

Like carbohydrates.

The oven door squeaked open. Sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla beckoned me like a siren.

A few frustrated barks, I could ignore. Coffee, I could drink any day of the week. But cinnamon rolls? My mind and my body declared war, fighting for dominance. My mind craved deep, dreamless sleep; my stomach, gooey cinnamon pastry.

My stomach won.

I slipped on a pair of sweatpants and staggered out of the bedroom. Before I could adequately stuff my belly with coffee and pastries, I needed to make a pit stop. I veered to the left and trudged, zombie-like, into the bathroom. I didn't bother to open my puffy eyes; I already knew the room's layout from the prior night's explorations. Instead, I staggered to the far corner, stifled a yawn with my fist, and lowered my bottom into a perfect Half Squat—right before I fell into the toilet.

That was one way to wake up. Muttering words never used in yoga class, I slammed down the open toilet seat, grabbed a towel off the towel rack, and wiped the morning dew off my backside, grateful that Michael at least had the decency to flush. One thing was certain: my eyes were wide open now.

Michael and I had spent multiple sleepovers together, but always at my house, since his apartment didn't allow dogs. Looking around the disaster that used to be the bathroom, I realized that I hadn't fully grasped the dearth of his housekeeping skills.

Red, white, and green gore oozed from an open toothpaste tube and semi-permanently adhered itself to the sink. My small, well-organized makeup bag competed for space with a medley of
male personal hygiene products ranging from shaving cream to the world's most disgusting flattened toothbrush to a deodorant labeled
“Just for Men.”

The rest of the room fared no better. A pair of wrinkled underwear lay bunched in one corner; a wilted black sock occupied another. Juniper-scented soap melted down the edge of the bathtub, oozing an Irish Spring slug trail that led to a bottle of antidandruff shampoo. The pièce de résistance was a tube of medicated cream designed to cure a multitude of fungal infections, up to and including jock itch.
Gross!

I swallowed back my disgust and joined Hurricane Michael in the kitchen. He grinned at me from the table. “Hey there, sleepy head! It's about time you got up. Miss Bella and I have been waiting for you since five. I knew putting those cinnamon rolls in the oven would do the trick.”

I stifled an impolite reply and poured some delicious, caramel-smelling brew into a chipped “I Love Tofu” coffee mug. Two swigs later, I took a huge bite of buttery, hot cinnamon pastry, trying not to imagine globs of cellulite swelling my thighs. Vacation food didn't have calories, right?

Michael sorted through several flyers he'd retrieved from our welcome packet. “What's on today's agenda? We should try to fit in as much as possible before you start teaching tomorrow.” He pointed to a map. “How about hiking the trail around Mountain Lake?”

He ruffled Bella's ears. “What do you think, Bella girl? Are you up for a seven-mile loop?”

Bella responded with an enthusiastic bark.

I gaped at them both. “Seven miles? I'd have to ride Bella out. I thought we could hang out here at the center and relax.” I punctuated my point by leaning back in one chair and putting my feet up on another.

Michael pursed his lips in a lopsided grin. “Fine. No hike then. We can start with the hot tubs.”

Now
he was talking. Hot tubbing was my kind of vacation.
Sleep in until noon, hang out in the spa, practice some yoga,
maybe get a massage or two …

He handed me a full-color pamphlet filled with warm, inviting pictures. Happy-looking adults relaxed in four hot tubs that had been sunken into an expansive cedar deck. Puget Sound's blue waters sparkled in the background. According to the flyer, the wooden building behind the deck housed bathrooms, showers, a steam room, and sauna. I turned the page over and read the section titled “Spa Rules and Regulations.”

“Closed for cleaning from eight to ten each morning.” No problem there. We could start at eleven. “No lotions, oils, or cell phones allowed.” I could live with that. I'd check the Yoga Chick before we left. She probably wasn't waterproof, anyway. “No glass containers or alcoholic beverages allowed.” Bummer. But who drank before noon, anyway? “Patrons must sit on a towel at all times.”

Huh?

The final line leaped off the page, searing my eyes. “Parents take note: All of our spa facilities are clothing optional.” I shuddered from the roots of my hair follicles to the tips of my toenails.

“Michael, these are
naked
hot tubs!” I dropped the offending pamphlet, as if it had scalded my fingertips. “I can't hang out in some
naked
hot tub, especially not with future yoga students.” I pointed down at my legs, which appeared to have tripled in size. “Believe me, no one wants to see these thighs naked.”

“Don't be silly, Kate,” Michael chided. “I love your chunky thighs.”

Was that supposed to be a compliment?

“Besides,” he continued. “It's not a
naked
hot tub. It's
clothing optional
. Wear your swimming suit.”

I rolled my eyes. “Great. Then I'll be the only puritanical prude covered up in a towel, while everyone else gets their jollies by letting it all hang out.” I shuddered. “Nope. No way. I'll only be naked with total strangers.”

Michael snorted so hard that coffee came out of his nose.

I swatted him on the rear with a towel. “Knock it off. You know what I mean. Now stop mocking me and clean up the dishes. I'll get Bella's food started, and we can take her for a walk while it incubates.”

Michael stopped arguing, picked up the plates, and haphazardly stacked them next to the sink. I grabbed the first of my thirty dog food containers and began the chemical experiment that was Bella's food preparation. I opened the eco-friendly, compostible vessel and confirmed that the mountain of powdered medicines I'd added at home was still on top. Then I poured the contents into a large mixing bowl and vigorously stirred, envisioning each separate molecule of kibble being coated with powder.

Next up was adding the water. I carefully measured twelve ounces from the tap and tested it with my finger. Satisfied that the temperature was appropriately warm—not hot—I poured the water onto the powdered food and stirred exactly one hundred times, until the disgusting-looking concoction was the consistency of overcooked oatmeal. I stepped back, assessed my artistic creation, and frowned. Something was off. I stirred some more, then frowned again. “This doesn't feel right. Maybe I should do it over.”

Michael—who had finished piling the dishes next to the sink five minutes before—drummed his fingers on the counter impatiently. “Kate, come off it. How hard can it be? I'm beginning to think Rene is right. I know you love Bella. I love her, too. But seriously? You're becoming dog food obsessed.”

Six months ago, I'd have thought I was crazy, too. Only the owner of a dog with EPI could understand my anal-retentive dog feeding ritual. Rene even teased that—in addition to my fear of beards—I was developing a brand new Kate-specific neurosis: orthorexia nervosa by proxy. Sufferers of orthorexia nervosa obsessed about the purity and quality of the food they ingested. In my case, I obsessed about Bella's: the ingredients and quality of her kibble, the exact amount she ate daily, and the rigid specificity with
which it must be prepared. The only thing I monitored more closely
than Bella's input was her output. But I tried not to think about that so close to mealtime.

Neurotic or not, my ritual had proven effective. Six months of obsessive-compulsive food preparation after she entered my life, Bella was only three pounds shy of her goal weight.

Michael pulled on his boots and clipped Bella's leash to her harness. “Kate, we're waiting …”

I tipped Bella's food bowl to check the mixture's consistency. It seemed runnier than normal. “I don't know, Michael. Something's not right. I should make it over, just in case.” I pulled container number two off of the countertop, prepared to start over.

Michael snatched it from my hands. “Come on, Kate. Making dog food isn't rocket science, and I should know. I sell it for a living. Let's go!”

I looked skeptically at the goop incubating inside Bella's bowl. Maybe the water was different on Orcas …

Bella let out a series of three sharp barks.

“Are you coming or not?” Michael opened the door and Bella bounded through it. The screen door slammed behind them, leaving me in the cabin, alone.

Michael was probably right. Being neurotic was bad enough; there was no need to act certifiable. I grabbed the Yoga Chick off the counter, checked quickly for messages, then tossed her into my jacket pocket and jogged out the door.

“Hey you guys, wait for me!”

When I caught up with them, I grabbed Bella's leash in one hand and held Michael's fingers in the other. The three of us crunched along the center's network of interconnecting trails as we explored our new territory in the daylight. Bella weaved happily back and forth at the end of her leash, sniffing for hidden treasures, while I took deep breaths of pine-scented air, which was still redolent with ozone from the prior night's storm. Golden oak leaves waved from the branches above and peppered the permanent carpet of pine needles covering the ground.

Last night the grounds seemed desolate; this morning, they bustled. Fellow vacationers sipped mugs of coffee and smiled friendly
hellos. Maintenance staff scurried by on electric golf carts. Gardeners harvested, fertilized, and planted cover crops in a huge, fenced-in garden. A sign at the gate read, “Welcome to the Garden of Eden. Visitors are welcome, but please keep pets outside.” I smiled at the word play. Eden was the name of Elysian Springs' organic vegan restaurant. The garden must supply at least some of the restaurant's produce.

We wandered along the fence past beds of dark green kale, deep purple cabbage, and beige, peanut-shaped butternut squash. A few feet from the end of the garden, we discovered the free range enclosures of several of the center's happy-looking animal residents. A dozen clucking hens seemed to smile as they pecked at the earth around their whitewashed henhouse. Next door, several ducks splashed happily in a bright blue wading pool, near a pair of fluffy white rabbits who sunned themselves in the corner of a huge fenced-in hutch. We even found a half-dozen floppy-eared goats eating their way through a wall of blackberry bushes in an otherwise vacant field.

We hiked on the center's property for over forty-five minutes, discovering quaint wooden cabins, hidden camp sites, even an old, rusted-out boat that had been abandoned on one of the property's two private beaches. At the end of the beach, we turned left and continued walking—uphill now—away from the water. The trail ended at the edge of a cliff and a campsite labeled “Suicide Bluff.” Obviously someone's idea of a joke. A squirrel chirped angrily from above, as if warning us away from his favorite hiding place.

I stood near the bluff's jagged rock outcroppings, entranced by the view. Greenish-blue water extended for miles and birthed powerful waves that crashed over fifty feet below. The smooth, crescendoing sound was both calming and awe-inspiring at the same time. I moved closer to the edge, as if hypnotized.

“Kate, what are you doing? Get away from there.” Michael pointed to a sign several feet behind me.

“Danger. Cliffs are unstable. Walking prohibited less than three feet from edge.”

As if on cue, a rock broke free and clattered over the edge. I took several large steps back. “Suicide Bluff” suddenly felt more like a warning than a quip. The steep, dark cliffs dared me to come
closer. Goaded me. Urged me to jump. An inexplicable chill frosted
the back of my neck. I couldn't explain it, but the cliffs felt malevolent—evil somehow. Like they hungered for human sacrifice.

I looped Bella's leash handle around my wrist and pulled her in closer. Gorgeous view or not, I wouldn't come back here again. I didn't trust this place.

“Michael, let's go.”

The wary look on his face mirrored my own. He laced his fingers through mine and we hurried away, back toward our cozy little cabin, where the three of us would presumably be safe.