The Break-Up Retreat(23)

There’s a small group of puffy couches and chairs, all in soft shades of sage green, and she’s in the process of getting a carton of soy milk out of the refrigerator next to the small sink.

“Hi, ladies,” she says, gesturing toward the table in the middle of the couch group. “There’s both black and green tea, and we’ve got an assortment of pastries here for you. Katarina, the muffins in the blue wrappers are vegan.”

I walk up to her and ask, voice lowered:

“Is there any coffee? Or . . . whiskey?”

Belinda studies me for a few seconds, and then, matching my tone, she asks:

“You were first on the chopping block, then?”

The way she says it is not unkind.

I give a shaky little half sigh, half laugh.

“Yeah,” I say. “Something like that. I could just really use some caffeine.”

Belinda’s finely arched eyebrows knit together in concern.

“Coffee really isn’t going to help with the adrenaline, you know,” she says, now in a near whisper. “I would strongly recommend the green tea. If you’re feeling very stressed, we can go outside, and I can guide you through a quick breathing exercise.”

I draw a quick, harsh breath before shaking my head.

“No, thank you,” I say. “And thank you so much for offering. It’s really very nice of you. But I would really, really like some coffee.”

Belinda presses her lips together, and a phrase I remember from one of Martina’s books pops into my head.

“It’s conditioning,” I say. “You know, like one of those, uh, schemas. I always have coffee in the morning, before work. It calms me down, because I usually drink it when I’m calm.”

I see the corners of Belinda’s mouth twitching upward.

I’m not sure if she’s amused by my clumsy attempt at therapy speak, or if she’s just decided to throw me a bone, because she leans in and whispers:

“We have some in the staff lounge. I’ll go and make you a cup. Just don’t tell on me to the doctor, all right?”

I exhale.

“Thank you,” I say. “You’re an angel.”

Belinda turns to the group and says:

“I’ll be right back. I just have to run and get something for a second. Please, help yourselves!”

Once she’s gone, I wander up to the table, considering the assortment of sweets. There are mini-Danishes, perfect globules of red jam glistening in the middle; tiny cinnamon rolls, exquisitely braided and drizzled with frosting; and a couple of slightly larger blueberry muffins on a plate, off to the side, excommunicated from the pastry community on account of the unforgiveable crime of being vegan.

“You can take one of the muffins, if you want,” Katarina’s shy voice tells me from my left-hand side. When I look up, she holds one up, sheepishly, as though showing it to me.

“I’m not going to eat all of them.”

Truth be told, I’d much rather have one of the nonvegan treats; but given her kind smile and the fact that she’s choosing to share with me, I grab one from the plate and sit down next to her. Sharing builds trust, after all, and if I’m going to get some of the others to agree to participate in the article, I’m going to need all the camaraderie I can get.

“Thank you,” I say, taking a bite.

It’s better than I would have expected, slightly tart from the blueberries and lemon zest and not overly sweet.

Clara takes a seat next to me, reaches out and grabs a cinnamon roll before turning to me and asking:

“How are you feeling?” Her eyes are shining, and there’s greed in the set of her mouth.

“Fine, I guess,” I say. “I mean—”

Clara interrupts me.

“Seriously, that was so intense.” Turning to Katarina, she adds: “Didn’t you think that was just so intense?”

“It wasn’t . . . quite what I expected.” Katarina is frowning.

Clara shakes her head, her smile growing.

“She’s just amazing,” she says. “Watching her work is just, like, seeing a master craftsman. It’s like she’s psychic, or something.”

“I just don’t know if I’ll feel comfortable . . .” Katarina says, in a hushed voice, looking my way. “I mean, you didn’t seem comfortable. But I don’t know. Were you? I’m sorry. I feel like I’m overstepping.”

“No, it’s okay,” I say. “I mean. I wasn’t.”

Katarina’s frown deepens, the little groove between her eyebrows turning into a canyon.

“Have you guys heard anything about anyone else who’s been here?” I ask them. “Do you think this is . . . normal?”

“No one knows exactly what the method is before they get here,” Clara insists, with all the fervor of a true acolyte. “That’s what’s so amazing about Doctor Martina. It’s, like, proprietary psychology.”

A short, barking laugh cuts into the conversation.

“Proprietary psychology ?” Leyla says.

She’s standing in the doorway, leaning oh so casually against it, her eyebrows raised.

Clara reddens, but she pushes her shoulders back.

“Yeah,” she says. “Basically. Sorry if I don’t know the exact legal terminology.”