Seth nods. “It makes me think there’s something to it, what people say.”
“And what do people say?” Caleb mocks Seth’s dramatic tone.
“That it’s cursed, among other things. Not surprising given what’s happened here over the years.”
“Like?”
“The plague stuff, the old school burning down . . . Creacher . . . don’t think I need to say anymore—”
“No, you don’t,” Maya interrupts. “While it makes for a good story, it’s not exactly conducive to holiday vibes.”
“Speaking of holiday vibes, I fancy another cocktail.” Picking up the drinks menu, Jo reads aloud: “Sunset Sailor. Bacardi Oro, Diplomático, Angostura, pineapple, orange.”
“Bea would love that,” Caleb says, gesturing one of the waitstaff over. “She’s in a cocktail phase at the moment. Even bought one of those shakers for home . . .”
“Wish Bea could have come,” Hana murmurs when their drinks arrive a few minutes later. She takes a sip of hers. It’s strong, heavy on the rum. “Not the same without her.”
“Well, we’ll toast her.” Jo holds up her cocktail, the vibrant liquid catching the light. “To Bea.”
Maya’s the only one who doesn’t raise her glass.
Hana glances at her, shocked to find Maya blinking back tears. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s not just Bea we’re missing,” Maya blurts out. “Sofia should be at things like this.”
“Oh, God, of course.” Hana squeezes Maya’s hand, kicking herself.
“It just hits me, sometimes, what she’s missing out on.” Maya wipes her eyes.
Jo raises her glass again. “To absent friends . . .” Despite the sympathy on her face there’s something dismissive in her tone. They drink in silence before Jo speaks again. “Shall we go to the beach in a bit?” She throws out a comment about whether they’re too old for skinny-dipping.
The conversation quickly moves back to the jokey, lighthearted tone from earlier, but Maya’s outburst has bothered Jo, Hana can tell.
It’s as if Maya has caused a ripple in the evening Jo had planned, thrown a rock into the otherwise perfectly flat lake.
DAY 2
10
Michael Zimmerman walks through the restaurant, cloth and polish in hand.
His gaze picks over the scene: the empty chairs, the soft gray of the stone floor, the festoon bulbs, each reflecting a tiny, glowing sun. He likes this time, before the guests are awake. This early, the sun feels heavy-lidded, like it’s barely opened its eye over the horizon, reluctant to meet your gaze.
Plus, this shift is easy work. The retreat has already been swept clean the night before. All he has to do is hunt out the final bits the night staff has missed—a bottle jammed into a corner, open mouth still dribbling beer, greasy finger smudges on the balustrades.
He’s not good for much more, he thinks, feeling a sharp twinge in his lower back. His days of heavy exertion are over, his body worn out from years of teaching PE and playing weekend rugby. It was time to take his foot off the pedal, but he didn’t want to retire completely, which made this job the perfect in-between.
Enough company to keep him out of trouble, that’s what his wife would have said, and it was true. It didn’t do you any good to be on your own. Too much time to think.
Michael wipes his cloth along the railing one last time, fingertip pressed into the fabric to catch the worst of the grease, then makes his way across to the yoga pavilion.
He hasn’t yet reached the entrance when he notices a piece of clothing on the grass outside the glass balustrade surrounding the front of the pavilion.
The brightly patterned material bothers him; something like this shouldn’t have been missed by the night cleaners.
Slowly walking over, Michael leans over the balustrade to retrieve it, but as soon as his hand closes around the slippery fabric, something on the rocks below draws his gaze.
He startles. You’re seeing things.
But as he looks closer, it’s clear that he isn’t.
Michael starts to tremble. His hand falls open, wrap slithering back to the ground.
Wrenching his gaze from the rocks, he turns, retches. With each spasm, regurgitated lumps of the muesli laid out for the staff every morning splatter the pale stone of the floor.
11
Elin sits down at her desk, thighs still tingling from her run. She loves early mornings in the office—the silence and citrus-fresh bite of cleaning fluid, the loamy light picking up dusty computer screens. Tiny details she sees only at this time, when her brain has space to roam, not yet weighed down by the detritus of the day.