On Instagram, she was @fairlyweirdbeard, and she was a prolific poster. Of frosty, fruity drinks, beach sunsets, and a wan-faced cocker spaniel, mostly. The scattered selfies showed a long-limbed woman with tangled blonde beach hair, a knowing twist to her lips, and an impressive collection of fedoras and ankle boots. Actually, she looked a bit like me. Or maybe my prettier, more socially confident sister. I followed her, then clicked over to type in a message.
After I was done, I powered down the computer, tucked it in the bottom drawer of my desk, and went to bed. Later—much later—Heath slipped between the covers and curled against me. He was cold and smelled like the autumn night air and fallen leaves. He must’ve been out walking, not hanging out in the bar, drinking, like I’d been imagining and worrying about.
In relief, I rested my hand on his bare chest and draped a leg over one of his. I told him that yes, I would go with him to the retreat, but I still refused to meet with Dr. Cerny. We made love for the first time in weeks. As I drifted off to sleep, I tried not to think about pretty Annalise Beard, whose help I now so desperately needed.
Heath slept peacefully the rest of the night and woke in a good mood. Which was something, I guessed. And on the way up to the mountains, he’d seemed unusually lighthearted, chatting and singing along with the radio. Now, standing in front of the rambling crimson Baskens, I resolved to act supportive, even if I didn’t feel that way. Even if I was low-level panicking at the very idea of being an overnight guest at a relationship-research facility.
I inhaled and sent Heath a sly grin. “If sleeping in the same bed where Bill and Hillary slept is what it takes to save us, I will do it,” I said. “I will find it ironic, but I will do it.”
He caught my wrist and pulled me closer. I buried my face in his shoulder and inhaled his scent—soap and deodorant and the stuff he put in his hair. Who needed therapy when you had your own personal, six-foot-two mood stabilizer?
The whiskers on his jaw scratched my temple. “Always us,” he said in a low voice.
“Always us,” I replied. “And Bill and Hillary, if need be.”
A young man with a shiny face, tortoiseshell glasses, and a swoop of muddy brown hair shouted a greeting at us from the porch. He hadn’t been there when we’d first driven up. Maybe he’d seen us approach on the hidden cameras. He bounced down the porch steps and across the expanse of grass.
“Ms. Amos? Mr. Beck?” The man extended a plump hand toward me. Crescents of sweat stained the underarms of his starched oxford button-down, and his khaki chinos were just a hair too short. “Dr. Reginald Teague. Reggie, though, please. Welcome to Baskens. I’ll have your car parked around back, if you don’t mind.”
Heath handed him the keys, and Reggie nodded at our bags.
“Give you a hand with those?”
Heath slung the strap of my bag across his shoulders. “I got it, thanks. Just point me in the right direction.”
“Of course. Right this way.” He led us up the front walk and then the porch steps, talking over his shoulder. “The other two couples, the Siefferts and the McAdams, have already arrived and are getting settled. You’ll have your private tour, meet the doctor, and then dinner in your room. Tomorrow after breakfast, Mr. Beck, you’ll have your initial session with Dr. Cerny.”
I expected some side-eye from Reggie because of my refusal to take part in any sessions, but without so much as a hiccup, he ushered us through the mustard door, and we stepped into the front hall. I stopped in my tracks.
“Wow.”
I was used to the vast, open floors of modern office buildings—prefab cubicles, collaborative meeting rooms, and dog-friendly courtyards. Everything was bright and visible in those places. All things movable, adjustable, temporary.
This house looked like it had been here a thousand years, like it breathed the moldered air of a long-ago past. The lower halves of the walls were paneled in coffered oak, the upper halves in cracked leather embossed with a trailing-vine design. The floors were a dingy brown veined marble, and an oak staircase with multiple landings rose from the middle of the room to the floors above. The stairs seemed to have as many switchbacks as the road we’d just driven up.
Chairs upholstered in frayed silk were scattered among monstrously oversized sideboards. Ornate brass gas lamps converted to electric did their utmost to light the room, but the place was still oppressively dark. The air felt stale, like the windows had never been opened. I tried to ignore a creeping sense of claustrophobia, looking into the rooms just off the front hall. There were several—a dining room, a salon, maybe, or music room. A library. But their doors were closed or they were dark and I couldn’t see inside. Old houses with cloistered rooms and layers of bric-a-brac always did this to me. I snuck a look at Heath but couldn’t gauge his reaction to the place. His face was a blank.
Reggie brightened. “Ah, surprise, surprise. Looks like the McAdams are back downstairs. We can meet them before the tour.”
Heath dropped our bags, and Reggie ushered us into a library, done up in more dusty silks and somber velvets, with one wall a massive, carved bookcase. Twelve shelves, all filled with old books. I turned away, fiddling with the hair band around my wrist, and focused on the couple standing beside the bay window. They were in their midthirties, the man sporting a pair of Oakleys looped around his neck by a camouflage neoprene strap, the woman dressed in a swingy paisley dress and cowboy boots. Both of them held crystal goblets of red wine.
“Heath Beck and Daphne Amos, I’d like you to meet the McAdams, Jerry and Donna. They’re one of our three lucky couples at this month’s session.”
Three. Why does it have to be three?
I took a deep breath and forced a smile. After the flurry of handshakes and greetings, I turned to the woman. “Are you from around here?”
She glanced at Reggie.
“Actually, Ms. Amos,” he said, “we ask that all Baskens participants not share personal details with each other. You’ll be seeing very little of the other couples this week. All meals are delivered to you in your private suites by Luca, our cook—who speaks very little English. Sessions are scheduled with everyone’s utmost privacy in mind. You may see the other couples on the grounds during free time, but Dr. Cerny asks that you respect the intensity of everyone’s experience and refrain from socializing. The doctor believes the fewer the distractions, the more you can adequately focus on your partner and open yourself up to the therapy. It’s one of the hallmarks of Baskens’s unique approach. Speaking of which, you read the agreement regarding your cell phones, correct?”
“Yes,” Heath said.
“The gift of silence, that’s what we like to call it.” Reggie produced a small basket and held it out. Heath dropped his cell phone in. “Dr. Cerny and I both have telephones in case of emergency. The nearest village down the mountain, Dunfree, has a fire department and hospital, if needed. Though it never has been,” he rushed to add.
I tried not to imagine the awfulness of driving back down that rutted gravel road with some sort of medical emergency. I couldn’t believe people actually chose to live up here, almost completely cut off from society. And SuperTargets.
“Babe,” Heath said.
I dug my phone out of my purse. “Oh, right. One sec. Just something from work I should check real quick.” I turned and tapped open Instagram. A couple of notifications—@fairlyweirdbeard had followed me. And left me a message. I opened it.
I was wondering when I’d hear from you. Emailing you now.
“Daphne,” Heath said.
I switched off my phone and let it clack into the basket. Annalise Beard was emailing me. This was a good sign. Better than good.
Reggie checked his watch. “All right, then. I’ll take you to your suite. You can unpack, rest a bit from the trip. Luca will deliver your dinner at seven o’clock—fish, I believe—along with a complimentary bottle of wine.”
“Fish,” Heath said under his breath.
I furrowed my brow at him, but he looked away.
“It’s actually scallops in some kind of cream sauce, if I’m not mistaken. You’re not allergic, are you?”