by Brown, Tara
“At least the drinks are guaranteed to be top-shelf all weekend and we have each other. I can’t imagine coming here alone. No clue what to expect and not a friend in the crowd.” She adds with a smile, “And the single dudes are certain to be hot and rich. Even if you’re dating someone.”
That is the very last topic I want to discuss, considering the past forty-eight hours I’ve had.
The idea of hot dudes makes my stomach ache, but I haven’t told her about my situation. Something I must do before we arrive so she doesn’t think I’m being shitty on purpose. I take a deep breath and begin, “I need to tell you something.” I pause, hating the effect this conversation is already having on me and I haven’t even started yet. “I’m not dating anyone anymore. I mean—I—I’m single.”
“What?” She gasps. “You and Ben broke up.”
His name makes me flinch. “I don’t want to get into details about it, but yeah. Yesterday.”
She reaches forward and takes my cold hand in her warm one. “I am so sorry, Jenny. I wish you’d said something. I would have nattered less on the ride. You must be so upset.”
“It’s fine. I’m okay. And this whole trip is probably the weirdest-best thing I could be doing. Distracting myself with something completely off the wall.” I force my stare to meet hers. Her warm gaze is like a hug and it forces out a piece of the truth I didn’t want to share. “He was with someone when I went to his place in the morning yesterday, a girl from his work. So I left and changed my number. And now I’m here.”
“Oh my God, he doesn’t know that you know he’s having an affair?” The sentence makes it sound complicated but it isn’t.
“No.”
“Girl, you ghosted him?” She smiles wide, her eyes and lips glistening.
“It sounds super petty, but it—”
“It’s epic. Not petty. You found him with another woman, you owe him nothing. Fuck him! We’re almost thirty years old for God’s sake. We don’t have time for bullshit guys who have commitment phobias.” She says it enthusiastically.
“You’re right. And it’s done so I am closing that chapter.”
“Good. I’m glad you want to move on and forget him. What a piece of shit. And you’re right, at least you’re at this wedding and maybe if we’re lucky there will be some serious shenanigans this weekend to keep your mind off it.” She waggles her eyebrows, sinking the icky feeling deeper into my guts.
“I was hoping for more of a relaxing distraction, not guys.”
“Nonsense. With Brady Coldwell, Matt Brimley, and Lawrence Eckelston, it’s almost a guarantee there will indeed be some shenanigans. That’s one hot, dirty roster. And I imagine most of the team is coming.” She swoons. “Hot hockey players needing help to forget they just got booted from the playoffs. What more could two single city girls want for?”
“Except, Stan most likely sent us here to ensure nothing nasty happens, and if it does, we can clean it up right away. I doubt he wants us to be part of the story.” I sound like a mom. I am the fun killer. The death of joy. This is who I am now. This is what Ben made me.
“Yeah, that’s true, I guess,” she agrees but clearly isn’t seriously considering behaving. “Sami has been nothing but a nightmare for our firm from the minute she and Matt started dating, even when their relationship was a secret. But I think we can have fun and still be professional. Keep your misadventures to the dark corners and shadowy parts of the castle.” She laughs. “Like you said, Stan doesn’t expect us to be on duty the whole time we’re here. More like disaster cleanup crew. And it’s a wedding, not their last trip to Rome.”
“I guess.” I shrug. “I mean it does help that Brady Coldwell is engaged. Not much of a chance of issues from him. One less thing to worry about.” I wrinkle my nose at that one. The guy is a pig, engagement or not.
“Indeed. I’m glad that’s over.” She winks. “We’ve cleaned up a lot of his messes, if you get my drift. Not that I’d be averse to meeting Mr. Clinton.”
“Out!” I point at the door of the moving car, only half joking. “Take your filthy humor and walk the rest of the way.”
“Shut up,” she says with a giggle. “We both know you think he’s hot too.”
But she’s wrong.
I played hockey my whole life, like most Canadian kids, and have met dozens of Brady Coldwells. Because of it, I would never date a puck. The idea of it brings back the responsible side of me, and her joking has me worried.
“Okay, real talk. We need a pact. I’m not saying don’t have fun. But I am saying, we need to behave and remember we’re representing the firm. We don’t need Stan murdering us when we return to the city. That’s not how I want to die.” Not to mention, I’m now indebted to the company for life.
“Hey, I think we’re here.” Ignoring me and my advice, her gaze flickers to the right as the car slows to an almost stop. She lowers the tinted window to get a better view of a small brick wall with a white farm fence running along the road.
We’re in the middle of nowhere.
“The Blackberry Farm?” The sign makes my already tender insides tug. “There’s no world in which I imagined a farm being Sami’s wedding venue of choice. This must be a mistake. I didn’t pack for a farm.” So much for spa resort. Thanks, Stan.
But the car turns into the farm where at first there’s not much; fields, tennis courts, and trees.
As we enter a wide valley, we begin to see the rest of it. While it’s meant to resemble a farm, this is much cleaner and prettier. Pristine actually, with freshly mowed lawns and perfectly kept gardens—a fake farm. Or rather a show farm, complete with a massive and modern red barn up the hill to the right, but I suspect it’s a restaurant of sorts.
Stunning houses of varying sizes are tucked into the woods surrounding us and range from huge to cottage, though they all appear quite fancy. In the small valley, there’s a swimming pool with a cute pool house and a lake with an adorable white dock and boathouse. If Norman Rockwell were alive now and possibly a designer on HGTV, he would have created this. It’s picturesque.
We drive to the main house, which is marked with a cute sign welcoming us. It’s the same as the rest of the resort, rustic chic and stunning. It’s rich people’s version of camping with a parking lot filled with Bentleys and limos sitting next to the horse-drawn carriages.
When the limo stops and the valet gets the door for us, we both stare at everything. “It’s like stepping back two hundred years into Austen’s time, but bringing all the best of our time with us,” I whisper to Sukii who nods.
“This place is freaking adorable,” Sukii gushes as she spins and takes in the small area that’s visible to us. Up close, the main house reminds me of a white cottage you’d see in England which would of course be an inn or a pub.
The air is heavy and cool in the Smoky Mountains, not at all like New York in June. You can feel the moisture of the forest around you but the air is so clean in comparison.
“Guests of the bride or groom, madam?” a man asks as he approaches us with a proper British accent to complement the charming surroundings.
“Uhhh—”
“Both,” Sukii answers for us cheerfully. “We’re with Levisohn and Shuster.” She pulls out our invitation I now assume has a watermark which becomes visible with the small penlight he has in his hands. “The PR firm.”
“Excellent, of course. Mr. Levisohn called and made us aware that you would be taking his place.” He smiles differently now that he knows who we are.
“Has the location been revealed? Did they come here as a second choice?” I have to ask. The whole thing is a curiosity to me. A secret wedding at a mystery location is of course how Sami Ford would be married. But not a farm.
“Not yet, as far as I am aware. Ms. Ford has taken every precaution possible to ensure total privacy this weekend. And we are certain no one will leak the details. All guests were told in the limo, as you were, and the cars were equipped with mobile phone signal jammers.�
�� He offers his hands to us expectantly. “As for that, your phones and all digital devices are required for the weekend.”
My stomach drops. We were so nervous and excited, neither of us tried to use our phones in the car; we didn’t notice they weren’t working.
“Phones?” Sukii has lost her bubbly charm.
“It is mandatory that all guests turn in any form of electronics in order to check in. Miss Ford’s rules, I’m afraid.”
“Oh my God,” Sukii mutters as she switches off her personal phone and hands it over. Her fingers cling to it a little at the end. I do the same. I’m instantly naked and afraid. This makes sense and yet I’m scared. I left my work phone at home, as Stan instructed via text this morning, which means I will have nothing.
“Laptops or tablets?”
Wide-eyed and chest thumping, I fish my laptop from the bag. It’s an icky feeling handing it over, one that makes me shudder. How can I be out of contact with the world while Stan and his movers pack and move my entire apartment?
The man carries our devices inside and we follow, leaving our bags on the ground. He puts them into a locker and passes us a small coin with a number. “Don’t lose this. It’s essential you hand it in to retrieve your belongings.”
Sukii takes the coin as if it might explode in her hands and gently places it in her purse, zipping the side pocket she put it into. She gulps and gives me a worried stare.
“You ladies are in the Singing Brook Cottages. Your welcome bags are there with maps and itineraries. Your personal cart is also waiting for you both at your cottage. Enjoy your stay. If any of our staff on the grounds can be of assistance over the next five days, do not hesitate to ask. My name is Marcel and I am happy to help in any way I can.” He hands us both a small envelope with numbers on it. “Sam will help you to your cottages.” He points to the front door we entered through. An older man with a thick mustache and a kind smile is waiting for us at the door.
“Ready to get going?” Sam asks boldly. He’s clearly a character, the same way my grandpa is, feisty and funny.
We follow, both a little lost, a lot confused, and quite scared.
No information on the wedding beyond the plane ticket, pickup, and the number of days.
No phones.
No friends here beyond ourselves.
And five days of being cut off from the outside world while my boss and a moving company uproot my whole life.
“This is like some Get Out shit,” Sukii whispers.
I want to argue there’s no way this is a horror movie, but the start is too bizarre for me to say a word. And we are with the elite wealthy; God knows what they want us for.
“These are your people, is this normal?” she asks so quietly I barely hear it.
“My people? I’m Canadian, these are not my people. Or do you mean because I’m white? I don’t know these kinds of white people.” My pulse pounds so aggressively I feel it in my throat. “Besides, who gets murdered at a three-hundred-thousand-dollar wedding?”
“Stan said closer to five hundred thousand. And I meant because of the hockey, weirdo,” she adds as we put on fake smiles for Sam while he helps us into the golf cart. “They’re your people.”
“Not my people,” I answer back quickly, certain my stare confirms all her suspicions. There’s a small fear that she’s right; five hundred thousand or not, we’re about to die. Is that why Stan wanted to move my apartment? So he could hide my things and make it seem as though I never existed?
Oh God.
On the verge of a slight panic attack, I’m saved when Sam distracts us, soothing my nerves. “Well, ladies, you must be excited. This is a lovely spot for a wedding. We have heaps of them every year but this must be the most extravagant we’ve seen.”
“Yes,” we agree at the same time with those weird telephone voices that scream how nervous we are.
“You friends of the bride or groom?”
“Sort of both,” I lie.
We are friends with neither.
Matt Brimley is an elite rich dude who for some unknown reason played hockey his whole life. And Sami Ford is the ultimate “it girl,” a fashion and lifestyle icon everyone wants to be or emulate as closely as possible. This is the wedding of the year and decade, and we should be grateful to be here. Just to breathe the same air as these people.
“Have you worked here long, Sam?” I ask, changing the subject and doing the thing I do where I say his name so I don’t forget it.
“About five years. It’s a retirement gig for me.” He chuckles. “I was a police officer for thirty years in Nashville, and when I retired I thought I might do some fishing and play a little golf, so we moved to the country. But I got bored. And I know what happens when men my age get bored—they die.” He drives the golf cart around the tennis courts and onto a small path in the forest. “A friend told me about this place and voila, here I am.”
“I imagine they must let you use the facilities and whatnot,” Sukii adds.
“Indeed, and we eat for free. Which, let me tell you, in all my sixty years on this planet, I have never had food like here.” He whistles. “You girls are in for a treat.” He drives into a thick wooded area and up a small path to a quaint cabin. It’s beautiful and modern as well but has that charming little cottage feel. “Here’s your cabin, Miss Snowdon.” He steps out of the cart and picks up my bags.
“I can get those,” I say, liking Sam now. He reminds me of my dad.
“Nonsense.” He waves me off and carries them to the adorable front door with the cute porch. It matches the cabins next door, though they’re laid out differently to trick the eye into not seeing similarities.
My cabin is a modern craftsman style with huge windows and a rustic chic decor. The front porch has sofas and blankets and screams comfort. I imagine a cup of Sukii’s weird British coffee she imports and listening to the rain.
He opens the door and beams. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
I hand him some cash and step inside, glancing back at Sukii. I’m still a bit frightened of being alone here. Separating us seems like what they’d do in this type of scenario. And the way the week’s been going, dying in a horror movie would fit.
Sukii looks scared too until Sam drives on the small path to the cottage across from me.
“We’re neighbors!” she shouts.
I grin wide, letting myself relax a bit about the whole thing. “I’ll unpack and come over.”
“Bring wine,” she says with a laugh and hurries into her cottage.
“If I may offer advice, forget the wine. Head over to the Dagwood and get a charcuterie and a stout,” Sam offers as he climbs back onto the golf cart. “You won’t regret it.”
I wave at him. “Thanks, Sam!”
Once I’m back inside, I close the door and lean against it, taking it all in.
The horror vibe dies as I realize the room is gorgeous. It’s luxurious while being delicately played down to help the rich people feel like they’re camping. We have definitely been brought here to ensure there are no mess-ups and not to die in some weird hunt-the-poor-people game in the woods. It’s too nice.
On one side of the room there’s a king-sized bed with a bag on it.
The bag is Louis Vuitton, a large multicolor weekender with cream handles. It has to be worth twenty-five hundred dollars. I rush to it, unzipping with trembling fingers to discover treasures inside.
There are mini bags, also Louis Vuitton, five with the days of the week written on them. I open today’s, Wednesday’s, and stare at the contents.
There’s sunscreen, matching Gucci sunglasses and flip-flops, a cute scarf from Hermes with English sightseeing destinations in the design, a beach towel, bath salts with lavender pieces, and a bottle opener.
My fingers reach for the next day but I resist. I’ll open them one day at a time.
Carefully, I put the bag on the small dresser and turn, jumping on the bed and bouncing with my butt to test the
firmness of the mattress. “Oh my God!” I lie back and decide the pillow top is otherworldly.
I close my eyes and let the images of the last two days flash through my mind like painful fireworks.
Ben.
Aslin.
The mud puddle.
Randall the phone dude.
Gutting my apartment in a mad frenzy.
Stan’s offer.
Meeting Sukii in the limo when it picked me up before driving us to LaGuardia.
Arriving here.
I take a deep breath and try to calm my frazzled mind, reminding myself I promised not to let him ruin one more day. That pathetic moment spent sitting in a puddle sobbing was it.
I force myself up to take in the gorgeous room.
“You’re going to do your job, have a little harmless fun,” I whisper and climb off the bed. I walk to sit on one of the fluffy sofas in the living room with the fireplace. The windows are positioned in a way that you see the forest, hills, and fields. I can’t look into the other cottages placed perfectly in the woods around me. Whoever built this place was a genius.
Ridiculously, I pull one of the long matches from the box and strike it, tossing it into the fireplace to start the fire. It’s far too warm to have it going, but I’m living in microseconds of wonderment as I take it all in.
I sit for a moment before getting up to wander into the hallway where I find the most shocking thing.
A walk-in closet.
A huge walk-in closet.
A sigh escapes my lips.
I wish I had my phone to take pictures and send them to Claire and the girls. Sami stealing our phones makes sense. Even if I miss touching mine.
Forcing myself to continue the tour, I make my way into the bathroom and stop dead in my tracks.
“Oh wow,” I say to no one, stunned by the spa soaker tub, massive two-person shower, white tiles, and sparkling glass and marble. The window in the bathroom overlooks the woods, which is the only color in the whole room. Everything else is bright white, including the double sinks and fluffy towels. The counter is filled with products that are not only high end, but full sized. There’s hundreds of dollars’ worth of it all. Maybe thousands.
