by R. S. Kovach
“Everyone, this is Ali,” Liz broke in. “She’ll be with us for a few weeks. I hope you can make her feel welcome.”
If she’d been in a cartoon, Ali would have certainly heard crickets right about then. “Don’t all talk at once,” Liz quipped, doing her best to ease the tension, but the faces of the three women and one man stayed cautiously reserved.
It actually didn’t bother her because Ali wasn’t quite up to forced pleasantries. A young man with a poncho hanging on his broad shoulders pushed his Jackie O sunglasses over his wiry black hair, looking like he was about to say something, but Ali cut him off before he had a chance. “I’m going to get some food. Excuse me.”
Leaving the group behind, she hurried to the buffet tables and grabbed a plate. The assortment—hot and cold salads, pastas, meats, cakes, and pies—was impressive, but it was her first time navigating a self-serve line with the cast. As soon as she attempted to pick up the tongs with her right hand, Ali knew she was in trouble. Her cast made it nearly impossible to get a firm grip on the utensil, but holding the plate in her injured hand was an even greater task. She’d also have to find something she could eat with just a fork, so anything needing cutting was out of the question.
Passing containers of roast chicken and pork chops, she settled on the baked ziti. The smell was already making her mouth water as she clumsily scooped the pasta onto her plate, but there was still the matter of getting something to drink. Various juices and sodas were available from nearby fountain machines, but maneuvering that obstacle and then juggling everything back to the table seemed daunting. She was contemplating making two trips when someone tapped her on the shoulder.
“What can I get ya? You look like the mimosa type, but there’s no booze ’ere. I know, ’cause I’ve asked,” the petite blonde from her table deadpanned in an unexpected Cockney accent.
“No, thanks. I’m good,” Ali said, trying to dismiss her, but the woman shook her platinum Cleopatra bob and held up an empty glass.
“I’m ’ere anyway. Don’t ya worry; I won’t make it a habit.”
Ali sighed and scanned the options. “Fine. I guess I’ll have an iced tea.”
“The name’s Wylda, by the way,” the woman said after she had grabbed their drinks and they headed back to the table. “The old girl is Harriet, the uppity bird is Sheridan, and the bloke whose makeup is better than all of ours combined is Pete.”
Ali looked around the packed dining room, considering her options. “Do you always sit together?”
“Pretty much,” Wylda responded.
“Why?” she blurted out.
Wylda glanced back over her shoulder. “What do ya mean, why?”
Ali bit her lip at her curious stare. “I mean, is there assigned seating in here?”
“Naw, we just like each other, is all.” She shrugged. “Well, most of us.”
“Oh.” Ali lowered her gaze as they arrived at the table and took a seat next to the older woman, Harriet. Jamming her fork into the pasta, she picked up three pieces at once and stuck them in her mouth.
“You don’t look too happy to be here,” Sheridan commented, her voice the opposite of Wylda’s. If the former reminded Ali of a chirpy parakeet from London’s East End, then the latter was like an exotic feline from Mumbai.
She chewed and swallowed before responding. “And you are? Happy to be here, I mean.”
The woman tucked a long lock of thick, black hair behind her ear. “Not all of us came by force.”
Ali gripped her fork harder than necessary. “And why would you think I did?”
Sheridan shook her head and smirked. “No reason.”
Is it that obvious? Ali already disliked this stranger for noticing but bit her lip to keep from saying something she’d regret later. Instead, she turned her attention back to eating. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could retreat to her room.
Something under the table brushed against her leg, and when she looked down, a pair of sparkling eyes looked back. Tugging on the bejeweled leash attached to the tiny white terrier, Harriet scolded the animal. “Marv, be a good boy and leave her in peace. Sorry, my dear, but he gets excited around new people.” The older woman patted Ali’s shoulder with a wrinkled hand.
The act wasn’t malicious, but Ali winced as a sharp pain radiated up her arm. Wanting to keep her head clear for travel, she had neglected the recommended dose of pain medication and was now paying the price. Liz probably wouldn’t have her back on the schedule until dinnertime, and she couldn’t bear to wait. Pulling the contraband out from her purse, Ali poured a pill into her palm and popped it into her mouth.
“Here less than an hour and breaking rules already?” Because all eyes around the table had been on her, Wylda’s question was inevitable. Not that it made it less intrusive.
“I’m not an addict, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Ali snapped.
Pete smirked. “Uh-huh.”
“You might as well admit it,” Sheridan chimed in. “Because the shrink won’t clear you until you do. But even if it’s something else, it can’t be worse than what brought any of us here. I mean, you can’t trust a word she says.” Sheridan nodded toward Wylda. “Pete’ll shag anything with a pulse, and this one thinks her husband was reincarnated as her dog.”
Noticing Sheridan didn’t mention why she was there, but not wanting to show anything resembling interest, Ali threw the pill bottle back into her purse. “Not that it’s any of your business, but the pills are for my wrist and so is the physical therapy I’m here for.”
Sheridan scoffed, and Pete crossed his arms and slowly shook his head. “No one comes to Pebble Creek just for physio,” he said.
“I guess I’m the first, then.” Ali pushed her chair backward in an attempt to leave.
“Honey, I’m black and gay, so I’m pretty sure I win the prize for biggest fish out of water here. If anyone has a legitimate reason to be all up in arms, it would be me.” He wagged a well-manicured finger at her and drew his lips into a dissatisfied scowl, making Ali regret ever engaging in the conversation.
After a split second of wide-eyed stares, Pete erupted into laughter and reached across the table to pat her hand. “Got you good.” He grinned. “Welcome to Wonderland. Alice thought she fell down a rabbit hole, but that girl had never been to Pebble Creek Lodge.”
He may have thought it was funny, but she was tired and in pain—neither of which helped Ali appreciate the humor in the situation. “What do we do with these?” She stood and nodded toward her half-empty dishes.
“Leave ’em. They have people for that,” Wylda answered, holding up a compact mirror and reapplying her cherry-red lipstick.
“I’ll walk out with you.” Harriet also stood. “Marv needs to go do his business.”
Ali rolled her eyes but didn’t object. Allowing the older woman and her dog to lead the way, she followed them back to the reception desk. When she stopped to ask Liz for directions to her room, Liz handed her a printed schedule.
“You’ll have individual and group counseling sessions at least twice a week. There are also specific times for your tailored physical therapy. Both are only offered on weekdays, so you can take this weekend to just relax and get acquainted. Otherwise, I would suggest making use of many of our optional activities, including our spa—”
“Thank you,” Ali cut her off. If the handful of guests she’d met was the best introduction Liz could offer to her mountainside retreat, she’d seen enough. She didn’t need to hear any more about what Pebble Creek had to offer because it was now clear she wouldn’t be staying long enough to partake in any of it. The first thing she needed right now was a nap, but afterward, she was going to book the next flight back to New York. She’d call the family lawyer on Monday, and they’d just have to figure out a way she could keep her job without all this added hassle.
Heading toward the c
orridor leading to her room, Ali passed the lodge’s entrance. Harriet and Marv were on their way back up the stone steps, and Ali had just quickened her pace to avoid the duo when the old woman somehow lost her grip on the dog’s lead. The tiny animal immediately turned and ran off in the other direction.
Ali stopped, frozen to the spot. She stared helplessly as a black pickup truck turned onto the circular driveway. The dog and vehicle were on an unmistakable collision course until the truck slammed on its brakes in the nick of time, skidding to a stop on the packed-dirt road and sending a large cloud of dust into the air. At the bottom of the steps, Harriet threw her hands up in relief. Ali also exhaled the breath she’d been holding as the dog pranced around the truck’s front tire, oblivious to nearly getting run over.
The driver swiftly stepped out and rounded the hood before crouching down to scoop up the small animal. Holding Marv against his chest with one hand, he stroked the pup between the ears with the other. A black cowboy hat shielded his face until he stood up again, revealing a stubble-covered square jaw, taut from the near miss. The serious expression suited him, but when Marv squirmed up to lick his face, he broke into a huge smile, revealing perfectly straight teeth and laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. After he handed the dog over to Harriet, the tiny woman displayed her thanks by embracing her hero’s large torso. When she let go, he respectfully tipped his hat, unwittingly flexing his prominent biceps under his tight, dark T-shirt.
“Mmm-hmm.” The unmistakable sound of satisfaction came from behind Ali, making her jump. She’d been so engrossed in what was happening outside, she hadn’t heard anyone approaching, but when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Pete standing directly behind her. He grinned before leaning closer to her ear and coyly whispering, “That right there is perfection. I don’t know about you, but I’d ride that stallion any day of the week and twice on Sundays.”
Looking back at the cowboy returning to his truck, Ali was surprised she wholeheartedly agreed with the crude—but not at all untrue—observation.
She’d stay for the rest of the weekend, but that was it. On Monday, she was definitely out of there.
Waking early on Saturday morning, Ali grabbed a to-go cup of coffee and headed outside to explore. The lodge was in a perfect spot, sitting at the base of the Rockies on one side and in front of the lake on another, with an expansive mix of meadows and forests in between. A cool breeze rustled her hair and made goose bumps pop up on her bare legs. She drew her cardigan closed. When she saw the black pickup from the day before parked beside a nearby barn, she headed in that direction.
The smell of livestock dung mixed with fresh straw filled Ali’s nostrils as she strolled through the open barn doors. Inside, closed box stalls lined both sides of the gabled building. The doors at the opposite end also stood open, letting in the morning sunshine and revealing a horse idly grazing in the adjacent paddock. Ali peeked into a few stalls, her curiosity about the lodge’s stable briefly overtaking her anxiety at the thought of being forced to ride one of the formidable animals.
Whoever had booked her stay definitely had an odd sense of humor. Sure, send the woman who nearly killed herself on a horse to an idyllic retreat that specializes in equine therapy.
Finishing the last of her coffee, Ali followed a rustling sound and found a ranch hand mucking out the empty stall at the far end. Even from behind, she recognized the man from yesterday who’d brilliantly avoided running over Harriet’s husband—er, dog.
Given his endeavors, he had to be an employee at Pebble Creek and not just another guest. Although this confirmation certainly had a bearing on her approach, it didn’t deter Ali from her pursuit. She did, however, stand silently for a moment, taking in the view as he bent his knees and picked up the soiled straw with a pitchfork before depositing it in a nearby wheelbarrow.
His worn jeans hung loose over his long legs but stretched in all the right places as he worked. When the container was almost full and he still hadn’t noticed her standing there, Ali cleared her throat and said the only thing that came to mind.
“Hi.”
The man didn’t turn or break his pace. “The stables don’t open until ten,” he replied bluntly.
The deep, confident voice exceeded Ali’s expectations and a chill ran through her body. “I’m not interested in riding.”
He piled another load on top of the growing mound before turning around. Leaning against the tool’s handle, he tipped his hat back with one hand before addressing her again. “Then what are you interested in?” She was probably reading too much into it, but he appeared to be holding back a smile.
“I . . . um,” Ali stammered, suddenly forgetting her train of thought. She should have come up with something ahead of time, but she usually didn’t find herself lacking for words. His hazel eyes, however, bored a hole through her, and she had to look away to regain her composure. “I just wanted to thank you for not running over Marv.”
Momentarily perplexed, it took him a few seconds to get her meaning. “Oh, the dog. I’m not sure how that warrants thanks. I just stopped.”
Ali’s face flushed; she could feel her cheeks warming by the second. She was making a complete fool of herself, and for what? A little flirting? “Right.” She smirked. “Well, good driving.”
Turning before seeing his response, she walked as fast as she could out of the barn and didn’t stop until she nearly collided with Wylda on the lodge’s terrace.
“Morning, my lovely,” the young woman greeted her from behind fluorescent green sunglasses. “Missed ya at breakfast, but no worries. Are you up for a day of sun and fun?”
Glancing at the barn in the distance, Ali sighed. “Why not?” she said, allowing Wylda to hook an arm in hers and lead her to the water’s edge.
On the wooden pier, colorful lounge chairs were beckoning would-be sun worshippers. A few were already occupied, and the two young women took the nearest ones. Removing her cardigan and kicking off her sneakers, Ali adjusted the straps of her tank top before leaning back in her chair. Wylda stripped to a barely-there bikini, getting a catcall in return from a pair of men who’d been preparing a nearby sailboat for launch. In response, she promptly flipped them off before plopping stomach-down on her reclined lounger.
As the weather warmed up and hours passed, more and more people ventured outside. Most were Ali’s age—in their twenties or thirties—but overall, every age group seemed to be represented. The guests at Pebble Creek were also fairly diverse in their ethnicities—she heard several foreign languages she didn’t recognize—and there were people of all body types. But one thing appeared to connect them: every person she saw, whether young or old, tall or short, curvy or svelte, had the same carefree attitude that would have made them feel right at home in the Hamptons during a holiday weekend.
Were these people really here to learn to manage their troubles? She watched them sip bottled water while dangling their feet off the pier, laugh heartily during games of disc golf on the nearby lawn, or scream with delight as they jumped into the lake from giant boulders extending from shore. They looked and sounded more like well-to-do vacationers than rehab patients dealing with depression, addiction, eating disorders, anxiety, or any other ailments, which had purportedly brought them here. How many of them really needed help and how many others were just using the place to hide out from life’s realities in a comfortable—almost pampered—environment?
“What did—what’s her name—Sheridan? What did she mean by not being able to trust anything you say?” Ali turned to her companion, remembering the conversation from lunch the day earlier.
“Oh, don’t listen to her. She was exaggeratin’. Does that for attention, she does.” Wylda flipped onto her back and adjusted her bikini top. “Like what she said about Pete wantin’ to do everyone here? Nah. Ain’t true. The boy definitely has a type, if ya know what I mean, and half the people here most certainly don’t fit
into it.” She winked for added effect.
Ali obviously wasn’t going to get the reason for Wylda’s stay at Pebble Creek out of her so easily, so she tried another approach. “What’s Sheridan’s story, then?”
“Who knows?” Wylda pushed her sunglasses over her forehead and squinted at the bright light. “I’ve heard she’s a Bollywood wash-up, but honestly, I don’t think she’s anything other than a first-rate bitch.”
Ali laughed. She’d already come to the same conclusion. “Then why is she here?”
“I dunno.” Wylda shrugged. “To snag husband number three, maybe?”
“Really?” Ali raised a skeptical brow. “Here?”
“Absolutely! Mix a bit of vulnerability with a fairy-tale setting and being told to focus on what makes you happy, and bam.” Wylda winked again before pulling her shades back onto her nose.
Bam, huh? Ali sighed and looked toward the barn again, hoping to catch a faraway glimpse of the ranch hand who was quickly turning into her obsession. Her heartbeat accelerated when she saw him heading in their direction with a ladder slung over his shoulder.
“Except for him,” Wylda added.
Ali looked back at her. “What?”
“Him.” She nodded in the cowboy’s direction. “He’s like . . . what do you call that stuff they coat frying pans with? Makes them nonstick or some such.”
“Teflon?” Ali shrugged.
“That’s the one. Hank’s like human Teflon. No one I’ve seen has even remotely caught his attention.” She sighed. “And believe me, many have tried.”
Hank. Now she had a name to put with the face.
Turning again, Ali stared as he placed the ladder at the base of a nearby gazebo and began climbing. “Maybe he’s married,” she speculated, feeling a twinge of jealousy at the thought.
