Sunday, October 14
Five Days Before
The house lay at the end of a rutted gravel road that seemed to stretch on endlessly, rising, switching back, then rising again until I felt nauseated. It stood in a cove of dark pines, its steep crimson gables and stained-glass windows regarding our arrival with a stern expression.
A house with eyes.
I wasn’t being paranoid or dramatic. Like Heath had said, the cameras were actually part of the deal at Baskens Institute. Couples attending the famous Baskens retreats were not only paying for therapy sessions but also for the privilege of being observed while they twiddled their thumbs or engaged in their everyday spats. A bunch of lab animals, paying for their own exploitation.
I unfolded myself from Heath’s battered Nissan. The air smelled of moss and rotted wood and was at least ten degrees cooler than down in Atlanta. A cloud blotted out the sun, dousing blue sky and green forest in an inky gray, then moved on again. I shivered in the sunlight and thought of my iPad, which I’d tucked safely under the mat in the back seat. Heath hadn’t seen me hide it. I hoped it would be safe until I could retrieve it later.
“Where do you think the cameras are hidden?” I polished my cloudy glasses on the scrunched-up sleeve of my sweater. Ours was the only car in the circular drive. I wondered if the other two couples attending the retreat had flown in and been shuttled up the mountain. I hadn’t heard anything about them.
“They’re inside the rooms. Not out here.”
Heath climbed out, popping his neck and stretching. The drive from Atlanta had only been three hours, but in his tiny car it felt like twelve. The Nissan, an unfortunate iridescent royal blue, was a holdover from his college days that he swore he’d never give up, no matter how important the job he happened to have. His holding on to the old car was just one of the things I loved about him. He didn’t judge things by their outward appearance; he saw below the surface.
In the bright mountain sunshine, Heath sneezed twice in quick succession.
“Bless you,” I said.
“Something’s blooming.” He went around to the trunk.
Everything was dying as far as I could see, fall’s brown and red and gold emerging on the hillsides. A series of terraced lawns bordered the western side of the house, dropping out of sight down the slope of the mountain. Dense forest flanked the rear and eastern sides. Farther off, higher up on the shoulder of the mountain, I caught a glimpse of a thin waterfall tumbling between granite rocks.
The house was painted a deep crimson—the wood siding, the shutters, even the intricate gingerbread trim. Except for the door, which was a vibrant mustard yellow. The facade was dominated by a large overhanging gable, but the rest of the thing was a collection of off-center wings, jutting eaves, and precarious spindled balconies. There was an L-shaped wraparound porch and a hexagonal tower that rose from the top floor. An orgy of Victoriana.
The place was grand, but this close, it was impossible not to notice the faded, peeling paint and mildew-rotted eaves. The way the tops of the window frames sagged. How the roofline and walls joined at odd angles. And the house was wedged into the side of the mountain, too, good and tight. No place for me to go jogging, not unless I wanted to risk falling off a cliff.
I did an automatic count—two doors, four chimneys, eighteen panes of glass on that large, front-facing gable that appeared to be an enclosed balcony. I felt a little better, then. It was important to stay calm. I couldn’t let myself slide into panic.
“How in the world do people find this place?” I said.
Heath hoisted our bags from the trunk. “Dr. Cerny’s retreats are all based on word of mouth and referrals. Under the radar, super exclusive. Word is, he’s the guy who handles Bill and Hillary’s tune-ups.”
“I wonder if we’ll get their room. Sleep in their bed.”
He dropped our bags. “Would you like that?” He raised his eyebrows and we shared a smirk. For a moment, just a moment, things seemed perfect between us, like the conversation at Divine had never happened. Like we were just a normal couple who’d gotten out of the city for a last-minute mountain getaway. But I couldn’t pretend.
The night before, when I’d gotten home from Divine, I’d spent an hour on the computer, first Googling Baskens Institute, then rescheduling the rest of my appointments for the upcoming week so I could leave the next day.
The search results were sparse: there was no official website for the retreat center and only a smattering of pieces written about it, most of them years old. One, an article in the Wall Street Journal about Baskens’s reputation as a center for platinum-level relationship rescues, emphasized the exclusivity of the place. Nondisclosure agreements prevented clients from leaking any details about Cerny’s unconventional methods, but rumors of juicy scandals abounded—celebrity dirt or perverse deeds the Baskens surveillance cameras may have captured.
I moved on to shuffling the upcoming week’s tasks onto Kevin and Lenny. I dashed off a succinct, overly cheery email to each of them, glad that it was late enough not to have to deal with a million questions I didn’t want to answer.
Yes, Daphne Amos, who scoffed at psychotherapy, was accompanying her fiancé up to the mountains for a full week of it. No, I wasn’t taking part; I was tagging along to cheer him on and, in the process, dumping a crap-ton of extra work onto my partner and our employee. I could practically hear Lenny screeching in disbelief when she read the email.
Moving on to my final task, I opened Instagram, and, holding my breath, typed in a name. I’d heard it only once, from Lenny, that very first day I’d met Heath. Annalise Beard.
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?”
“He’s not allergic,” I interjected. I glanced at Donna McAdam, smiled, and rolled my eyes. A prim look was all I got in return.
Reggie cleared his throat. “After dinner, the doctor will meet with each couple in his study, so we’d like to get your private tours of the house and grounds in before that. There are a few quirks to the property, and we want everyone to feel comfortable during your stay. The Siefferts have already had theirs. The McAdams are next, and then I’ll take you.”
I looked over at the McAdams. They’d migrated back to the windows, still holding their wine.
In the main hall, Reggie led the way upstairs. “You can drop your things in your room, freshen up if you like, and then we’ll meet back downstairs for your tour. Do either of you know why the house is called Baskens?”
Heath spoke up. “The property and house originally belonged to the Baskens family, from Dr. Cerny’s maternal side—built back during the gold rush. Dr. Cerny inherited the place, lived here a while, and eventually turned it into a counseling retreat.”
“Wow,” I said. It was certainly more than I’d been able to dig up online.
“Very good,” Reggie said.
“Mason, the guy from work, told me that,” Heath said.
“Here we go,” Reggie puffed, and Heath hooked a finger through one of mine.
As I stepped onto the first landing, I happened to look back. I could just see—through one arched opening—a woman standing in the dark dining room. She had silver or blonde hair that shone, even in the shadows, and a long, elegant neck. I thought, at first, that was all I could see, but it wasn’t exactly true. There was something more, something strange. She was staring at us—at me, specifically—with an expression of naked, undisguised curiosity.