Page 12 of Last Seen
The members of the fiction retreat have gathered in a posh, elegant cabin in the woods in a small town called Brockville. The cabin is an A-frame, with a stone fireplace, chinked wood walls, and a granite-countered kitchen in the back of the room. A fire crackles in the grate; the couches are comfortable; a tea-and-coffee service is set up on the sideboard, along with various delectable and healthy snacks.
No one is eating. Or drinking, for that matter. We’re just sitting in a circle, staring at everything but each other, nervous and tense, not sure what to expect. What to think.
The fire is making the room overwarm. The shoulder months in Tennessee are finicky—hot one day, cold the next. Today is quite chilly; fog has wrapped the valley in its damp embrace. It is easy to lose your way in these morning fogs, so the retreat has yellow lighting along the paths so we—the writers—can find the way from our cabins to the main space.
The walk over should have been inspiring. The fields were covered in dew. There was nickering from the barns, the horses still inside, keeping to their dreams, and the song of swallows haunted the air. It was custom-made atmosphere. I don’t know if anyone really noticed, but they should have.
We six are the elite. The chosen ones. Each of us harbors a story and reason why we want to pursue a creative path. We’ve shared that reason—and a thousand-word writing sample—with the board of the lauded Brockville Writers’ Retreat, and six lucky writers have been plucked from a field of thousands. And now here we are, five women and one man, in the “writing cabin,” absolutely shitting our pants with nerves.
And then there’s me. Catriona Handon. Cat, to my friends. I am the youngest one here, and possibly more anxious than the rest, because last night, when the lottery was held at our lavish welcome dinner, I was picked to be the first to read a story to the group.
There is nothing more nauseating than the first time you present your writing to a workshop. To do so at the famed Brockville Retreat, known for launching the careers of three National Book Award winners and two Pulitzers, not to mention a bevy of regional awards, film adaptations, and millions of books sold?
No pressure or anything.
We wait. The fog meanders outside the windows. I occupy my time thinking about our new world.
Brockville itself is a fascinating place. I did a good bit of research before I came, and I have to admit, the town is just as alluring as the retreat. I walked it yesterday when I arrived, wandering the paths by the lake, watching the happy people, gawking at the houses that look like Frank Lloyd Wright designed each one. The restaurants and the general store and the bookstore, dead center, all accessible, friendly. People with gentle smiles on their faces, buzzing around in golf carts.
I could live here. Stay until my bones grow weary and turn to dust. It is as beautiful as it is remote. To be lost in such a place, asmall self-sustaining town in the middle of the forest, wouldn’t be the worst.
Brockville is broken into equally sized and spaced hamlets, geometric and linear, each with a theme that matches its role in the town’s ecosystem. The founder—Miles Brockton, the world-famous leader of biophilic living—built the town to self-sustain off the land. According to the literature, he was charmed by a trip to the Cotswolds; the hamlets’ names and shapes have a decidedly British overtone.
Avalon is the arts hamlet, housing the bookstore, the Inn, the labyrinth, a lake, boutique stores for art and clothing, and the famed artists’ colony, including the world-famous Brockville Writers’ Retreat.
Canter is focused on wellness. Everything from the doctor, midwife, and pharmacy to the gym and elderly care home can be found in its environs.
Glaston is the farm, and so it is home to three restaurants, two coffee shops, the bakery, the florist, and a wildly popular pizza parlor with an old-school Italian wood-fired brick oven, a handcrafted piece imported from Naples.
The final hamlet, Somer, is more practical. Its theme is education, and everything from the schools to the small sheriff’s department can be found on its streets. Somer is also the home of the real estate and construction firm that brings people to Brockville and helps them design and build their housing.
And what houses they are. All architectural masterpieces ranging from the modern glass-and-steel chalets I love the most to classic Craftsmans with welcoming porches and wreaths on the doors, to a mixed-use section of town houses that are as cleverly appointed as they are slightly more affordable, to a few modern French château-inspired homes with brick-and-grass courtyards. Everything is built to spec; nothing can be erected without unanimous board approval. These fabulous homes are scattered throughout the hamlets, and the neighbors are friendly and welcoming. Sidewalks are wide; lighting is generous; the branded golf carts whizz by with alarming regularity. Itsgregarious camaraderie can be intense. Everyone knows everyone. That is by design. There are no strangers within the town walls; outsiders are welcome to come look, but are treated with great caution.
In the center of it all, the town square holds the post office, an ice cream shop, a general store, and a park surrounding the lake, with many benches and a meandering path perfect for walking. If you veer off it to the northwest, you’ll find yourself in Avalon and the entrance to the labyrinth. To the northeast is Canter. Glaston is southwest, and Somer southeast.
It is beautifully planned. A charming little town in the middle of the woods, with every amenity imaginable, but also compact, specific. There is no competition among the businesses—every storefront is singular. There is one mechanic. One doctor. One school. One vet. One gym. Only the restaurants are in multiples, and that is to satisfy the tastes and level of celebration needed; they are all owned and run by the Brocktons themselves.
The people of Brockville choose this way of life for a reason. They seek this elegant isolation. Everything they need, and nothing they don’t. It is very much like a medieval Norman English village of old, with every aspect of life centered on the castle, and the town surrounding, its support. Even much of the food is grown on site: the animals responsibly raised on the farm, the wine made from grapes grown on the hill that rises behind Glaston. They have a light footprint; what they can’t produce is sourced from small, ethically run farms and established community co-ops. Local and organic, that’s their motto.
The people who live here are, for all intents and purposes, self-sufficient. There is little reason to leave. People rarely do. Oh, they travel, of course, and sometimes a run to a store outside the town is necessary—though usually done in concert with other families, in case someone else might need something too esoteric—or generic—to be provided.
And as you can imagine, it costs money to live in Brockville. Money, and approval. No one gets in that the board doesn’t meet, backgroundcheck, consent to, and otherwise vet. The idea that they’d let me live here is folly. The people of Brockville are curated just as carefully as the town’s amenities.
Which of course means everyone wants in. But people don’t move away once they’ve gotten in. They stay until they die.
Who knows. Maybe I’ll get an in because of the retreat.
I look at the people around me. Every one of them has a gift that’s brought them to this place, to this moment. Who will be the best among us? Someone will rise to the top. That is the way of all groups. Dogs. We are all just dogs in a literary milieu. We will spend the first few days nipping at each other’s flanks until we find our places in the lineup.
I want to be the best. I can admit that desire. But I have the least experience. The fewest writing credits. I am the youngest by several years. The rest of the group is eyeing me like I’m going to be the first one voted off the island.
Not if I can help it. This isn’tSurvivor; this is a literary workshop. I have to allow my inner narcissist free rein to get through this. I’m not a natural extrovert, but I can turn it on when I want or need to. I want to right now. Very badly. I want to wow them, awe them with my prose, delight them with my talent. I’m as nervous as I’ve ever been, at least since I was sixteen, and—
“Hello!” The door to the cabin swings open, and a hearty, happy voice assails us. “Welcome to the first day of your retreat! I’m Tammy Boone, and I’ll be your teacher.”
Well, well, well. Tammy Boone. There are murmurs of appreciation—part of the excitement is not knowing who will be teaching the retreat. It’s always someone who graduated from the Brockville Retreat and made it big, though, and Tammy Boone is one of the more successful grads of the program.
Tammy shakes the humidity from the curls of her hair, which spring riotously from her head, like Medusa fresh from the spring. A Gorgon leader is fitting; when she looks at me, I feel I’ve turned to stone.
