Page 19 of Falling Slowly
“Pretty much.” I attempted to smile, focusing my energy on polishing my plate.
I couldn’t help the memories from surfacing. Those months after Jack’s death, when it had all been on my shoulders. The sky had fallen, and somehow, it kept falling, no matter how hard I worked. I’d ignored the red flags and accepted the first rental offer, suddenly blindsided by the maintenance fees that I couldn’t afford. But beggars couldn’t be choosers and somehow,we’d survived. I’d only recently managed to pay back Mom who’d come to my rescue, covering the cost of our next move. So much money down the drain.
“Must be really hard to do it on your own.” Charlie’s soft voice hit me in the middle, and I straightened in my chair.
We’d never talked about my old life, but Teresa knew. The office knew. I was the sad, single mom. A widow.
“It’s okay. I’ve had some time to adjust now.” I met his eyes and saw the question in them. “Two years. It was over two years ago.”
My insides clenched, bracing for a follow-up question, but he simply nodded, turning his attention to the remaining eggs on his plate.
We finished our breakfast in silence, took our dirty plates to the conveyor belt carrying them back to the kitchen, and followed the trail of retreat attendees down a long hallway. I counted only ten of us, which upped my anxiety. I’d been hoping to hide in the back row, not drawing any attention to myself. But with such a small group, the classes would be intimate. Or worse, interactive.
It made sense, though. Everything about Rubie Ridge felt exclusive. Its understated luxury intimidated me more than any brazen displays of wealth. Subtle messages hidden within the details, only readable by those in the know. Like Charlie, and all these ladies around us. Most of them looked older than me, maybe in their forties and fifties. Judging by their all-black outfits, they worked in design, advertising, or something else commercially viable. I’d seen the pricing on the website. Rubie Ridge was not a place for starving artists.
“Are you ready for the first class?” Charlie asked me.
One lady ahead of us turned around. “I heard they always do a surprise warm-up exercise. Nobody knows what it is.”Her voice dropped into a stage whisper. “One time, it was interpretive dance.”
My muscles clenched so hard that I could barely walk.
Please, God. No dance.
Chapter Nine
Bess
Reaching the end of the hallway, we spilled inside a large art studio. Individual tables and easels were scattered across the space. Huge, panelled windows reached all the way to the high ceiling, framing an even more impressive mountain view than in the dining hall. Like a modern cathedral, I thought.
“It’s a nice view,” Charlie confirmed, and I realized I’d gasped out loud.
He led us to a table by the window wall, pulling out a seat for me.
I spied the other attendees, checking if they were going to sit or stand. There were only two other guys besides Charlie. One reminded me of George and the other one had a flamboyant vibe. His pink shirt and blue suspenders stood out against the sea of black like a clown outfit, but his expression didn’t seem particularly friendly. After a moment’s observing, I deduced he and the George lookalike were a couple, which led me tothe frightening realization that Charlie was the only available, straight man in a room full of women.
It didn’t seem to take much longer for the said women to realize the same. They bombarded him with sideways looks and smiles, casting silent questions at me. I took a step away from him, hoping to signal we were just colleagues.
A voluptuous woman in bright red glasses and a matching kaftan stepped through the doorway, addressing the class with a bright smile. “Hello everyone! My name is Leonie Miller. I will be your facilitator this week. I’m here to make sure everything goes smoothly.” She gesticulated wildly with her bracelet-adorned hands. “You’re here to unlock your creativity. The first things we ask you to do when you enter the studio is to turn off that phone. Don’t use it unless you absolutely must. We believe in freedom, but we don’t believe reading work emails or browsing social media ever helps. You’re here to journey into your own mind. It’s the greatest adventure you’ll ever take!”
Charlie cast me a half-terrified glance, but turned off his phone, along with the rest of the class. I felt a bit left out since I didn’t have a phone to turn off. Mine had a terrible battery life and was currently charging in the cabin.
“I recommend you also try to turn off those work-related thoughts. You may have a creative problem that you’re actively trying to solve. You may feel stuck. You may feel like you need to keep at it, but trust me, you don’t. The only way you’re going to get anything out of this week is by immersing yourself in the activities and exercises we offer. Focus on what’s in front of you.”
Charlie angled himself to fully face me, smiling. So, he was going to focus on me? Not sure what to do with my eyes, I turned to face the table.
Leonie’s voice rose with excitement. “We have a couple of very exciting visiting teachers this week. You can check the schedule at the reception and on our website. Now, withoutfurther ado, let’s get onto the first exercise. Surprise!” She flicked her wrist at the door and a young man in a white apron carried in a huge stockpot, setting it on a table. He ran back and soon reappeared with a stack of paper plates and a ladle.
“Let’s thank Tag, our kitchen helper for his assistance.” She mimed applause, and the class clapped.
Tag cast a wild look at the pot, nodded and rushed off.
“Are we having soup?” Charlie raised his voice, grinning at the facilitator.
Leonie smiled back, unperturbed. “This should be mashed potato. Let’s have a look.” She removed the lid and peered inside. Her glasses fogged. “Oops. It’s still a bit warm, but I’m sure it’ll cool down soon.” She took the ladle and began filling plates with huge piles of mashed potato, passing them onto two of the closest ladies, who distributed to the rest of the class.
I lowered down to sniff at my plate. It smelled and looked like actual mashed potato, but there had to be a trick.
“What do you think it really is?” I whispered to Charlie, who scooped a bit onto his finger and into his mouth. “Stop,” I hissed. “What if it has glue in it or something? She didn’t tell us to eat it.”
