Chill Factor (39 page)

“No trouble at all. Mike’s directions were perfect.”

“You’re stressed, but we’ll fix that,” Angela said. “Come on in.”

She wound an arm around Dixie’s and guided her through an atrium filled with exotic plants into a spacious lounge. Minimal furnishings. Nubby cotton throw pillows in shades of white, with a touch of green and pale rose. Skylights and numerous windows brought the woods and gardens into the interior, with honeycomb blinds filtering out the brightest sunlight.

Plump cushions dotted the white floor. A cloud-white sculpture featuring four life masks hung above a plaster fireplace mantel. It was titled “Matriarch Goddess.” Candles glowed beneath it.

Past a kitchen-dining area, where a group of women engaged in food preparation smiled up at them, Angela opened the door to a dressing room. The lighting here was subdued. A glass-enclosed shower, with another huge window, looked out on a pocket garden walled in with stone for privacy.

Angela turned on the brass spigots, and the enclosure began to fill with steam.

“You have a few minutes before the program begins. A hot shower will help soak away the city’s frustrations and impurities. You won’t have time to wash and dry your hair, but there’s a brush on the vanity.” Smiling ingenuously, Angela lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “We don’t want to carry worldly contaminants into the ceremonial space.”

Her naive enthusiasm reminded Dixie of a head-wound victim she’d once known. An innocent bystander at a holdup, the woman had survived a head shot, but had lost most of her adult memory. Retraining had taken months, and the woman had eventually learned to function normally, but she’d never fully regained her life, nor had she lost that childlike quality to her voice and mannerisms.

Selecting a slender bottle from a colorful array on a shelf, Angela sprayed a fragrant mist into the shower.

“Lilac, for relaxation. Would you prefer a one-piece?” She held out the sides of her soft cotton jumpsuit and curtsied. “Or pants and shirt?”

“Two pieces.” Dixie supposed her own clothes would carry “worldly contaminants.”

“I’ll be right back with your clothes. Enjoy your bath.” She started to leave, then abruptly turned back and gave Dixie a brief, enthusiastic hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She closed the door gently behind her.

The shower did look inviting. Mike had never totally answered Dixie’s question about what to expect here. But she’d once taken part in an Indian smoke ceremony, surprised to discover she wasn’t required to smoke a peace pipe, and had enjoyed sharing the spiritual experience from a different culture. Perhaps this evening would be similar.

She hung her clothes on the hooks provided, stepped into the steaming water, and snapped the glass door shut. Maybe she’d skip the ceremony and stare out at this garden for about a month. As she soaped, she heard music playing softly and recognized the same soothing background Mike used in the meditation portion of his exercise class. She wondered lazily how it would be to live in a secluded spot like this, venturing into town only when you ran out of food or books.

She heard the outer door open.

“Fresh-squeezed juice and filtered water,” Angela called. “You have about five minutes.”

“All right.”
Now go away and let me daydream.

Dixie emerged a minute later, fresh and clearheaded. As she toweled off and dressed in the loose-fitting white cotton pajama outfit Angela had brought, she sipped the juice. Cranberry? With lime, honey, and some sort of herb. It tasted clean and light, not too sweet.

Her own clothes and boots had vanished. A pair of terry-cloth slippers lay beneath her pajamas. Angela had been barefoot, and the white floors had looked immaculate. When Angela knocked again, Dixie abandoned the slippers.

They entered a room with only one wall of windows, covered with opaque honeycomb blinds. A small table stood in one corner. Otherwise, the room had no furnishings.

Ten women lay on white mats arranged in a circle. Some of these women hadn’t seen fifty for a long time, but like Aunt Edna they appeared to be in great shape, with clear skin and gleaming white, blond, or silver hair. Expensive hair. Manicured hands and toes. These women were upper middle class, not at all the mix Mike taught at the women’s center. Despite the identical white cotton exercise garments, their higher economic status showed in their professionally tended bodies.

The music played slightly louder in here. Angela introduced Dixie as “our honored guest this evening,” motioned her to one of two vacant mats, then took the last for herself.

“Assume the lotus. Inhale, slowly, slowly, distend the abdomen, and hold … three … four … five … exhale, squeeze it in, ladies, three … four …” Angela followed her own directive.

The stretches, similar to those Dixie had experienced in Mike’s class at the center, felt wonderful. Finally, Angela led them through the cool-down postures, ending with deep breathing.

“Clear your mind,” she recited. “Lie back. Enjoy a brief period of guided meditation.”

The light dimmed as they stretched out on the mats, and the ceiling overhead began to change and move. Clouds. It was a giant movie screen, Dixie realized, as the clouds turned
to oceans, to mountain streams, to sandy beaches, all with the warm orange and pink tones of an afternoon sky. The images ended with an incredible sunset. Dixie followed her cue as the other women slowly stretched and rose, although she wouldn’t have minded languishing awhile longer in the serenity. The blinds covering the window wall slid silently toward the ceiling, revealing the true sunset outside.

Angela and one of the other women brought the small table from the corner and placed it in the center of the circle. Twelve white candles surrounded a silver bowl, twelve pencils, paper, matches, and an incense burner emitting a spicy fragrance.

As her helper passed a pencil and a paper circle to each woman, Angela recited in her clear, melodious voice.

“As the sun sets on the old world, and we look toward a brighter future, we each have valuables to carry with us and baggage to leave behind.” She struck a match. “I commit to Love in the new world. I light this candle for Love.”

She lit the nearest candle and sat down. Her assistant stepped to the table and struck a match.

“I commit to Enlightenment in the new world. I light this candle for Enlightenment.”

As each woman in turn committed to some higher awareness, Dixie considered what to say when her turn came. The eleventh woman lit the next-to-last candle.

“I commit to Acceptance in the new world. I light this candle for Acceptance.”

Rising, Dixie moved to the table. This new-age, touchy-feely stuff usually turned her off completely, but at the moment she couldn’t imagine why. Saying out loud, or telling a friend, the changes you intended to make in your life seemed an ideal way to reinforce your commitment. It focused attention, like a karate shout.

“I commit to … Togetherness in the new world,” she murmured. “I light this candle for Togetherness.”

Now, where had that come from?
Wasn’t she the person who’d actively embraced solitude all her life?

When she sat down, Angela took the floor again, holding a paper circle that she folded in quarters.

“Write down what you want to leave behind. Then let the fire consume it.”

She held the paper in the candle flame until it caught fire, then dropped the flaming circle into the silver bowl. One by one, the other women followed suit.

Dixie scribbled on her paper,
LONELINESS
, folded it quickly, and held it over the candle. When the paper began to burn, she found herself wondering what Edna’s word had been. If you attended this ceremony often enough, you could toss all sorts of unwanted crap into that bowl and let it burn its way out of your life. Heartbreak. Jealousy. Sadness.

Longing.

Before Parker’s face could fully materialize in her mind, Dixie felt the flame reach her fingers. She held on another instant, then tossed the burning remnant into the bowl.

In the glow of candlelight, the eleven older women, in their pale flowing garments, looked as ethereal as angels. Although Dixie had little in common with any of them, she felt a deep sense of belonging and acceptance. Was this what Casey James had meant when she said to enjoy the presence of other women you “take up a craft”? Must that craft be quilting, jewelry-making? Or might it be simply lighting candles together? Experiencing psychic harmony?

The women rose, almost as a unit.

“What happens now?” Dixie asked Angela.

“Dinner, fellowship. Then private meditation. Sound all right?”

Dixie nodded, vaguely disappointed. “I suppose I expected to see Mike.”

“Oh, Michael rarely joins us during the ceremony, but he wouldn’t miss greeting our honored guest. Right now, he’s counseling a client.”

No matter. Dixie suddenly felt ravenous.

At dinner, seated at a long table, passing around bowls of beans, pasta, and vegetables “picked fresh from our garden,” Dixie encouraged her newfound friends to contribute to the Aunt Edna puzzle she was piecing together. She learned that Edna had been a frequent visitor, had contributed her wisdom
by coaxing the beautiful blooms in the gardens and atrium into profusion, and had transformed here from a lost, unhappy soul to a “bright, strong light.”

For every question they answered, the women asked three of Dixie. “What do you do? Are you a native Texan? Would I know your parents?” Not prying but interested. Dixie couldn’t recall ever feeling more truly welcome anywhere.

She also learned that only one woman knew Terrence Jackson, another had counseled with Vernice Urich, several had visited Fortyniners, Artistry Spa, or bought clothes at Unique Boutique, but no one was familiar with all of them, and no one remembered Lucy Ames, except from the newspaper reports of her violent death. Apparently, Edna had kept this sanctuary for herself, not sharing it with her other new friends. And her visits to The Winning Stretch had ceased in April, weeks before the robberies. What had prevented her neighbor from finding the contentment here that these eleven so obviously appreciated?

Dixie finished her meal pleased that she’d come, and even more pleased that she wouldn’t see the women at this table in a Granny Bandit headline. After helping to clear the plates away, Dixie drew Angela aside.

“I’ve had a terrific evening. I hope you’ll tell Mike I’m sorry I missed him. I need to leave now, if you’ll take me to where you put my clothes—”

“Oh, Dixie! I thought you knew.” Angela’s lovely mouth compressed in a frown. “We never open the house or gate after sundown on Commitment Night. It disperses the energy.”

“We’ll only have them open a minute. I’ll be gone in a flash.”

“I’m so sorry, Dixie. Please understand. We have plenty of room. You’ll have a wonderful night’s rest.”

“You said Mike was coming later. If you won’t open the door, how will
he
get in?”

A step sounded behind Dixie.

“I’m already here,” Mike told them. “Is there a problem?”

“False imprisonment.” Dixie smiled to soften the comment, although she only partially joked. She hated being confined. Nevertheless, the sound of his voice revived her real desire for coming here.

Mike wore his usual tweed blazer over a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt. No baseball cap today. His disorderly hair curled around his ears. He returned her smile with an amused grin.

“Dixie, I apologize for the misunderstanding. Most of our guests pay outrageous sums to stay here overnight. We haven’t resorted to imprisonment yet. Have we, Angela?”

“I thought she knew.” Angela’s gaze slid from Dixie to Mike. “I should have—”

“No, it’s my mistake.” Mike spoke gently, as if to a child. “You know how I overlook details.” Then he reached for Dixie’s hand and held it in both of his. “I only this moment freed up some time, and there’s no one I want to spend it with but you. Don’t rush off.”

What did she have to rush home to? After the Sundown Ceremony and that delicious meal, she felt much too energized to spend the remainder of the evening in front of the tube. And she certainly deserved one night off from worrying over the mess Marty’d landed in.

“I have some time,” she agreed.

“Excellent. Angela, would you bring hot water for tea? Unless you’d prefer decaf—” He coughed, tried to finish his sentence but coughed again, repeatedly.

“Mike, are you okay?”

He nodded, drew a small tin from his pocket, and slipped a tablet from it into his mouth. “Sorry,” he gasped, finally getting his breath.

“Tea is perfect,” Dixie assured him. This past week she’d tasted more varieties than she knew existed, but the one served at dinner, fragrant and deliciously tangy, could easily become habit-forming.

“Then let’s get comfortable.” Extending an arm, he invited her toward a wing of the vast house Dixie hadn’t yet seen.

Sconces at intervals down the long hallway cast an incandescent glow that chased away the darkness. Mike’s companionable presence—like a cat’s purr, unnoticed in a busy room, but soothing when you drew the furry rumble against your body—could become as habit-forming as the tea. He continued to hold her hand as they passed two closed doors, increasing the
distance from Angela and the others. Dixie’s anticipation sharpened.

At the third door, she asked, “What’s in there?”

Her voice seemed too loud in the snug space.

“Expansion areas.” Mike swung the door open. “Long-term living quarters. Once completed, The Winning Stretch will be available to hundreds of residents.” He flipped on a light to reveal bare concrete floors, exposed joists, pipes, wiring, and pink insulation enclosing an area easily large enough to encompass Dixie’s house twice over. “We’re entirely self-contained. You saw the garden. We also have our own water well and a generator to supply electricity.”

“Long-term? Does that mean permanent? Like a retirement community?”

“It could be, I suppose. I prefer ‘indefinite.’ Separation from external stress encourages healing,” he explained. “A woman will make enormous progress while she’s here, yet slip into poor eating and exercise habits after a few days’ absence. Give me three intensive months and the good habits are permanently fixed.”