"Oh my God! Caroline, that's Lauren Sullivan." Hilda let out a muffled squeal and dug her fingers into Caroline's arm. "The Lauren Sullivan."
"Oh, it can't be. Hollywood queens don't come all the way to a little hollow in Virginia for a spa. California has plenty of them."
"I'm telling you, that's Lauren Sullivan. Why wouldn't she come here? It's one of the top spas in the country and probably more private than any in California. Sometimes a person wants to be three thousand miles away from where she lives. Look at that profile. That's her."
There was no mistaking it, not when the woman turned her head. The mass of flame-colored hair under the gauzy scarf, the trademark chin coming to that foxy little point below a full, wide mouth. "You're right again, Mother. But it's just so odd seeing her here instead of on the movie screen."
"She looks so romantic," Hilda said with a sigh.
"Lonely," Caroline disagreed. "She looks lonely to me, and sad. Mom, there are bruises on her face. You can see them, just under the sunglasses."
"Face-lift." Hilda whispered it and couldn't prevent the zing of excitement from jumping out. "She's had a face-lift. That must be why she's here. Recovering. Hiding out. And why we didn't see her at dinner last night. She wouldn't want to let it get out she's had plastic surgery."
"But she's young and beautiful. Why would she want-"
"Let's go talk to her. We'll just stroll down to the lake."
"No." Caroline gripped her mother's arm. "We will not."
"But, sweetheart…"
"She's entitled to her privacy." And, Caroline thought as she dragged her mother down the path, she would get it. That lone and lonely figure on the beach had struck a chord with her.
"It's not as if I was going to ask her for an autograph," Hilda complained. "Right this minute."
"Making a good impression means being much too cool to accost a movie star at dawn. You'll see her later and smile breezily and ask her how she's enjoying her stay."
"That's good. Very good." Impressed, Hilda studied her daughter. "How did you think of that?"
"You learn a lot being a politician's wife. The bathhouse is unlocked," she announced. The door to it, triple-bolted the night before, now stood partially open. "Let's go in."
"Now?"
"I'm dying to see it. And I'd much rather have a swim than stand and stretch with a bunch of other yawning guests. It'll be fun. Just you and me splashing around in the pool."
It was so unusual for Caroline to suggest doing something on impulse, or for fun, that Hilda let herself be pulled inside.
The fountain was on, spewing up its crystal water. The room echoed with the music of it. The early sunlight sprinkled through the jewel tones of the skylights and sparkled on the polished tiles.
Fresh flowers stood on the low tables near the deep-cushioned sofas and lounge chairs of the waiting area. Pillows were plumped and glossy magazines artistically fanned.
Luxury, waiting.
A wide glass display across the room held the many products, all in the spa's trademark silver packaging, that were available for sale. Scattered among the boxes were spears of dried herbs and flower petals and bits of polished stone.
A cathedral to that luxury, Caroline thought as she crossed the tiles and opened one of the doors. Inside was a changing area, complete with lounge, generous closet, and thick white towels. A small counter held a mirror and a supply of spa products.
"I found the pool," Hilda announced.
Caroline wandered back out and joined her mother in front of wide glass doors. Through them was a beautiful stretch of blue water under high white ceilings. The walls were covered with colorful mosaics depicting mythical scenes. Gods and goddesses frolicked in naked abandon.
And a man, very much flesh and blood, walked around the skirt of the pool laying fresh silver cushions on the lounge chairs. He wore nothing but a minuscule electric blue triangle, low on his hips.
"Oh my," Hilda managed. "Oh my goodness."
He was tall, muscled, and tan with a mane of black hair that spilled nearly to his shoulders. Caroline's mouth fell open when he turned his back to them and she saw that the triangle was a very thin thong.
"I guess we skip the swim."
Hilda purred. "And I was just thinking what a terrific idea you'd had."
"We can't go in there now. He's practically… he's really built well, isn't he?"
As if he'd heard her, the man turned. He had a face that belonged carved on a coin and eyes both bold and black. He skimmed them over her, smiled lazily.
"We're going," Caroline announced and, mortified, turned the wrong way. She shoved through another door. And into the mud baths.
It was everything it had been hyped to be. And standing there, studying the stone troughs and black mud, gave her the time to regain her composure. The smell was… thick, she decided. Thick and rich and secret.
There were four of them, each mounted on its own individual platform and tucked into a corner where seeded glass doors could be closed for privacy. The curved stone was long enough for a grown man to sink into.
High padded tables stood beside them. Sparkling chrome-and-glass shelves held still more products she imagined were used during the treatment.
Music was playing softly, something with lots of strings and pipes. The lights were turned low and carried a faint amber hue. It was a quiet, relaxing glow she imagined was part of the sensuous experience offered here. In the center of the room another fountain bubbled, a charming counterpoint to the music. Warm, slippery mud, perfumed air, music, soft light, and the relaxing notes of water striking water.
Yes, she'd very much like to try it.
She stepped to a trough, dipped a finger in. "You'd feel like Cleopatra, wouldn't you?" she mused. "But once you get in, how do you get out? Much less get the mud off."
She walked around the tub, saw the stone steps built into the far side of the trough. "Well, that solves the in and out part, I suppose. They must have showers or scrub rooms or something."
"We'll make sure we get in on this right away," Hilda began. "I want a full paraffin, too. And the deep-pore facial. No, the collagen facial. Hell, I want everything."
"Someone forgot to clean this one up," Caroline said absently as she wandered toward another trough. Ribbons of mud ran down its sides and into untidy pools on the floor.
"Claudia'll have someone's head for that. We'd better get going if we want to make that class. Unless you change your mind and we go for that swim with that Adonis. You know, Caroline, it's all right to look at gorgeous male specimens, even after marriage."
All Caroline heard was a buzz in her head. Her mother's words had turned into a messy tumble of sound. She stared down at the trough. And at the mud-streaked hand that dangled from its lip.
The hand wore a ring. A square diamond caked with drying mud.
She screamed. In her head, she screamed-one long, loud shriek. But her mother's voice continued, cheerful nonsense, babbling nothing. Caroline stumbled forward, plunged her arms into the trough. And met cold flesh.
"Help me. Oh, God, Mom, help me!" The flesh slithered through her hands. Panting, she fought for purchase even as Hilda ran over.
"Honey, what in the world are you…"
Out of the sucking mud came a head, a face. Grotesque as a gargoyle with its coating of black.
Now it was Hilda who screamed. Her screams cannoned off the walls, careened from floor to ceiling while Caroline struggled to hold on.
"Get help!" she ordered, righting to clear her own vision as it threatened to gray. "Hurry. Get help now!"
"It's… It's…"
"I know." Caroline's arms were trembling, with both effort and fear. "Hurry, Mom. Please."