Chapter 8
Cora
I can't count the number of times I've been under the scrutiny of an entire stadium of people.
As the oldest Preston child, I was a baby when Dad ran for Senate the first time. For his second run, I was nearly seven and old enough to stand beside him, the picture-perfect image of an American family. By his third run for Senate, all of us kids were there on the stage beside him, smiling proudly for the cameras.
So being the center of attention has never been a problem for me, but my hands tremble as I produce my driver's license for the man at the door.
"Good evening, Ms. Preston," he says as he looks down at the identification.
I know he at least recognizes the last name. I'm not egotistical enough to think he knows who I am specifically, but he's a man who knows a lot of names in this neck of the woods, and my dad served as a senator for many, many years.
I keep from scrunching my nose at the thought that my dad would've come to a place like this. He avoided scandal as much as possible, considering his own daughter brought our name into the light for a lot more than my father's stance on certain political issues.
"Follow me," he says as he takes a step back into the house, allowing me access .
I don't know what I thought this place would be like, but I know I had formulated more ideas than I realized when I step inside and grow a little disappointed that it looks just like any other fancy foyer would look.
"This way," he urges toward a closed door. "You'll have to put all your personal belongings into a locker."
I blink at him when he points to a wall of lockers very similar to the ones at the country club, but it isn't the fact that he wants me to put my things in there. It's the fact that he's holding one of those security wands like TSA uses at the airport to make sure I put everything in there.
"I'm waiting for an important call," I say, holding up my cell phone.
"Everyone here is waiting for an important call, ma'am. Would you like to come back after you've received it?"
I shake my head and walk toward the bank of lockers, putting all my things in it before subjecting myself to his wand.
"This way," he says again, backing out of this room and directing me to another door. "Please have a seat while we work through your application."
I feel like I'm doing something wrong as I enter the small sitting room and take a seat on the expensive settee. I shouldn't be here. There are a million warning bells going off in my head, screaming that I should get my things and leave, but that won't get me any closer to figuring out where my sister is. I run my hands over the velvet texture of the sofa for the tactile distraction it provides before remembering exactly what this place is.
I lift my hands and wipe them down the front of my skirt, as if that simple action will cleanse them of whatever I might have contaminated them with.
I look around, not finding a hand-sanitizing station, wondering how this room would look under a black light. I saw a dateline episode reveal just how dirty hotel rooms are, even the nice ones that look clean. They closed the curtains, turned off all normal lights, and the way that room glowed under a black light makes me want to pack my own sheets and towels when I have to stay anywhere but my own home.
I look around the room as if it will provide answers as to where Sadie went, wondering if she sat in this very same room at one point. Did she come here looking for trouble and found more than she could handle?
I know there's a good chance Sadie didn't even know about this place, that she hasn't been here, but the off chance that she might've been makes me feel a little closer to her.
The exact second tears threaten, the door opens again. Only instead of it being the man who opened the door, a young woman walks inside with a bright smile.
She's wearing a nice dress, but it's clear it's some sort of uniform. She's just too neat for it not to be.
"May I get you something to drink, Ms. Preston?"
"Good evening, Ann," I say, reading the name tag attached on the left side of her dress, knowing damn well that isn’t her real name. "I'd love a glass of champagne."
She dips her head in acknowledgment and backs right back out of the room.
I don't want a drink, and worry that they'll put something in it will keep me from actually drinking it, but it would be nice to have something to do with my hands.
It only takes a moment, as if the bar is just right around the corner, before Ann reenters, carrying a tray with not only a bubbling glass of champagne but also a small bowl of delicious-looking strawberries.
"Thank you so much," I tell her as she situates the items on the table in front of me before leaving me alone once again.
I pick up the glass but won't drink from it.
I estimate I'm in the room for fifteen minutes before the door opens again, and yet another woman walks inside.
This one looks even more professional. She isn't wearing a name tag, telling me she's probably a member of management if places like this have such a hierarchy .
"Hello, Ms. Preston. I want to welcome you to the Daydreamer's Spa. Since this is your first time to visit us, I wanted to bring you a menu."
I take the leather-bound folder from her hand when she offers it to me, but keep my eyes locked on hers.
"You didn't tell me your name."
"No, ma'am," she says with an easy smile.
"Three people now, including yourself, have identified me by my name, yet you won't tell me yours? I should hope that my privacy here is as protected as you seem to want to protect yourself."
Her smile never falters. "The privacy of our spa clientele is of the utmost importance to us."
"I'm not going to be on a list anywhere?"
"No, ma'am."
"Good," I say, doing my best to act the part, but I'm sure this woman can tell I'm like a fish out of water here.
I drop my eyes to the leather folder in my hands, opening it and trying to hide my surprise at the extensive list of experiences available.
From left to right, the offerings grow in what I would consider deviance, but then, again, who am I to judge what people are into so long as it's two—or more from what they seem to be offering—consensual adults?
The list starts with such benign things like hair brushing and cuddling, that I have to wonder if they're code for something else and I'm just too inexperienced to know what they really mean. I'm scared I'm going to order something that will put me in a situation where I won't be able to say no. Why are there so many care options? Do people come here to actually be pampered? Who can't brush their own hair?
"Since this is your first time at such an establishment, I'm here to guide you through the process. We want you to have the best experience possible and hope you'll join us again when you're in town."
When I'm in town? How do they know I don't live here? Then again, I showed the guy my driver's license.
"The man before said there was an application process."
"Correct."
"I didn't fill out any paperwork."
"There's no need."
"You ran a background check on me?"
I can tell by her lack of reaction that I'm not the first one to attempt to get information by grilling her for answers.
"How did you know this is my first—you know what, never mind. It's not important. I think I'll like 3a ."
"Excellent choice, Ms. Preston. Now we just have to settle the matter of payment. Would you like to put it on your family account or would you like to make a separate payment?"
Family account?
Has William been here? I do my best to hide my disgust.
"Separate would be great."
"Very well," she says. "We can take payment at the end of the evening. Follow me."
I trail her from the room, using a different door than the one I entered through, and it opens up into a long hallway with rows of doors. Despite the width of the area, I still feel a little claustrophobic as we make our way toward the door she opens for me.
"Would you like any refreshments while you wait? We need about ten minutes for your menu item to be ready."
I can't help but wonder if refreshments are also code for something like drugs or more delinquent additions to my selection.
"No," I say, stepping inside the room, but I reach for her arm before she can turn to leave. "I want to make sure that employment here is... ethical. "
The woman's smile softens as if she was judging me this entire time.
"I can assure you, Ms. Preston, all employees are here of their own volition. We're compensated very well. We even have medical insurance, including dental," she says, showing me a bright white smile of straight, well-cared-for teeth. "We also have a retirement plan and 401(k) that the company matches at one hundred percent."
She doesn't say anything else as she backs out of the room, closing the door behind her.