Writer's Retreat Rescue

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” My palms sweat as we approach the vacation rental where our friend’s life may be in danger. At least, according to Oliver, who once convinced me to be the plus one at his ex’s wedding for the open bar, and who stole a congressman’s dinner reservation out of spite for his being cancelled at the last minute.

“I can’t believe Denny thought signing up for a writing retreat with a bunch of strangers was a good idea, but here we are.”

"Promise me we’ll stick to the plan this time. No chaos. No improv. We get inside, grab Denny, and leave. In and out, capisce?”

“I love it when you speak Italian.” Oliver scans the side of the three-story beachfront property like some cat burglar, gauging whether or not he can scale it. I have zero doubts the answer is no, but that he’d try. “Tell me the plan again?”

“We’re late arrivals. Denny said there were open slots, so we play up an online booking glitch. We paid. We’re supposed to be here. We demand our rooms.”

“Demand, got it.” Oliver nods.

“We don’t let on that we know Denny. Don’t acknowledge him. Don’t even make eye contact.”

“What if they guess he’s why we’re here?”

“Why would they guess that?” I ask.

Oliver points to my beat-up Camry with flaking paint and a broken odometer, doomed to fail its next state inspection. “The plates. This is the Ocracoke chapter of the Bizarro Fiction Writers of America. Denny is from New York. We’re from New York. These are southern people.”

In all my planning, it’s a detail I missed. My car is way too big a heap to be a rental, and since there is a plate on both bumpers, there’s no point in backing in. If anyone looks, they’ll see it.

“We borrowed it,” I say. “From my cousin in New York.”

Oliver grimaces. “We must be desperate.”

“Forget about the plates, would you? We’re late arrivals. We demand our rooms. We haven’t a clue who Denny is; we don’t get involved in whatever is going on here. We’re gone by sunrise. Got it?”

“Capisce.” Oliver winks and then rings the doorbell. “But for the record, does this place look like the start of every horror movie ever to you?”

________________________________________

Local Chapter President Nettie Kirk, whom I recognize immediately from her online photo, answers the door in a scene pulled from the movie Clue. A sea of eyes blink at us from a safe distance down the hallway, as though off-season has unsettled the creatives who have imagined what might happen in such a big house, with no nearby neighbors, and the nearest police station an hour across the water, should a couple of strangers ring the bell in the middle of the night.

“May I help you?” Nettie asks.

“I’m sorry we’re late.” I shift my backpack for show, angry that despite our agreement, Oliver didn’t bother to bring a suitcase or at least a toiletries bag of his own.

“And you are?”

Denny squints into the darkness as though either Oliver or I may be a mirage.

I subtly shake my head to keep him from outing us. We should have told him we were coming, but Oliver demanded we keep it a secret, insisting that none of us wants to die in a remote beach house at the hands of a group of writers skilled in the arts of bizarro fiction.

“I’m Blair,” I say, “and he’s Oliver. We’re here for the retreat.”

“I’m sorry, but everyone who’s supposed to be here has arrived.” Nettie radiates the confidence of someone who accounts for things often and accurately.

I won’t dare call her a liar. “We’re last-minute additions. Maybe you weren’t notified? Or there was a computer glitch? I mean, you’re not fully booked, right?”

Nettie shakes her head. “Well, no—”

“How could I know that if I didn’t sign up?” I make a move to step past her, committing to a role I’m not certain either of us truly believes in.

Nettie takes a wider stance to prevent me from entering.

“Please?” I beg. “We’ve been on the road for almost fifteen hours, three of which we spent in gridlock tunnel traffic. I haven’t seen a bathroom since New Jersey. I promise, I’ll show you our confirmation as soon as I fire up my laptop.”

“Maybe you can stay at a motel tonight, and we can work this out in the morning?” Nettie offers.

“There aren’t motels open this time of year,” Oliver says. “If we could speak privately, I think we can clear up any confusion.”

Headshakes all around.

“There’s a whole NDA thing,” Oliver continues.

I want to tell him that non-disclosure means to anyone, but Nettie seems curious. She dismisses the group but keeps her distance. Footsteps trail down the hallway and up the stairs. I guarantee someone has grabbed a weapon and someone else has dialed 9-1-1, awaiting their cue to hit send.

“Here’s the deal,” Oliver says. “The national chapter sent us.”

“The national chapter?” Nettie asks.

“Yes. This is the Ocracoke Island chapter retreat, right? Bizarro Fiction Writers of America?”

Nettie nods.

"Blair and I represent a certain literary agency in New York,” Oliver gestures toward the plate on a car that doesn’t exactly inspire credibility, “sent to anonymously scout talent in advance of awards season.”

“Awards season?”

“The Wonderland Book Awards? BizarroCon?” I am terrified these are the details that’ll sink us. I have never, in fact, heard of anyone from any agency scouting any private event in history. "I have an email, somewhere in my bag, or in my laptop case, from a Mr. Chet Sellers, I believe?” I pull a name from my preparatory research.

“Chet sent you?”

Oliver and I nod in unison.

“To nominate one of our writers for an award of some sort?”

“Maybe even you?” I offer.

“But there’s only one empty room.”

“That’s perfect. We're a couple.” Oliver takes my hand, which feels surprisingly right. His grip is warm. Welcoming. I never imagined us together, romantically, but am conflicted that I don't mind the idea.

________________________________________

Denny startles awake at 3 AM, his hair on end and his eyes wide, Oliver’s hand clamped tightly over his mouth to keep him from screaming.

“Quiet, they’ll hear,” I hiss, though Denny has one of those sleep machine things blasting whale sounds I can’t imagine falling asleep to.

“What are you even doing here?” Denny whisper-shouts.

“We’re here to rescue you,” Oliver says. “Duh.”

I shake my head. “I can’t believe you just went to sleep.”

“Rescue me?” Denny rubs his eyes.

“You said one of these women is in witness protection, on the run from the mob or something? Your life is in danger.”

“I said some lady testified against her boss, who was embezzling corporate funds and money laundering. What does that have to do with me?”

“What if he finds out she’s here and shoots up the place to get rid of her?” Oliver asks. "That’s something mob guys do, right?”

“He’s not a mob guy,” Denny says. "He’s an accountant, and his trial’s over. The guy is in jail.”

"What about that lady threatening to send critique notes under the doors on the backs of cockroaches?”

“No one’s threatened me with cockroaches. Someone wrote a story, I said, about trained insects in prison used to send notes and cigarettes between inmate cells. It’s a real thing. Amarillo County Jail, 1938. I looked it up. Does this look like the kind of place that has roaches to you?”

There’s an elevator. Fifteen bedrooms. A gourmet kitchen.

“If twenty years in New York City has taught me anything,” Oliver says, “it’s that there’s no such thing as somewhere that looks like the kind of place that has roaches.”

“We need to get you out of here,” I insist. “Before someone does something crazy.”

“I am leading a themed critique session this morning: The Retreat Inside a Word Processor.”

“I’m sorry,” Oliver says. “I don’t even know what that means.”

________________________________________

The Retreat Inside a Word Processor is a writing prompt. I write romance. Oliver makes me share a story that detonates like a flashbang grenade, spectacular in its failure on every level.

His is a masterpiece.

Applause erupts. Nettie Kirk starts a standing ovation.

Oliver bows.

“There’s a break for lunch,” I whisper to Denny, “and a Thai place down the road. Meet us out front. We’ll say we’re going for noodles then bolt. We’ll be home by midday tomorrow.”

“I paid for an entire week,” Denny says. “Why would I leave early?”

I gesture at the twenty-something in head-to-toe black. Her story featured mass murder—more horror than bizarre. I didn’t like how she looked at Denny when she read it. “Do you really feel safe under the same roof as her? She basically penned her confession, which is the opposite of a red herring.”

“What are you talking about?” Denny reaches for a paper cup of orange juice on an end table between them.

I slap his hand, sending the drink flying.

The potential poisoner shrieks, juice dripping onto the floor.

Denny offers her a handful of napkins, apologizing too effusively for someone whose life I saved.

“Weren’t you listening? Oleander? Belladonna? Castor? That woman is an encyclopedia of poisonous plants.”

Oliver pulls me into a side hug and whispers in my ear, “Hold it down, would you? People are watching.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Denny. He says he doesn’t want to go.”

Nettie approaches, her hands outstretched like a grandmother about to pinch his cheeks.

“That story of yours was gosh darn fantastic,” she says, “how you used punctuation as a metaphor for time. Periods that stop the world completely.”

“And deleting entire characters with backspace,” says a bookish young woman whose black-framed glasses I catch Oliver studying his reflection in. “Brilliant.”

“If time stops at a period, how does it start back up again?” Denny asks. “And all characters, even incidental ones, serve a purpose. You can’t just delete people and not impact the piece.”

“How would you fix it then?” Oliver levels a challenge.

“I have a few ideas.” Bookish turns coquettish.

I bet you do. The thought seems to arise out of nowhere.

The sooner we get out of here, the better.

________________________________________

“You promised you’d stick to the plan.” I aim a sharp finger at Oliver, sprawled out on our bed. Me, again, pacing.

“You’re just jealous because they liked my story better. It’s like you weren’t even trying.”

“I wasn’t trying, and why are you? We are here to get Denny home, safely, before one of these kooks makes a move on him. Did you see that woman eyeing his orange juice, and what’s in that other one’s pocket, anyway? Denny says it’s an electronic voice recorder, but who doesn’t record everything on their phone these days? I mean, seriously?”

“She doesn’t mean anything to me, you know. I’m not, like, attracted to her.” Oliver swings his legs over the side of the mattress and sits up.

I play dumb. “The cockroach lady? Or the poisoner?”

“Betsy, with the glasses. She’s a slush reader for an agent in New York. She has pull.”

“These are mountain people, from like, Appalachia, or whatever. In what world is she city agent-connected? You said you were a talent scout. She probably heard that and thought the two of you could bond over your shared hatred of adverbs.”

“You’re really cute when you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous. I’m concerned. You told me these people are dangerous, and now you’re what? Angling for a book deal?"

“Like you wouldn’t be if she showed interest in your work? If there was even the slightest chance?”

“We’re leaving tonight."

“What if I don’t want to go?” Oliver asks.

“Now you sound like Denny. You’re either going, or I’ll find a way to kidnap both of you.”

________________________________________

I scour every bit of the fifteen-thousand-square-foot beach house for how I might wrestle a pair of grown men back to the city. I find a hand truck, some dry-rotted bungee cords, and a sleep aid over two years out of date while the others execute the evening festivities.

Nettie and another guest return from the only open ABC store with an assortment of mostly whisky-based spirits that taste like cinnamon and, oddly, peanut butter, which I avoid for all the reasons. Cocktails are mixed. Music plays. The cockroach lady turns out to be quite a dancer. Nobody leaves their cups within reach of the poisoner. Social hour devolves into a drunken evening of quiet bragging and hopeful workshopping, with Oliver, the hero, at its center; Bookish glued to his hip.

I down a four-pack of energy drinks for the road trip ahead, waiting for the perfect moment to collect my travel companions, willingly or not. My pulse pounds as I pace the great room, collecting empties, refilling drinks, and sorting recyclables, restless to get back on the road with Oliver; back to singing along with eighties pop hits and arguing over podcasts.

Denny swaps notebooks with one of the few other men in attendance, an octogenarian who had no clue this wasn’t a memoir workshop, whose daughter paid for him to attend for his eighty-third birthday. He’s sweet, in a grandfatherly way, and keeps wiping his substantial honker with a tissue he stores tucked inside his sleeve.

Hours pass before humble confessions of book award winners and Amazon bestsellers lull, when the booze is gone, and people begin excusing themselves to write or sleep, except for Denny, who looks as much in his element as I’ve ever seen him.

“Are you almost finished with Old Man River?” I ask when his companion excuses himself to the bathroom for about the thousandth time.

“He was a prisoner in World War I. Can you believe that? His entire platoon was captured right off the boat from France.”

“If we don’t leave, soon, you’re going to have your own hostage story, or end up in the emergency room, or worse."

“Where are you getting all of this?" Denny asks.

“Do you really not see the danger here? These people are unhinged. You’re leaving.”

“And if I won’t?”

I shrug. “I don’t know how well Plan B mixes with alcohol, but I’m willing to find out.”

One-by-one, bedroom doors shut. Locks click. I have no idea what’s up with the old guy, but I won’t go into that bathroom to find out, even with a bladder full of energy drinks. There are other bathrooms on our way out the door. Nettie wishes us goodnight. Bookish tells us she’ll see us in the morning.

“Before you freak out, her number is in my contacts,” says Oliver, waving a little too enthusiastically to his new friend before leaning into me. “As far as I can tell, the most dangerous thing about her is her fascination with Space Opera. Are we ready to get out of here?”

“I was ready twelve hours ago.”

“Denny?” he asks.

"Honestly? I’m a little afraid of what she’ll do if I refuse.”

“We’re saving you, man. I don’t see how you can’t see it.”

"You’re really going to keep going with this? There is no danger. No poisoner. No cockroach tamer. I’m safe, and I don’t want to go with you.”

I say, “You’re really giving me no choice here.”

“Man, tell her.” Denny sighs.

“Tell her what?” asks Oliver.

“That you like her. That you concocted this whole ridiculous rescue scenario to spend time with her. I mean, why can’t you just ask her out, like a normal person?”

Oliver smirks. "Where would be the fun in that?”