True to Conrad’s word, the others were finishing their first course. The servers had already removed most of the salad plates and forks, but Rozie saw that Benjamin had only pushed the lettuce about the plate.

  Before further conversation could resume during the lull following their arrival, the servers arrived with the main course. Rozie laid her napkin on her lap in time her salad and the entrée. The small salad defied gravity—vividly colored leaves stood nearly upright, buttressed by cut vegetables. Santore had artfully painted flourishes and finials with a rose-colored dressing around the rim of the dish—more bowl than plate.

  The entree was on the verge of geometric perfection. A rack of ribs, medallions of meat on the end, bones pointing upward in a conical shape. A rectangle formed out of asparagus lying in a perfect row. Some sort of grain piled in a neat mound. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a server approaching with a wine bottle. Rozie flipped her glass upside down. I’m pregnant and tired of defending my choices. The server passed by without a word on his way to Dominic. She started on her salad, dismantling the small green tower.

  “So you’re still holed away in Houston? Has St. George’s tried to get you on the board yet?” Alfonso jibed Dom. Dom smiled and shook his head as he chewed. Alfonso pressed on. “You’ve got to get to San Francisco, man. The city’s on the rebound. Got some people you could meet. Amazing opportunities. Could finally get you out of those stupid cowboy boots.”

  Dominic swallowed and chased it with a sip of wine. “Sounds great, but I heard there’s a big problem in San Fran.” Alfonso leaned in, eyebrows rising expectantly. Dom smirked and said, “I heard the left coast is packed with Californians, Alf.” Dom laughed at his joke while Alfie sat back smiling and rolling his eyes.

  A.L.F. Alien life form—another one of their crude nicknames, Rozie recalled.

  She cut a small slice of the meat, dark and moist. She took a bite. Lamb. Or goat. The flavors rolled through her mouth like tides. Subtle herbs followed the savory meat, and finally, the rising heat of pepper. She swallowed, but it went up before down. The spice magnified tenfold. She reached for her cup of water. Water seeped into the porous material of the crude, unglazed terracotta cup, making it damp. All part of the presentation.—rustic and native. She took a sip, then paused and pulled the glass away. There was a faint aroma, sulfurous like broccoli, but not to the point of rotten eggs. Rozie felt eyes on her, and she looked from one end of the table back to Benjamin next to her. He held his water cup to his lips, watching her, and when their eyes met, Benny gently raised it in a toast.

  “There’s a spring on the property. You missed the tour. Conrad explained that the Native Americans discovered it, then the Spanish. And how it’s full of medicinal properties.

  He paused as a smile crept up. “A specialist tested the water. Perfectly safe. But there’s bottled water if you prefer.”

  The baby flashed through Rozie’s mind. Contaminants, chemicals. They wouldn’t serve something dangerous at a wellness resort, would they? Conrad and Benny—not to mention Dante Santore!—wouldn’t leave that to chance. Their reputations, the investments, were on the line. Hopefully, the Native Americans were right. She took a tentative sip.

  “So Tyler tells me you’re the marketing director at New Niche.”

  The words cut across the table. Rozemarijn felt a pang when she glanced up. Erica was looking at her expectantly as she took a sip of her wine.

  “For a few more weeks. I’m going to stay home after the baby is born,” Rozie said as she brought a hand to her belly. “I’m going back to painting.”

  “Rozie does these beautiful portraits. Big with incredible colors,” Dom said. He yanked his phone from a jacket pocket and started scrolling through the pictures. It took him a while. It had been several years since she had picked up a brush. Not since she started working full time at New Niche.

  “Here,” Dominic finally said and handed the phone over to Erica. Rozie glimpsed the image. It was a photo of her standing in front of a portrait of her mother. She grimaced. It was from her senior year of college. A little gallery showing she and some classmates threw together. Her parents were on her case about wanting to study art, so to appease them, she focused on design instead. She was looking forward to painting again. A few nights ago, while Dom was staying late at work, she had gone through the boxes piled up in the nursery closet, looking for her art supplies. If she were honest, it was the second biggest reason she was excited for the baby. A legitimate way for a new mother to stay productive while at home.

  “Oh, that’s incredible! Ty look at this.” Erica shoved the phone in front of her husband.

  “That is beautiful,” Tyler said, smiling. He turned back to his conversation with Benjamin. Rozie hoped they wouldn’t notice how much younger and thinner she was, and guess the years that had elapsed since then. Erika handed the phone back to Dom.

  Jonathan set his fork down. He circled a hand in the air, dramatically composing a thought while he chewed his food. With the features of a high classical Greek statue—dimpled jaw, under perfectly imperfect slicked back hair. A man that had it easy, like things went his way. Like right now. By the time he swallowed, half the table waited to see what he had to say.

  “So Burke, what’s with this little project you’ve got going on?” he asked with a smirk.

  Conrad sat with his elbows on the armrests of his chair, fingers steepled under his nose. “We’ve been renovating this place for a couple of years now. A wellness spa, retreat center, silence retreats…” He let the thought trail off. “It has become incredibly important to us, and we thought it was time to share it with you all. Give it a test run. The Spanish came in the late fifteen hundreds because of the spring. The tribespeople had them convinced it was the fountain of youth.” His voice rose as the other conversations died down. “Now, obviously, none of us are getting any younger right this second, so a few centuries later some entrepreneurs devised a use for the spring water.” He spread his arms wide, gesturing at the room about him.

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  “Weaver Springs Resort reborn.” From her end of the table, Rozie saw a brief flurry. The men glanced at each other with flashes of excitement. Even Sara’s eyes glimmered.

  “Barnabas Newburgh founded Weaver Springs Resort in the late 1800s. There were many other such springs in Texas claiming health benefits. Some even sold bottles throughout the United States.”

  Jonathan leaned over the table. “Wait. You mean the real Barnabus Newburgh? The Weaver Springs?”

  Something in his voice set Rozie on edge. Her eyes fell on Jon’s wife. Willow brought her glass to her lips. There was a suddenness to the action, the cup tilting upward at a higher angle, the lips parting a little less delicately. The smile returned forcefully when she saw Rozie watching her.

  Conrad spoke again, with a current of intensity in his words. “Ben found out about this place and brought it to my attention. But it’ll be more than just a wellness spa. As you can see, the resort failed, but Newburgh found something more. The world still has mysterious places. Places of power where the boundaries are thinner.” He dropped his hands to the armrests. “This is one of those places. The water from the spring. The land. The Weaver… It’s something special.”

  “Is this gonna be like back at St. George’s? Rituals and games? I mean, it was a lot of fun scaring each other with stories back then, but are you for real? Is that going on the brochure?” Riley spoke as he dipped his finger into his water, drawing lines on the porous surface of the clay cup.

  “Not just stories!” Ben said as he rose. The heavy chair groaned as it slid across the wooden floor. “We’ve found notes. Journals. People lived longer here. People being cured! No faith healings, none of that laying of hands theatrics. Just the real deal.”

  Color climbed up Benny’s neck as his voice grew louder. It startled Rozie to see Ben—normally an easygoing man—so worked up.

  “God was no part of that,” Riley said when he looked up.

  Benny glared at him darkly. “That’s right! Yahweh’s still wandering around the Middle East. And Jesus turned Caucasian in Europe. Now he’s one hell of a CEO in America. ‘Call now with your credit card handy, and we’ll pray for you!’” Holder’s voice rose till he was nearly screaming.

  “An old woman dancing around at her own one hundred twenty-fourth birthday party. A boy was born without eyes, empty sockets, and after a couple of weeks, they grew! Cancers of all types—gone!” Benny stood up. “Riley, you can keep your God. He sure as hell isn’t anywhere around here! I, for one, know that our dabbling got us places. Doors opened. Opportunities appeared. And just think—we were only kids goofing off miles away from here.”

  The room was dead silent. The other guests fidgeted in the tension. Rozie slid a hand over and clasped Dom’s. Dabbling? Rituals? These men were professionals at the peak of their careers. Did they have boxes stuffed with robes and candles tucked away in the corners of their closets? It made her laugh. If Benjamin hadn’t been so serious.

  She chided herself. His grandparents’ deaths hit him hard. As much as Dom joked about this endevour, Rozie was glad the man had found something to do with himself. She grabbed the damp clay cup and drained it in two large mouthfuls.

  Conrad rose, motioned for Benjamin to sit back down, and nodded at the waitstaff, who, until that moment, had stood along the walls like statues. They approached and took the plates away. “Please excuse Benjamin. I share his passion for this place. We’ve put quite a few eggs into this basket. These woods hold something special. You can feel it. We want you to experience it yourselves. We are entering a new phase of life. Children, careers. We want to share this with you—our friends—for you to enjoy Weaver Springs Resort and all the amenities before we officially launch. Enjoy some more wine. Dessert is on its way.”

  Silence gave way to murmuring as the servers shuffled about the room, removing dishes and setting small glasses in front of each diner. Dante Santore appeared—red, bulbous, with a sheen of sweat like every good chef should be—to shake hands with the guests. The servers materialized behind him as he introduced dessert—Zuppa Inglese of his own family’s recipe. Then he uncorked a simple glass bottle with a handwritten label. Conrad stood in a corner, talking to an older woman. She wore the same gray uniform as the other staff members, but with her graying hair and stout features, she exuded authority. Conrad nodded and returned to his chair.

  “For the digestif, I am pleased to share with you an acquavite that my family has made for generations. Grown from the grapes at my great-uncle’s vineyard and distilled the same way for decades. We’ve had to water it down a touch, but not too much,” Dante said with a wink. “Here at the resort, we have used the local spring water, filtered of course, to truly give life to the spirit.” He grinned at his joke as a few of the guests chuckled. He strolled around the perimeter of the table, pouring generous portions into the short apéritif glasses.

  When Santore turned away, Rozie turned the small fluted glass upside down, then plunged her spoon into the creamy dessert. The scent of alcohol drifted to her nose as she brought the spoon to her mouth. It wasn’t boozy, but the warmth spread from through her mouth riding the pungent liqueur. As she savored the tart herbs and sweet sponginess, she heard the chef scolding Riley.

  “Even Jesus drank a little. It is customary at the Seder,” he said, as though silencing any debate.

  Santore paused next to her and grinned at the blissful expression that slowly spread across her face. Dante took the overturned wine glass and poured a generous glug of the liquor, still meager compared to the other glasses around the table.

  “I understand American sensibilities about alcohol and pregnancy, but a glass or two never hurt the women of my family. Fine, healthy children!”

  When he wandered off back toward the kitchen, Dom took Rozie’s glass, and downed half the contents. She eyed the rest, the lines of alcohol rising and falling around the rim.

  “He’s right. A little won’t hurt the baby.”

  Rozie took a sip. The floral notes masked the alcohol until Rozie felt it burning down her throat. Despite the flavors and sensations, the sulphurous quality still peeked through.

  The sound of spoons scraping the empty glass bowls rose over the table. The guests finished dessert, and the servers arrived to clear the dishes once again. And refill the empty glasses. A round of espressos appeared, filling the room with the aroma of coffee. Conversations resumed their natural tilt, strengthened by the sweets and beverages. Just then, Conrad rose from his chair with a flourish.

  “How about a little game?”