Rozie dangled her legs in the hot tub. She could hear the steady thump of shotguns in the distance. The boys left in a big white four-wheel-drive truck that cut straight over the fields. It bristled with elegant hand-crafted Italian over-under shotguns, sticking out the windows of the cab. She saw Ty punch Jon in the arm—stupid macho grins etched on their faces. Dom and Benjamin rode in the truck bed, with their guns pointed up. Roze suppressed a laugh. The scene reminded her of a civil war in some third-world country—preppy resistance fighters hanging out the back of a luxury pickup.

  Willow followed a staff person out of the mansion’s service door and descended the stone steps. Big Jackie Os covered her face, but Rozie saw her squinting in the daylight, a pained expression the sunglasses couldn’t hide.

  There was a long table piled with fruit, vegetables, a glass water dispenser with cucumbers floating in ice, and croissant sandwiches from the kitchen. The other women gingerly placed carrots and cucumbers next to small scoops of hummus. Rozie sneaked a glance at their servings. She sheepishly piled her plate with three sandwiches and a generous dollop of the dip in the middle.

  .

  The women around her chatted away merrily. Every now and then their laughter stole Rozie’s attention from her novel. She’d search her memory—the conversation lodged in her mind in spite of her effort to tune them out—and try to figure out what was so funny. A yoga mishap or what a minefield handling pharmacutical reps had become.

  Erica pulled herself out of the pool. She sat next to Rozie and took a long drink of water. Rozie glanced around at the women clutching their mimosas. , She thought. She took a sip of her bottled water, grateful for a break from the pungent spring water. It worried her that she had already become accustomed to it.

  Sophie, the first to go in for her massage, came out of the spa wrapped in a terrycloth robe, clutching a tall glass of cucumber water. Oil glistened on her skin, and she bore a placid, contented expression. She flopped down on a lounge chair and took a long drink from the annoying paper straw.

  “That massage was amazing. That woman needs to be another selling point.” Sophie lowered the chair back and reclined on it. “How much longer until the boys come back?”

  “Some of the staff will take bring them lunch in a bit,” Sara said

  “Great.” Sophie pulled at the belt around her waist and shrugged off the robe, completely exposed to the sunlight. “You’re next, Rozie.”

  The woman’s casual nakedness surprised Rozemarijn. It took a moment for Sophie’s words to register. “Oh, I can’t. Not with the baby.”

  Sara sat up on the lounger. “Don’t worry, honey, she knows what she’s doing. She already knows about your condition,” she replied.

  —rich coming from a woman whose bikini looked like it was painted on her perfectly toned body. For eons women gave birth to children and now it’s a condition. Her baby wasn’t a condition.

  Rozie studied the group relaxing by the pool. She could feel every ache. The knots in her shoulders, her swollen feet, her lower back. If the masseuse could do anything about even just one of them… But her book had finally started getting good.

  “Mrs. Lowry?”

  A young woman in the usual staff-gray stood at the spa entrance. Rozie felt the other women looking at her. Reluctantly, she placed the bookmark in her page and climbed to her feet.

  It was obvious that Burke recently added a spa on the ground floor of the mansion. New stone bricks shone brightly around the modern glass door and windows. It contrasted harshly with the original stained masonry.

  The receptionist showed her to the changing rooms. Each one was its own little suite with a toilet, sink, and a bench. A pile of white towels sat on a shelf next to the shower. She could feel the sweat and sunscreen. The water turned hot in a matter of seconds, and the complimentary soap smelled of lemongrass.

  After freeing herself of the greasy feel of sunscreen, she dried off and opted to keep her underwear on before wrapping herself in the robe. It was broad in the shoulders, and the cuffs at her wrists were thick. she thought. Luckily, it did the job, wrapping around her figure. The attendant waited outside and brought her to the private room.

  The masseuse greeted her at the door. She was a stocky woman in the same plain uniform, gray fabric like the rest of the staff, but more like a nurse’s scrubs. Rozie gazed about the room. Every horizontal surface carried at least one candle. The standing mirror in the room magnified the effect of the orange flames. Rozie felt warm. She took a big gulp of her water and set it on a low table by the door.

  Instead of the typical massage table, which was folded up against the wall, there was a cushioned recliner, with a stool at the foot, and a massage chair. The kind she saw at the mall with a large seat that belonged on a bicycle—padded head and arm supports in front. The masseuse helped Rozie into the lounge chair, draping a fleecy blanket over her upper body, leaving her legs exposed. The other woman sat on the stool and parted Rozie’s robe up to her thighs. Sitting at the pregnant woman’s feet, the masseuse worked every muscle inch by inch. Rozie’s eyes shut at the first sensation of delightful pain.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  As the masseuse worked her way up Rozemarijn’s calves, her mind wandered. Her view of the mansion that morning—dark and beautiful—filled her vision in vivid detail. Nestled in the chair’s soft cushions, she felt weightless. The sensation carried over into her daydreaming. She floated up from the ground and studied the wrought-iron rail that enclosed the second-floor balcony. Shiny, black paint coating cold, metallic flowers. Rust red tracks stained the balcony’s stone floor after a century’s worth of rain seeped into the iron. Rozie gazed up higher. The sun glinted on the turret’s highest windows. She floated higher, wanting to see the room by day. Vertigo clutched at her stomach. As she climbed, the building grew taller, defying her curiosity. A force shoved her away, and Rozie fell to the ground. Lying on her back, staring up at the mansion, she watched clouds roll in. The structure loomed over her like some ancient skyscraper, a dark cathedral—black stone, corroded roof. The stench of sulphur.

  “Rozie.”

  She jerked awake. The masseuse shook her shoulder again gently. Rozie blinked away the daydream turned nightmare. She groaned. Her calves and thighs felt like dough, kneaded and relaxed. She was reluctant to get up, but the masseuse took Rozie by the arm and helped her to her feet. The candles’ heat filled the room, making it feel stuffy. Rozie followed the woman to the other chair. As she stepped back, the stocky woman bumped into the table, knocking Rozie’s water bottle to the floor. She muttered a curse, grabbed a towel, and mopped up the water from the floor.

  “It’s important that you hydrate. I’ll be right back.”

  The masseuse rushed out of the room, leaving Rozie to stand there awkwardly. She saw her reflection in a full-length mirror, set between next to the window high on the wall. The baby pushed against her belly, and she opened her robe. A lump traveled down her skin next to her distorted belly button. The masseuse reappeared with a glass of water. Rozie instinctively wrapped the robe around herself again. The masseuse pressed the glass into Rozie’s hands. “Drink,” she said cheerfully. Rozie took a sip from the straw, seeing green circles of lime and cucumber floating in the ice. She turned to place the glass on a side table, but before she could, the masseuse placed a hand under the cup and lifted it slightly back toward Rozie’s face. “Drink up! Your muscles are thirsty. I can feel the creaking like dry wood.” Rozie felt a twinge of annoyance but complied and took a few big mouthfuls. Beneath the mint and cucumber, she detected the taste of spring water.

  The woman ushered Rozie onto the narrow seat of the other chair. Hands tugged at the robe. Self-consciousness returned, but the Rozie pushed her feelings aside at the prospect of a real massage. She sat. The pads were the perfect distance away from her belly, not too close. She could rest her elbows and lean forward just enough to get comfortable.

  Hands covered in warm oil worked over her shoulders. Rozie groaned. The masseuse chuckled as tips of her thumbs found the knots that dotted her shoulders, under her scapula. Each pass pressed into tense muscles, and Rozemarijn had to breathe deep and focus on relaxing them.

  After a few minutes, her mind wandered again.

  She saw the swimming pool. The women stood gazing down into the water. Their eyes reflected the light glinting off the water, and Rozie followed their gaze. The water was murky, fed by the spring deep below them. She squinted, trying to see the decorative tile that lined the pool. Something in the water. Something that…

  Hands clasped around her shoulders.

  She startled. Her head rested on her forearms. Fingers like wood pressed into the muscles that ran along her spine. She let out a small gasp, and behind her she heard the masseuse let out a tiny, breathy laugh. The woman’s hands worked their way around her abdomen, the tip of each finger tracing the muscle fibers, stretched to the extreme as they tried to contain a growing baby. Rozie closed her eyes once more.

  The men had joined the women. Dominic stood with them—next to Sophie, who was still naked. Her stomach twisted seeing her husband so close to another woman like that. But his eyes never moved. They stayed transfixed on the water, watching it turn black. A faraway scream fluttered over the trees. Rozie fought the urge to look down. It wasn’t a pool anymore. Not the pool outside. Raw stone lined the edge, rough and covered in green slime.

  The masseuse’s breath grazed the back of her neck, and Rozie’s eyes cracked open. Months of ever shrinking clothing and Dom’s furnace of a body draped over her most nights, Rozie had grown sick of the constant hot constriction on her body. She tried to drive off the discomfort of another person, arms wrapped around her midsection from behind, breathing on her. Then Rozie heard the faint sound of the woman’s lips moving, breathy, words without sound. The woman seemed to freeze like that, and Rozie opened her eyes fully.

  Rozie looked at her and the masseuse’s reflections in the mirror. The masseuse’s hands twitched on the sides of Rozie’s abdomen. Rozie could see her head next to hers. Her eyes were half-closed, rolled back, mouth moving in a constant tide of silent words. The masseuse’s hands tightened, as though she were embracing Rozie. Her head tilted back eyes open, revealing even more white, pupils rolled back. Her fingers spread, and the woman fingers caressing the skin of Rozie’s belly. Revulsion gripped Rozie. The memory of Benny’s hand grazing against her came surging back. The vertigo of her daydream returned, slamming into Rozie’s gut. Even though her body sat motionless in the chair, it felt like the floor tilted dumping her into an unseen chasm, drawing her in. She jerked upright, knocking into the masseuse. The masseuse flinched and recoiled, the vacant look in her eyes replaced by a sharp, studying gaze. She clasped her hands together and stepped back.

  The dizzying sensation vanished, but the hunger, the void that threatened to pull her in, seemed only to move away. They froze, looking at each other in the mirror.

  “It’s all just too tight,” Rozie stammered. It sounded plausible before she said it, hear it out loud… The masseuse raised her hands in surrender. Rozie lumbered to her feet, awkward and exposed. She wrapped herself in the robe, and stumbled toward the door. The masseuse stepped to opened the door for Rozie, but she had already strode past. The hallway was deserted—the receptionist nowhere to be seen. Rozie went to the changing area, grabbed her clothes, and hurried into a stall. The image of the other woman—burned in her mind. Dizziness overcame her, and she sat down on the bench, heart pounding.