3

DURING THE ENTIRETY OF THIS RITUAL, MY FINGERTIPS stung and tingled, as if pricked by a needle. As I write this, I can recall only flashes of busy, bejeweled hands performing and prodding in all directions. Remembering feels like watching a scene from a nature documentary, where hyenas have surrounded a fallen antelope and are stripping fur and flesh. I could do nothing but remain still and breathe slow, counted breaths. One. Two. Three. Four. It hardly ever worked, and yet I could not shake the habit.

Their hands slowed to soft, soothing strokes. My great mop of wiry brown hair was brushed and untangled by women who celebrated me as if I were not the very picture of ordinariness. My neck and jaw were lightly massaged by amber-scented fingertips. My body was admired, exalted even, for the same qualities I had always wished to alter. The mousy shade of my hair and its frizz were enviably “wild” and “mysterious.” I was not short, but “darling” and “petite.” My eyes, so boring and brown, were now “deep.” Even my clothing was examined and praised for the boldness of its practicality, as if these women had never considered a sweatshirt or wool socks.

Where moments before I was mortified by the attentions and the intimate liberties taken by the hands of strangers, I found myself lulled into an unsuspecting trance by their generosity. How naive I was to have fallen for such deceptions, but there is nothing to do here except admit that I was. To my shame and regret, I fell for their kindness. Kindness, the oldest trick in the book! Don’t we all secretly, or not so secretly, want to be fussed over a little? To be praised and patted? There is no excuse for this lapse except for vanity, exhaustion, and yes, maybe a bit of magic.

Amid a chorus of compliments, I heard Mia. “Darling, you must be so stiff from your journey.” How sick I would grow of her darlings. “Let’s get you into something comfortable.”

A gauzy dress like her own was tossed in my direction, an ocean breeze materializing to lift the fabric like a kite. A sunbeam lit embroidered gold across the silk, and the dress moved as if it had a life of its own. It floated into my hands in what was nearly slow motion. Just as I thought to excuse myself to find a restroom, to claim a moment to myself, the dress slipped like water through my fingers, and my sweatshirt was lifted over my head. The bra I wore came unclasped and disappeared with what small modesty remained. I counted to slow everything down—one, two, three, four—and the world was for those seconds only violet silk, jangling necklaces, and pearly flashes of abalone.

“Don’t worry, darling, sunshine is so good for milk production.” I recognized Mia’s voice.

“Oh, but I’m not . . .,” I said in a blush of renewed self-consciousness, but nobody paid any attention to my protests—all seized by the wind, anyway.

The dress was aloft again, only to open and drift over my head. Its feather-light silk fell across my arms and below my waist. I pressed the fabric along my sides to cover myself as I removed my jeans and slipped off my socks and tennis shoes. My hair was pulled out of the dress’s neck and braided, short as it was, and I began to settle into my luxurious captivity.

The final touch? I was crowned with a straw gardening hat by an anonymous porcelain-white arm. I admit that I initially begrudged their finery, but now I felt almost like I belonged. It was already too late to go back. I had been anointed in fragrant oils, and my body robed in their silks. My hair had been plaited with vines of neon morning glory. I didn’t yet know how odd it was for the vibrant blue-violet flowers to be open at this time in the afternoon. Practically unnatural, if you want to know the truth. Their perfumes of jasmine and sandalwood, oud and amber, were not the only invisible mantles clinging to my skin.

“This is all so generous,” I said to Mia, my cheeks red with embarrassment. “So unnecessary.”

“Darling, you are part of our family now. Of the community,” she said, and in spite of myself, I smiled at her use of the word family.

“Have you seen my shoes?” I asked, if only for something to say, feeling clumsy and overwhelmed in the face of her largesse.

“Now, why would you want shoes? Isn’t it a perfect day?” asked a low voice. It was the man I’d recognized in the sarong and basketball T-shirt, Mia’s husband. “It’d ruin the look,” said Manny Rose.

“What look is that?” I managed, curling my toes around warm blades of grass.

“Like you belong here,” he replied, reaching out to finger the tassel at the neck of my, or whoever’s, dress. “Don’t you think?” In spite of myself, something in me glowed at this stranger’s approval, even though I stepped back. The tassel fell from his fingers.

“Tansy, this is my husband, Manny,” said Mia, but, of course, I knew who he was, like everyone else. She settled one hand on my waist, reaching for his hand with the other. “We’re all one big happy family now.”

Manny, Mia’s husband, and my cousin-in-law, of whom you have also undoubtedly heard and whose services you use daily. His invention—Zembla—is known the world over as well. One of those transactional social networks. But the billionaire Emanuel Rose prefers these days to be publicly called Father M, the moniker that came to him during a shamanic ceremony in the Amazon and that now adorns their burgeoning wellness empire. Humbly, he remains Manny to his family. There is a film about his life. It’s a remarkable success story about a man born into relative wealth who became incomparably rich and married a model. The American dream, rugged individuality, etc. Practically made for Hollywood. I knew very little about technology or computers or being a billionaire. Even basketball was a somewhat mysterious enterprise that brought to mind the shrill shoe squeaks and the burnt-rubber smell of scuffed floor wax from high school gym class, so it is possible that he is even more famous than I have given him credit for in my history.

Yes, my dear cousin Mia is that Damiana Black. The famous model, the face of luxury brands, the habitual strutter of runways. Hers is the kind of beauty that is both inspirational and aspirational, and after her modeling success, she turned herself into an even more successful figure in wellness and lifestyle. The perfect cover for any adjacent activities that might require oceans of herbal tea, incense by the kilo, and a crystal in every corner of the house. Smoky quartz. Rutilated quartz. Amazonite. Aventurine. Onyx. Obsidian. Apophyllite. Not that any of the above would have been hard to find within the limits of suspicion in California.

So you see, they are both gurus. Influencers, if you will. Recognizable from ad campaigns, magazine covers, and congressional hearings. They are among the most famous people on earth, and, as unlikely as it was, they were now my family. They insisted we were their family, Mia and Manny, and wanted to be treated as such. “You must forget the names you associate with our images, darling,” purred Mia more than once.

When Guy told me that he was closely related to a famous model, each other’s only living relative no less, I couldn’t help myself and searched for Mia’s photographs and interviews during spates of boredom or nights of tossing or turning for one reason or another. How much time I must have wasted gawking at pictures of the woman who would be my downfall. Searching and searching for her face when it will likely be the last one I see. A view as beautiful as from the cliffs of Bellinas, unquestionably.

Damiana Black’s retirement from modeling was covered by tabloids and serious news. She gave everything up when she married, declaring a life of fame on runways and magazine covers unfulfilling in a video on Zembla addressed to her “beloved fans.” When they met, Manny had recently sold his company for an astronomical sum, announcing his own retirement from “disruption” to bring wellness and enlightenment to the masses with his new brand of health food, Father M—or to those who could afford it, anyway. In many ways, they seemed like a perfect match, and their wedding was a medieval-themed affair in the Swiss Alps to which we were not invited. It was, Mia assured Guy at the time, a very small ceremony at a very remote ski chalet.

He seemed to take her word for it. The photographs that appeared in the usual society magazines framed the happy day as even more magical than Mia had described it to us in an email. The bride wore a crown of jagged red coral and iridescent abalone spikes in shifting shades of teal and violet. Her dress was water-smooth silk sewn in silvery scales, its shimmer set off by glittering snow and flash photography. The groom walked down the aisle with a real sword worn by a knight of Charlemagne, procured god knows how and for the devil knows how much, and subsequently strapped to his bespoke hosiery. Now you see how he affords the confidence with which he wears his sports T-shirts tucked into the sarong of an aging expat and the heavy boots meant for summiting mountain peaks. After the ceremony and the predictable Fijian honeymoon, Mia was whisked by private jet to their newly redone home—Rose Manor on Rose Lane. The Roses, our only living relatives, are extremely rich.

Before meeting her for the first time, the only time before her extravagant marriage and retreat from the public eye, at a restaurant near Union Square in Manhattan that was more diner-themed than actual diner, I poured over profiles exalting her down-to-earth elegance and ogled with no little envy her skin that glowed with neither highlighter dust nor illuminating bronzer, simply that inner light that all makeup was invented to mimic. I didn’t see her again until her birthday party on midsummer at Psalm Valley Farm.

“My shoes?” I asked, as Mia and Manny Rose gazed into each other’s eyes. Or, perhaps, they were assessing me, trying to communicate their thoughts about me and Guy and our possible inclusion in their community.

“They’ll turn up,” Mia promised, her hand dropping from my waist as she slinked away behind her husband to greet their other arriving guests. I stood alone, at the foot of a field of strawberries. Patches of blue and orange wildflowers lined the footpaths around the barn gallery. Roses of reds and pinks lined the hills. I wanted to signal for Guy to come over, but his back was turned to me. As far as I could tell, he still wore what he arrived in. After a flurry of attention, I felt exposed and alone. Recalling how I’d felt almost like I belonged, I felt silly as I admired Mia from a distance. In the twilight, the air around her held the brightness of those jewel-box mornings. It was a sight to make you believe in auras. The tears I had been saving up began to fall. I moved to wipe them away before anyone could see, only to realize that I was staining the sleeve of the borrowed silk dress with every swipe, which caused, of course, a resurgence of tears.

On the brink of my succumbing to this cycle, one of the women appeared, as if dispatched to collect me. Aster, I am sure. I remember noticing her curls. I may have found comfort in their slight unruliness. The other women had hair as straight as Mia’s, in shades of blond that approached but did not outshine hers. A natural milky gold. Perhaps Aster saw me dabbing at my eyes. Maybe she could sense my loneliness, or felt sorry for my recent near-nakedness. “Would you like to help with the flowers?” she asked, not waiting for an answer to press gardening shears into my hand, silver and warmed by her grip. No matter what betrayals may have taken place later, for this first rescue, I am grateful to her. We walked toward a bed of nasturtium to gather bouquets of the orange trumpeting blossoms with the other barefoot women. Miraculously, my sleeves were dry. In the slanting light, I could see the shadows of flowers through their dresses. At the thought that mine must also be see-through, the wind pressed the fabric into the curves of my body, but I did not tear up again. I began to gather flowers as they were doing.

When one vine had been clipped of its blossoms, I lifted another by a corkscrewing jade tail and discovered a white cat curled around herself, the shape and size of a boule of bread. She purred in her sleep as I went about my task, the end of her tail twitching as she dreamed. My face was shielded from the sun in the wide-brim straw hat, and I clipped bouquets of nasturtium and wondered if the sun penetrating the thinness of my unlined dress would indeed have a positive effect on my future milk production. That was how quickly their enchantments took root, and how susceptible I must have been. They were already conjuring hints for my desperate ears that what I wanted most in the world was waiting for me in Bellinas.

Guy was looking toward me, admiring my silhouette alongside the other women against the setting sun. It was almost as if the wind had carried to him a fantasy come to life. A dream he’d never known he nursed, but nonetheless made real before his very eyes. Then he was at my side, his fingers tracing the gold threads of my dress across my arms and down to the ring still new on my hand. Guy whispered in my ear, as these former models and aspiring artists watched. “Let’s stay here, like this, forever.” He was as giddy as I’d ever seen him, drunk in the midsummer twilight on possibilities and strong beer, made and bottled there at the farm.

“What about our lives in New York? Our apartment?” I pulled slightly away. The skin of my back, underneath the silk and scent, burned. That we were being watched by something more than a curious gaze I knew in my gut. True, it would not have taken much to penetrate the delicate fabric of my dress, but I wanted to turn and see who, or what, watched us. Instead, I kept my eyes on Guy. He too seemed in a trance, and I couldn’t look away from him. There was the slightest possibility that he was entranced by me.

“Let’s be spontaneous,” he continued. “We can really start our married life here. We’ll be near family. We can be like this all the time. It’ll be the right place to have a baby.”

That he felt the need to begin again, only two months since our wedding, told me that I was not imagining his dissatisfaction with me and our life together in New York. Here, in California, everything had been miraculously better between us. So much better that I realized how desperate for his attention I had been for so long. Possibly for years. When he addressed me for the first time by my married name, I knew I would eventually do whatever he asked to make him happy, even if he had not dangled in front of me like a carrot what I wanted most. “Let’s move to Bellinas, Tansy Black,” he said. “Let’s have a family here.”

“Guy, but our lives back home? Our friends? And work . . . ?”

My questions broke the spell, and he pulled back. His eyes no longer shone with the expanse of possibility. With excitement about our future together. The urge to cry returned. I had done it. As he so often accused me of doing, I had let my negativity, my judgmental nature, get in the way. The new beginning we had cultivated on our honeymoon was gone, and I knew that it was my fault.

“Forget it,” he said, pulling his arms from me. “I thought we could do something adventurous together.” He dropped his gaze and walked away.

No man takes refusal well, no matter the size or outlandishness of the request. Mia and her husband didn’t have children, but the other couples our age passed quiet, pink-cheeked children between each other. They looked so similar, the couples and their babies, I couldn’t tell who belonged to whom. It didn’t seem to matter. The beautiful women of Bellinas unlaced the ribbons at their necklines to nurse their beautiful babies. Maybe there was something to Mia’s claim about sunlight.

The wind tugged at the sleeves of my dress. I noticed Guy cooing over a blond, round-faced baby and walked over. I had been asking for a baby for at least a year by then. That night had been the first time it was his suggestion. The baby’s little fingers coiled around my husband’s wedding band, and his bouncing elicited smiles and giggles. I could be one of these women who unlaced her dress to nurse a perfect, pink-cheeked baby at artistic parties in former barns for wealthy philanthropists. We could be as happy as these couples, these strangers. Why was I hesitating? Guy had spent the previous week looking at me like he did in the beginning, and I didn’t want it to end. Nothing was really happening for us back in New York, I thought then. The years we spent in our tiny apartment blurred together. Except for the winters. Each year, winter grew longer, and we grew unhappier. In California, in the sunshine and in the redwood forests, we found hope and happiness in each other again.

In front of my sitting husband, the baby still on his lap, I bent to my knees and lay my hands on his. “Guy, you were right,” I said, using the three words men like to hear most. “Let’s do it. Let’s move to Bellinas.”