Swimming to Catalina

23

Stone was wakened by a ringing telephone at his bedside. He tried to ignore it, but it rang on and on. Finally, he picked up the instrument. “Hello?” he said grumpily.

“Rise and shine,” Betty said. “Today, you’re mine.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly eight o’clock.”

“I haven’t slept like that in months,” he said. “I could have kept going another four hours.”

“Today we play, pal. Now here’s what you do; you pack an overnight bag, and don’t bring a necktie. A swimsuit and tennis clothes would be nice, but if you didn’t bring them we can pick them up later. Got that?”

“Where are we going?”

“To a favorite place of mine, and that’s all you need to know. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

“No, don’t come here. Take a cab to the Beverly Hills Hotel, make sure nobody’s following you, and I’ll pick you up at the front door in an hour.”

“Whatever you say, Sir,” she replied, then hung up.

Stone sat up in bed and thought about how he felt. A hell of a lot better than last night, was the verdict. He’d gotten some sound sleep, and he didn’t feel the heavy weight of depression that had burdened him the previous evening. He struggled out of bed and into a shower.

Betty was standing at the entrance of the hotel, a suitcase beside her, when he drove up, having made sure that no one was behind him.

“Hullo, sailor,” she said, tossing her bag into the back seat and getting in.

“Where to?” he asked, kissing her.

“Just follow my directions.”

“You had breakfast?”

“Only a cup of coffee.”

“There’s some stuff in a box in the back seat, from my kitchenette.”

She got them both a croissant and a container of orange juice, and started giving Stone directions. Soon they were on the Santa Monica Freeway, heading east.

“So where are we headed?” he asked.

“I told you, no questions,” she replied tartly, “and I don’t want to talk about anything else, either. I just want to drive and relax. We’ll be there in time for lunch.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied obediently. The road became the San Bernardino Freeway, and he thought they must be headed for Palm Springs, but they zipped right through the town.

“Take a left on Sixty-two,” she said. It was the first time she’d spoken in an hour.

Stone started seeing signs for Joshua Tree and Twentynine Palms, but they blew through Joshua Tree, and beyond Twentynine Palms was a zillion square miles of desert, if he remembered his geography. The terrain was arid, and mountains rose to their left.

“Take the next right,” Betty said.

Stone slowed. “It’s a narrow dirt road, and it seems to go up that mountain,” he said.

“Take it, and shut up.”

Stone turned right onto the dirt road. There were no signs of any kind and no road number. Soon they left the plain and started to climb, and he was beginning to feel nervous. He had been trained to suspect everybody, and Betty was not exempt. She had been with him when they had been followed from the restaurant, and now he was with her on a dirt road to nowhere, and he wasn’t feeling great about it. He checked the fuel gauge; he still had half a tank of gas. His options were narrow; he could continue to follow orders and get himself into God knew what, or he could turn around and head back to L.A.

“Take that little road to the left,” she said.

This road was even less promising than the one they were on, and Stone stopped the car. “I have to know where we’re going,” he said.

She turned and looked at him. “Don’t you trust me?”

He made his decision, though he wasn’t happy about it; he turned left. This little track was very steep and deeply rutted, and he drove slowly of necessity. They were near the mountaintop when she issued further instructions.

“Turn right,” she said.

He turned, went around a sharp bend, and found himself in a small parking lot, along with a dozen other cars, all expensive.

“You get the bags,” Betty said and got out. She went to a post that held a box, opened it, and took out a telephone handset. “This is Betty Southard,” she said. “We’re in the parking lot.”

Stone trudged over to her with the bags. “Now what?” he asked.

“They’re coming for us.”

He set down the bags and noticed, behind Betty, a set of narrow railway tracks. A moment later a small tram came down the mountainside and stopped. It was something like a rollercoaster car with a canvas top to keep off sun or rain.

“Hop in,” she said.

He placed their bags in a luggage rack and got in beside her. She pressed a button, and the car started up the mountain. Stone looked back at the desert behind them; he reckoned they were at least four thousand feet above the desert floor now, and his ears were popping regularly.

The car leveled off and came to a stop beneath an awning; a young man in a polo shirt and Bermuda shorts stepped up and took their bags. “Welcome to Tiptop,” he said. “Please follow me.”

They walked up a short flight of steps and suddenly they were at the mountaintop. They were in a small lobby with windows that looked out over both sides of the mountain range, and the view was spectacular. Betty signed a registration card, and the young man took them out a rear door, past a large pool, and to a cottage just beyond.

“Lunch begins at noon,” he said, “and your program starts at one.”

Stone tipped him and he left them alone in the spacious and beautifully decorated cottage. There was a sitting room, a bedroom, a bath, and a wet bar. “Our program?” he asked.

“I told you,” she said, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him, “no questions. It’s nearly noon; we may as well have some lunch.” She took his hand and led him to a table at poolside. Half a dozen other couples were seated around the pool now, and two of them were naked.

“Well, I guess it’s warm enough,” Stone said, nodding toward them.

“Clothes are optional,” she replied. “I’ll be shedding mine when our program starts, and I won’t be putting them back on until dinnertime, if then. You can do whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “I certainly don’t object to nudity where you’re concerned.”

“Order,” she said.

Stone had a delicious lobster salad, and they shared a bottle of very good chardonnay. “Don’t I get to ask you any questions about anything?”

“Not until we leave this place,” she said. “Until then, you are mine to command. Try to keep that in mind.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, sipping his wine. He was relieved that Ippolito’s men were not sharing the table with them.

“Isn’t this a beautiful spot?” she asked.

“It certainly is. How do you know about it?”

“I’ve been here once before. It’s very private; the phone number is unlisted, and in order to get your first reservation, a former guest has to recommend you. It’s practically a club.”

“I like the clubhouse,” Stone said, looking around, “and I can’t wait to start the program.”

“Looks like we’re starting now,” Betty said, nodding toward an approaching young woman, who was wearing a short cotton robe.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Southard,” she said, “and to you, Mr. Smith. Your mud bath is ready.”

“Mud bath?” Stone repeated.

“Shut up and do as you’re told,” Betty said. “I apologize for Mr. Smith,” she said to the young woman. “He’s a New Yorker, and he’s experiencing culture shock.”

“That’s quite all right,” the woman replied. “He’s not our first New Yorker. They seem to loosen up after the mud bath.”

Stone stood up. “Do with me as you will,” he said.