Nine Perfect Strangers Read Online Free PDF Page A

intercom and saw a handwritten note sticky-taped next to the button. The writing was so small she could only make out the important word “instructions” but nothing else.
    For goodness’ sake , she thought, as she went through her handbag for her reading glasses. Surely a good proportion of visitors were over forty.
    She found her glasses, put them on, peered at the sign, and still couldn’t make it out. Tut-tutting and muttering, she got out of the car. The heat grabbed her in a heavy embrace and beads of sweat sprang up all over her scalp.
    She ducked down next to the intercom and read the note, written in neat, tiny block letters as if by the tooth fairy.
    NAMASTE AND WELCOME TO TRANQUILLUM HOUSE WHERE A NEW YOU AWAITS.
    PLEASE PRESS THE SECURITY CODE 564–312 FOLLOWED IMMEDIATELY BY THE GREEN BUTTON.
    She pressed the security code numbers then the green button and waited. Sweat rolled down her back. She would need to change her clothes again . A blowfly buzzed near her mouth. Her nose dripped.
    â€œOh come on !” she said to the intercom with a sudden spurt of rage, and she wondered if her agitated sweaty face was appearing on some screen inside, while an expert dispassionately analyzed her symptoms, her misaligned chakras. This one needs work. Look at how she responds to one of life’s simplest stresses: waiting.
    Had she got the damned code wrong?
    Once again she carefully punched in the security code, saying each number out loud, in a sarcastic tone, to prove a point to God knowswho, and gave the hot green button a slow, deliberate push, holding it for five seconds just to be sure.
    There. Now let me in.
    She took off her reading glasses and let them dangle in her hand.
    The baking heat seemed to be melting her scalp like chocolate in the sun. Silence again. She gave the intercom a fierce, hard look as if that would shame it into acting.
    At least this would make a funny story for Paul. She wondered if he’d ever been to a health resort. She thought he’d most likely be a skeptic. She herself was—
    Her chest constricted. This wouldn’t make a good story for Paul. Paul was gone. How humiliating for him to have slipped into her thoughts like that. She wished she felt a surge of white-hot anger instead of this utter sadness, this pretend grief for what was never real in the first place.
    Stop it. Don’t think about it. Focus on the problem at hand.
    The solution was obvious. She would ring Tranquillum House! They would be mortified to hear that their intercom had broken and Frances would be calm and understanding and brush away their apologies. “These things happen,” she’d say. “Namaste.”
    She got back in the car, cranked up the air conditioner. She found the paperwork with her booking details, and rang the number listed. All her other communications had been by email, so it was the first time she’d heard the recorded message that immediately began to play.
    â€œ Thank you for calling the historic Tranquillum House Health and Wellness Hot Springs Resort, where a new you awaits. Your call is so important and special to us, as is your health and well-being, but we are experiencing an unusually high volume of calls at the moment. We know your time is precious, so please do leave a message after the chimes and we will call you back just as soon as we can. We so appreciate your patience. Namaste. ”
    Frances cleared her throat as wind chimes made their annoying twinkly dinging sounds.
    â€œOh yes, my name is—”
    The wind chimes kept going. She stopped, waited, went to speak, and stopped again. It was a wind-chime symphony .
    At last there was silence.
    â€œHello, this is Frances Welty.” She sniffed. “Excuse me. Bit of a cold. Anyway, as I said, I’m Frances Welty. I’m a guest.”
    Guest? Was that the right word? Patient? Inmate?
    â€œI’m trying to check in and I’m stuck outside the gate.