The Yoga Club

by Cooper Lawrence

  Olivia looked at Coco and smirked. “I was just telling CJ about my boy. I have the most beautiful eight-month-old. His name is Simon, and he’s the only boy I need.” She smiled. “I have, er, had a now off-again boyfriend—Simon’s daddy—who is presently at one of the poles, South I think, doing some global warming thing. I don’t know. He’s quite smart but a total jerk. You’d hate him. But it’s been so long since I’ve been single that I don’t know how to date. I think I even forgot how to flirt.”

  “Oh, you never forget how to flirt, hon; it’s like wearing a pair of heels. It always comes back,” CJ said.

  Coco, surprised, looked at Olivia, eyes wide. “Wait. You just had a baby? But, you’re so tiny!”

  “Yoga!” Olivia beamed. “I did it throughout my pregnancy. They have the best prenatal yoga here. My water broke right in the middle of a sun salutation. It’s a new position: mountain with waterfall pose. That’s probably why we hadn’t met. I’ve been doing baby yoga for the past year or so.”

  Of course Greenwich had “baby yoga.” Coco wondered if there was yoga for her dogs too.

  Coco tried to speak, but CJ beat her to it. “Girl, pull the bus over, we need to back up. I want to hear about the boyfriend. So is it over? Or are you gonna two-time your big-pole boyfriend with that hot man muffin from last night?” CJ was so over the top this morning, Coco wondered if he weren’t covering something up.

  Olivia started to blush. “Oh no, no, he is at a pole, South, I said…. Oh, a joke…. sorry. Well, was I too obvious last night? I don’t know what to do around guys. That’s why I got knocked up by a meteorologist and not a rock star.”

  “Mary, give me a bottle of champagne, a push-up bra, and twenty minutes, and I’ll show you what to do,” CJ replied.

  “Sorry, I’m not trying to be rude, but don’t we need to discuss this?” Coco finally interjected, shaking the rolled-up newspaper in her hand. And with that she opened the paper, knowing full well that dread was written all over her face. She showed them their revealing photo and waited for a reaction. But it never came.

  CJ looked closely at the photo. “How cute we look!”

  “Why aren’t you freaking out?” Coco asked.

  “Should we be?” Olivia started to look worried now.

  “No!” CJ answered empathically. “Nobody saw anything. And even if we had,” he said a little ominously, “nobody would be able to recognize any of us.”

  “Our names are right here.” Coco pointed to the caption.

  “Nobody reads this thing,” CJ assured her. “People use it to pick up dog poop and line bird cages, if they actually bother.”

  “Okay, worst-case scenario. We saw what we thought we saw, he knows we were there, and now he knows our names,” Coco said.

  Olivia began to freak out. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”

  “So now you have Tourette’s too?” CJ said snidely.

  Olivia quivered. “That’s not funny. Oh, god, we’re totally screwed; we have to go to the police. I think Coco is right. The mayor is going to see this picture and come after us. And last night made it pretty clear he’s prone to violence.”

  “Girl, relax, we were all in drag. Nobody’s coming after us. We’re going to be fine. Have a Xanax. I just got a new scrip,” CJ said, pulling a bottle from his pocket.

  “Oh, god, I hope we aren’t going to be killed. I would hate it if this was the last picture taken of me!” Olivia said.

  CJ smirked. “Oh, not me, girl. I looked fierce!”

  “Okay, if you don’t think we should worry, it makes me feel a little better,” Coco said.

  “Please. We’ll be fine. You know what you really need? A yoga class. Oh, and look! A yoga center right here. What luck!” CJ opened the door for the girls with a flourish.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’m panicking for nothing. Hey, do you think Bailey is coming?” Coco asked.

  “Knowing her, she very well might be, but not to yoga, darlings,” CJ sang.

  “Gross,” said Olivia as the three ex-Palins walked into class.

  Perhaps yoga was the best thing Coco could have done that morning. Without it, she might have had a complete breakdown. There’s nothing like the centering and calm that overtakes you after a yoga class.

  “Good morning,” said the instructor, a pixieish, absolutely adorable twenty-something with what appeared to be a yin-yang tattoo on her shoulder. Coco hated her immediately. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Debbi.” You could tell by the way she said her name that it was spelled without an e at the end and possibly a capital “B.” “Hi. Today we’re going to focus on breathing and working on strengthening our core muscles. Does anyone have any injuries or sensitive areas I should know about?” She smiled beatifically and looked around the room.

  Coco rolled her eyes. Oh, lady, you don’t know the half of it. CJ looked back, grinning knowingly from the front of the class— he’s one of those suck-ups who likes to make sure everyone in the class sees how wonderful he is, she thought. That and he wanted to make sure he’d be seen by any stray man who happened to wander in.

  Olivia raised her hand just above her shoulder and smiled, eyes twinkling. “Uh, hi! I’m Olivia. I just had a baby a few months ago. I know that doesn’t count as an injury.” At this, several in the class tittered. “But, uh, I’ve been doing the neonatal classes, so, uh, I’ll just adjust accordingly.”

  Debbi smiled back at Olivia, a bit quizzically and a bit lovingly. “Hey, that’s fantastic. Congratulations! Okay, so we’ll keep that in mind.” Her gaze held on Olivia slightly longer than it should have. “Okay, well, let’s get started. Let’s close our eyes, legs crossed, and breathing deeply. Great. I want you to focus on someone you want to dedicate your practice to today.”

  During her “practice”— if this is practice, when are we going to get to the real thing? —Coco was agitated, feeling run-down and wondering why the hell she was there. Nothing moved or bent the way it was supposed to. But lying there on her back in what she called the “corpse pose,” arms by her sides, eyes closed, room dark, wine-scented sweat rolling off her temples, she was incredibly grateful she’d come. She thought she’d earned the right to dedicate her practice to herself. And that poor girl in the mayor’s house.

  Bailey woke up at nine and stared at the ceiling. She had to get motivated to attend yet another press junket. As an entertainment reporter for the local ABC affiliate, she had to get an exclusive on every star, young or old, famous or up-and-coming. If they were promoting a film or a TV show, she had to use that legendary Warfield charm to get them to say something they’d not said to anyone else. Her expert grandfather had taught her how to ask questions nobody else was asking and get answers people had no intention of giving. She was skilled, and many of her interviews had garnered national press for her and for the station. It was she who broke the story that Lindsay Lohan was in a relationship with a woman; it was she who introduced thousands of young women to Zac Efron way before High School Musical; and when Angelina was pregnant with Shiloh, Bailey was Angelina’s choice to make the announcement to the world.

  Today she was interviewing John Mayer, Jessica Simpson, and Tom Hanks about an animated Pixar feature with music by John Mayer. She hadn’t yet seen the film, which was slack of her considering she usually went to all screenings. As she lay in bed thinking of questions to ask, playing out the interviews in her mind, the warm body next to her began to stir.

  “Mmm. Morning,” a disembodied, raspy voice said.

  “Morning,” she replied.

  Bailey looked over and saw the bold sleeves of tattoos and otherwise smooth, tanned skin of John Mayer peeking out of the duvet. He didn’t seem to want to move. She fixated on a flower on his shoulder and spoke to it.

  “I’m trying to think of questions to ask you guys today. Did you bring the sound track? Can I listen to it while we shower?” she asked.

  “Sure, it’s in my bag,” he said as he slowly rolled toward her. “Bu
t why the rush? We don’t have to be there until noon.”

  They kissed. He smelled amazing, even in the morning. Bailey moved closer.

  “Well, if we have until noon.” She started to kiss the softest lips she’d ever felt when the doorbell rang.

  “Shit,” she said. “Is your car here for you already?”

  “Shouldn’t be,” said the rocker.

  “Let me see who it is and get rid of them.”

  Bailey had an incredible body, and she knew it. She was anything but shy and loved to show off her perfectly shaped butt; flat, yoga-toned stomach; and muscular legs. She bounced out of bed naked, teasing John by barely throwing on a robe as she went downstairs.

  There was no one at the door, but through the stained glass—the security camera was out, yet again; she cursed herself for not getting it fixed—she could see an envelope propped against the door. She didn’t want to investigate further; Bailey was always paranoid about strange packages, given her profession and her family’s notoriety—what if there were an explosive or anthrax or something in there? Alarmed, she ran to the kitchen and called the police.

  While she waited in the kitchen for the cops, she made strong, strong coffee for the sexy, sexy rock star in her bed. He didn’t drink decaf and took his coffee black. She knew it from reading that famous Playboy article in which he called her friend Jessica “sexual napalm,” although his innumerable tweets about his coffee obsession would have been more than enough information. Nevertheless, she brought a cup upstairs to him.

  “Who was at the door?” he asked with eyes barely opened.

  “It was an anonymous envelope. I called the police,” Bailey said as she handed him the mug.

  “You called the police? About an envelope?” he asked.

  “Well, yeah. What if it’s a pipe bomb? I’m a journalist, you know,” she replied.

  “You interview celebrities. Who’s sending you anthrax? J. Lo?” He was almost laughing. “How exactly do you fit a pipe bomb in an envelope, anyway?”

  She waved her hands and said, “I don’t know…. technology?”

  “Wow, even I’m not that crazy,” he said as he tackled her on the bed and began pulling her robe off.

  Just as he started sliding his stubbly cheek down her belly, they heard the police car pull up. Bailey whimpered, frustrated.

  “That’s fast,” he said.

  “It’s Greenwich. They’re not that busy,” she said as she headed back downstairs, this time putting on sweats and a T-shirt.

  When she got to the door, she recognized the officer’s face. It was the guy from last night, the one Olivia had been awkwardly flirting with.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “You called the police, didn’t you?”

  “You’re a cop?” Bailey asked.

  “Detective. Rob Casey.” He stuck out his hand, and she shook it carefully, keeping her other hand discreetly across her chest as she realized her T-shirt was more or less transparent. “What can I do for you this morning, Ms. Palin?”

  “Oh. Well, I received this,” she said, leaning down to pick up the envelope.” And I don’t want to open it, because I wasn’t expecting anything and it’s anonymous. And, you see, I’m a journalist, and—” she stammered.

  “Say no more,” Detective Casey interrupted. “And by the way, if it’s a bomb, you probably shouldn’t be handling it.”

  “Oh, yeah. Whoops,” she said. “Boom.”

  “Do you have reason to believe someone would want to harm you?” Casey asked as he took out rubber gloves and placed the envelope in a plastic bag.

  “I hear she gave Dakota Fanning a pretty hard time on the red carpet last week,” John Mayer said from just beyond the opened door. It was pretty dark inside, but Mayer wasn’t shy and liked his conquests known. He wore jeans but no shirt or shoes. His hair was bed-ruffled.

  “Shut it, smart guy,” Bailey yelled over her shoulder.

  “Clearly you’re busy, so let me take the envelope down to the police station. Once we’re done processing it, we’ll let you know,” Detective Casey said as he began walking back to his car.

  “Thanks, Detective,” she said. “Oh, and by the way, Olivia seems like a pretty cool chick, doesn’t she? Are you single?”

  “Uh…. yes,” he said, caught off guard for the first time in their conversation. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Good to know. Bye!” Bailey said with a grin as she closed the door.

  After yoga, a sweaty Coco and a drenched Olivia stood outside the classroom chugging bottled water as CJ rooted around in his bag for his iPhone.

  “How do you not sweat like crazy in there?” Coco asked.

  “I don’t sweat, I glow,” replied CJ. He found his phone and turned it on.

  “Of course,” said Coco.

  Suddenly CJ’s mood darkened. “Dammit!” he said.

  “What’s up?” Coco asked.

  “One of my guests just canceled for Monday’s show, and I don’t know if my bookers can find a replacement. I hate when this happens,” CJ said.

  “A guest? What are you involved in?” Olivia asked.

  “I’m a senior producer for the Rachael Ray show,” CJ replied.

  “Oooh! I love that show! Is she nice?” Olivia perked right up.

  “Totally. She’s the best boss there is. I adore her. The only thing I don’t adore are the guests who cancel on us at the last minute. ’Scuse me a second, I’ll meet you guys outside,” CJ said as he walked away, phone already pressed to his ear.

  Olivia and Coco collected their things and went into the dressing room to change, emerging a few minutes later, only to find a frantic-looking CJ.

  “What is it? More trouble at work?” Coco asked.

  “No, worse. I need to get home. Nanny called like ten times while I was on the phone—some weird guy showed up at our door and left an envelope for me. She’s really nervous about it.”

  “You have a nanny? For what?” Olivia was intrigued.

  “No, I don’t have a nanny, she was my nanny growing up and is part of our family. Now she’s ill and I’m taking care of her,” CJ explained.

  “Is she okay?” Coco asked.

  “No. I mean, yes, she’s okay—she’s just freaking out about a guy and a package. But I get some weirdos contacting me because of Rachael Ray. I’m sure that’s all this is. I gotta go.”

  Just then Coco’s phone rang. It was Sam.

  “You need to come home. Now.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Just get here,” he said as he hung up.

  Coco looked at CJ, lips pursed, and said in as sarcastic a tone as she could muster, “Well, I’m betting not everyone uses the Ledger to line bird cages. Mother fuck!”

  Olivia, not quite getting it, looked dismayed. “What? Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  “Tell her, CJ,” Coco demanded and began hurrying toward her car.

  “Wait, what’s your number?” CJ yelled.

  “203-555-B-U-T-T,” Coco yelled over her shoulder as she opened her door.

  “Of course it is.”

  Four

  The Unwanted Visitor

  Screeching into the driveway, Coco leapt from her car and ran frantically into the house. She found Sam sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, peeking through his fingers at the envelope and its contents. Coco moved closer to see dozens of papers spread out on the table.

  “What is it?” she asked, trying to sound innocent.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what all of these documents are or why they’re all together,” he said. “Who the hell sent this?”

  Coco looked closer. She saw piles of business documents. None of them looked friendly. Sam continued, “It’s the company’s financial data—it’s all here. The balance sheets, accounts receivable, accounts payable, budget forecasts. I checked and double-checked every one of these when I signed off on them, yet now it looks like a mess, a
nd none of these numbers make any sense. The dates are all wrong. What the fuck is going on?”

  Sam had recently retired from an extremely successful but extremely flawed start-up company that sold health insurance. He began working there with friends straight out of college, but when the company grew too large too quickly, he found himself in over his head. The board and its sinister lawyers had forced him to sign off on a number of specious documents, making him feel more like a pawn than a partner, ultimately prompting him to leave. The entire matter was soul-crushing, and for a long time after Sam seemed frozen, almost afraid of becoming passionate about any sort of career again. For months he scarcely left the house.

  Not long after Sam’s departure, the president of the company—his college friend—was slapped with enormous fines by the Insurance Department and booted out following a stock option scandal. Several board members were brought up on fraud charges as well. Sam felt he had gotten out unscathed. But these documents suggested something else entirely.

  “I don’t understand,” he said again. “The dates correspond to when I was still there. This is my signature, yet these are the papers that got Mark in trouble for the stock option thing, which happened after I left. Someone has to have doctored this shit. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  Coco tried to reassure him. “Okay, let’s not panic. Call Kornacki, he’ll know what to do. He’s the best attorney in the world. Let’s let him handle this, okay?”

  “Yeah,” Sam said reluctantly. Even the best attorney in the world couldn’t do anything if anyone believed it was his signature on these papers.

  “Wait, what’s this?” Sam asked, lifting a smaller envelope and handing it to her. “Looks like something addressed to you.”

  Coco opened the ominous letter and stared at the bold, typewritten lines. It read:

  I know who you are.

  You have been identified. For now this is merely a warning to keep your mouth shut. If you talk to anyone, especially the police, many lives will be ruined. That includes yours and your loved ones. Say nothing or forever curse the day that the former Governor of Alaska inspired your costume choice.