"Fine." I curse the Jimmy Choo stilettos I chose for the day.
By 2:00 p.m., after a mediocre lunch where we went through the list of sites he'd shown me, I escape to the restroom and call Cass. "Hey, I'm done with this bozo. He hasn't shown me a single space that will work. Two things: Find a new broker, and then find a massage therapist who will come to the penthouse this afternoon."
"A massage therapist?"
Why does she sound confused? "Yes, Cassidy, massage therapist. Do I need to spell it for you?"
"No. I'm sorry."
And so you should be.
"What kind of massage?"
Oh, for heaven's sake! Just do it. "I don't know. The kind that will make me feel better. Just find someone good and get an appointment for this afternoon."
I hang up. How hard is it, Cass? Okay, granted, I've never had a massage or asked Cassidy to find a therapist for me, but there's a first time for everything. I reach for my shoulder and knead the muscle. I need to do something to relieve this tension. Then something occurs to me and I pick up the phone again.
"Cass, make sure the massage therapist is a woman."
I drop the phone back into my briefcase, touch up my lipstick, and head back to fire Mr. Broker. The most productive moment of my day.
WHEN I WALK BACK into the penthouse, I kick my heels off at the front door, pick them up, and head for the office where Cassidy is sitting at my desk going through mail. She looks over her shoulder at me. "Massage at 4:00 p.m.—deep tissue—her name is Lauren."
"Deep tissue? Is that painful?"
"Depends . . ."
Depends on what?
Just before 4:00, Cass buzzes the massage chick up to the penthouse. She lets her in and has her set up in my bedroom. Cass comes out of the room with an intake form and a release for me to sign.
"A release? What's she going to do to me?"
"It's standard procedure, Andee. Fill it out. I'm taking off."
"Fine."
A few minutes later, I hear someone say, "Hello? I'm ready for you."
I walk into the living room and see a petite brunette dressed in black yoga pants and a T-shirt, her long hair pulled into a loose twist.
"Hi, I'm Lauren."
I'd guess Lauren is old enough to be my mother, but she's still beautiful and looks strong. "I'm Andee."
We talk through my problem areas, as she calls them. I tell her that my neck and shoulders need the most work.
"Are you under a lot of stress?"
I laugh. "Uh, yeah, you could say that."
"We often hold our stress in our neck and shoulders. Come on in and we'll get started."
I walk into my bedroom and in ten short minutes, she's transformed it. She's closed the drapes, turned down the lights, lit candles, and there's soft music playing in the background. Her table is set up near the foot of my bed and it's covered in soft white linens, and there's a white chenille robe draped over the end of the table.
"What's that smell?"
She smiles. "Lavender and vanilla. Your assistant said you didn't have any allergies so I took the liberty of using scented candles. Lavender and vanilla are soothing aromas."
"Okay. Soothing is good."
She gives me some instructions, tells me to change into the robe, and to let her know when I'm ready for her to come back in. I tell her to just wait and I go into the adjoining bathroom, change out of my clothes, put on the robe, and return to the bedroom.
"That was fast."
"I don't have time to waste."
She's instructs me how to lie on the table, and I settle in.
"Sometimes, Andee, massage can evoke an emotional response—especially when we're working areas where we hold stress or painful emotions."
"I just need you to work out the knots." An emotional reaction? Get a grip, lady.
"Okay. Let's get started."
She has me lie faceup and covers my eyes with a mask that also smells like lavender. Then she wraps each of my feet in hot, damp towels. A good start after walking the streets in the stilettos. She also drapes hot towels over my shoulders.
Okay, so why haven't I done this before?
Soon her warm hands begin to work at the base of my neck and up into my scalp. She massages my head, and then moves to my face, where she kneads my temples and works down to my jawline.
The sensation is amazing and I begin to relax. Maybe I can hire her to be on call at all hours, whenever I need her. We could set up a massage room in the new office building. Well, when I find a building, that is.
"Relax," she whispers. "You're tensing your neck muscles."
You think that's tense? I breathe in a deep, cleansing breath and then exhale in an attempt to clear my mind. Don't think about office buildings, Andee.
Or work.
Her hands return to the base of my neck and she removes the hot towels and then begins to work warm lotion into my skin. She works around to the front of my lower neck and using slow circular motions, she works the areas between my collarbone and shoulders.
Don't think about anything.
Then she places her hands under my shoulders, almost lifting them off the table, and she begins a deep kneading of the muscles from underneath. I feel the ache of tension begin to release as she works the knotted ligaments.
And with the ache come more thoughts.
Don't go there. Don't think about him.
"Just rest. Relax . . ."
Jason . . . I shouldn't have . . .
Her strong fingers press into my skin, probing, as though she's looking for something specific and won't stop until she finds it. I swallow and feel the lump forming in my throat as her hands move to the outer edges of my shoulders, still kneading and probing.
I let Jason go . . .
I take a deep breath.
How could I . . .
I swallow again.
How could I betray him?
I feel the first tears sliding out from under the mask.
"It's okay . . ." she speaks in a whisper. "Release the emotion with the tension. Let it all go."
"I . . . I can't . . ."
"Just let it go. Relax."
Her hands are warm on my shoulders as she attempts to soothe me with her voice.
"No . . . No more . . ." I pull the mask off my eyes and bolt upright. "No!" Sitting up on the table, I pull the sheet close to cover myself. "I'm done."
She puts her hand on my forearm, but says nothing.
I reach for her hand and throw it off. The force of it causes her to stumble back. "I said I'm done!" I swing my legs over the side of the table, wrap the sheet around me, and stand up. "Get your things, now." I go into my dressing area, where I grab my own robe from my closet. I drop the sheet and slip into the robe. My hands shake as I tie the belt tight.
I bend, pick up the sheet, and return to the bedroom, where I throw the sheet across her table. "Get"—my voice shakes like my hands—"your things and show yourself out." I push the words through clenched teeth. "Now!" Then I walk back into the bathroom and slam the door behind me. I sit on the edge of the large jetted tub, wrap my arms around myself, and let the tears come.
There's no stopping them now.
Self-love hides in many places, and God alone can find them all out.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Brigitte
SHE REACHES INTO the pocket of her St. John cardigan and removes her vibrating cell phone. She looks at the name on the screen. "Yes, Hannah . . ."
"Madame, I got the information you requested. Access to Jenna's computer."
"You did?"
"Yes, I downloaded the information to a flash drive and I've just e-mailed it to you along with her pass
words."
"Fine."
"There is something else, Madame . . ."
She walks to the large bay window in the living room and looks out over the vineyard as she listens.
"Jenna was gone most of Saturday. She left late in the morning in a cab. I don't know where she went. But when she returned, after dark, she was with a man."
"A man?"
"Yes, Madame."
"Who? What man?"
"I don't know."
"Fine, Hannah. Merci. Job well done." She smiles.
"Perfect. E-mail it all to me. Good work, Hannah. Merci."
She walks to the antique desk where her laptop sets and looks for the new files Hannah is e-mailing. "Ah . . . there you are." She turns away from the desk and goes to the small bar on the other side of the living area and takes a crystal flute from one of the shelves above, then she reaches for the bottle of Domaine de la Bouvier Reserve Pinot Noir Brut that Estelle has chilling in a bucket on the countertop. She pops the cork, and laughs at the sound of it. She fills the flute and then lifts the glass in the air. "To me."
She takes a sip of the champagne and then, glass in hand, heads back to the desk, where she sits for an evening of reading.
If you ever saw how deeply corrupt you really were, all your courage to reform yourself would run away in terror.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER FORTY
Andee
WHEN I EMERGE from the bathroom, eyes swollen and tears spent, at least for the moment, I walk through the bedroom and notice the massage chick left her card and a note tucked into the mirror of my dresser. "Your bill, I assume?"
I pull the card and note from the frame of the mirror and read: Andee, today was on me. Call anytime, I'd love to work with you.
"Thanks for nothing." I crumple the note and stuff it, along with her card, into the pocket of my robe. I go to the living room and stand in front of the plate-glass windows and watch as lights begin to flicker across the city and bay. I look toward Alameda Island and anger, like a herd of charging elephants, crashes through the walls I've constructed.
The view of the island that I determined would remind me where I came from and where I'd never be again, now just agitates. Since the night I told Jason of the rape, the anger has pawed and snorted, and kicked up dust.
Tonight, the stampede rages.
If I hadn't gone home that night . . .
If I'd been stronger, screamed louder, pushed harder . . .
I pound my fists against the thick glass.
Idiot!
Since that fateful night, I determined I'd live strong, scream loud, push hard, demand cooperation, and control circumstances. I'd bully my way through life. And I'd protect myself along the way. Nothing. No one. Would take me down again.
Now, I realize, the one I've bullied the most is myself.
Hot tears run down my cheeks and I pound the glass again and again.
I pushed away what I wanted . . . needed most. I'm an idiot!
I think again of that moment of realization at Gerard's funeral—the moment of recognizing Brigitte's aloneness. Why didn't I learn? No, I was given a glimpse of my future and instead of turning from it and changing, I ran headlong into it.
I turned my anger on myself and sabotaged my life. But not just my own, oh no, I took Jason and his family down with me.
What is wrong with me?
And now, I'm alone.
Who, tonight, is more alone than me?
No one.
I've seen to that.
Brigitte still has Jenna. Under her thumb? Yes, but at least she is a living, breathing presence in her life.
I think of Jason again . . . and the anger turns to an unbearable ache. The lump in my throat burns and my heart shatters like glass. This is the exact pain I've worked so hard to avoid. Yet, the path I forged was a direct route to destruction.
"Idiot!"
Sam hisses from the sofa behind me.
I turn, look at him, and hiss back. "Shut up!" Then I crumple to my knees, my robe spread around me, and I cry. I sob. I fall from my knees and lay facedown on the floor, I turn my head, lay my cheek against the carpet, and soak it with my tears. I pound my fists on the floor and then pull handfuls of the long shag carpet, yanking as hard as I can.
The aching void within screams for attention.
And my soul bleeds.
Nice going, Andee.
After awhile, I quiet.
I lie on the floor and soon I feel Sam's tail brush against my face and then his rough tongue on my cheek as he licks my remaining tears. I roll over on my back and he climbs onto my chest and kneads me with his paws. Then he lies down on my chest and licks my chin.
"Sam, get a grip," I mumble.
He looks at me with those ice blue eyes and begins to purr.
"Seriously, we both really need to get a grip." I bury my hand in his fur and we lie that way until I feel the strength to pull myself up off the floor.
"Way to have a pity party, huh Sam?"
But I know it was more than that. Like a red flag waving, the anger, the tears, the ache of loneliness, they all warn me there are things I need to pay attention to. Finally.
I wander first to the bathroom, where I wash my swollen face. Then to the kitchen, where I start for the espresso maker, but think better of it. Maybe this is my first change. Maybe I need something a little less stimulating. I search my kitchen cabinets and find a box of green antioxidant tea. "That'll do."
I put a mug under the instant hot water spout at my sink, fill it, open the box of tea, and drop a bag into the mug. Then I go sit at my desk. I play with the string on the tea bag, lifting the bag in and out of the water, while I rest my other hand on the computer mouse and watch the screen light up. I pull the tea bag out of the water, wrap the string around it, and squeeze the remaining water into the mug. Then I toss the bag in the wastebasket under my desk. I lift the cup to my lips, take a sip, and . . . spit the tea in an arc of spray across my computer screen and desk. "What is that?" I look into the mug and sniff. "Antioxidant? This'll kill me!" I stomp to the kitchen, dump the contents of the mug down the drain, and head for the espresso maker.
I come back to my desk with a steaming cup of espresso—and a rag to mop up the mess. There's always tomorrow . . . I settle back in, sip my espresso, and stare at the screen on my desk for a long time. Thoughts of Jason continue to nag. I take a deep breath, and this time I force myself to stay with the thoughts.
I recall the thought that came to me like a voice from the cosmos that afternoon in Napa: Jason's a keeper. Hang onto him.
A voice from the cosmos? Or could it have been the voice of God? Like Lightseeker hears? "Yeah, right."
But maybe . . .
What does it matter now? I didn't listen. Hang onto him? No, I betrayed him. I lean my elbows on the desk and put my head in my hands and sigh.
Lightseeker.
I think of her e-mails to me—her willingness to engage. Maybe I'm not alone. Okay, sure, I don't know her, it's not like a real friend, but hey, besides Sam, she may be all I have left.
I lift my head and rest my hand on the mouse again. I move the cursor on the screen to the icon that opens my Internet browser. I tap the icon and then type in the familiar URL: www.iluminar.me. I read her last post:
Loneliness calls my name. It woos me to believe nothing can fill the cavernous void in my soul . . .
The turmoil you experience is your resistance to what God is seeking to accomplish.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Jenna
I TURN MY head, careful not to move too fast, and look at the clock on my nightstand. Even the slightest movement causes the waves of nausea to swell again. 9:18 a.m. My stomach roils
and gurgles. I've kept nothing down since Sunday morning. I've spent more time on the bathroom floor than in bed in the last twenty-four hours.
I hear Hannah tap on my door and then let herself in. She comes to my bed and sets a glass of clear juice on the nightstand. She looks at me and her face reflects what I already know. I'm a mess.
"Sip the juice."
"I . . . can't . . ."
"You sip the juice or you'll end up dehydrated." She places her hand on my forehead, her touch brusque. "No fever." She goes to the bathroom to wash her hands, muttering something about eating in Chinatown.
"It . . . isn't food poisoning."
"Whatever it is, Madame has decided to stay away a few more days. She doesn't want to catch it."
"It's the infection . . . Hannah. The same . . . old thing."
"Then you best call Dr. Bernard."
I don't have the strength to argue. Anyway, it's time for another opinion. Dr. Kim hasn't helped me.
"I'll be back. Drink the juice."
"Wait . . ." I lift my head from my pillow and then regret doing so. "Make . . . the call for me . . . please."
She nods and walks out.
And I fall back into the escape of sleep.
THE NEXT TIME I look at the clock it's almost 3:00 p.m. I lift my head, wait, and realize my stomach has settled. I sit up, lean back against my pillow, and reach for the glass of juice Hannah left. When I pick it up, it's cold—she's replaced it with a fresh glass while I slept. "Bless you, Hannah." While Hannah's disdain for me is clear, she still does her job.
I take a few sips of the clear liquid and then gulp the rest. Hannah was right, I'm nearing dehydration and now my body is begging for liquid. The juice gurgles in my stomach, reminding me to take it slow.
I get out of bed, shower, and dress in soft sweat pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I pull on socks, and then step into my slippers and venture out of my room for the first time in almost two days. Feeling weak, I take the elevator downstairs, thinking I'll sit outside for a few minutes of fresh air. But when I pass the kitchen, the aroma of something cooking overwhelms me. My stomach lurches and I make a quick U-turn and head back to my bedroom.
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