Crystal Clear

by Jane Heller

  Will nodded. “When your enemy wants you dead, he finds a way to kill you, no matter how mighty your fortress.”

  Will had a very solemn way of speaking, which made everything he said seem terribly portentous. How portentous I had no idea.

  Before trekking back down Boynton Canyon, Will had us sit cross-legged on the ground of the dwelling’s “kitchen,” told us to close our eyes, and explained that he was going to lead us in a group meditation.

  We sat in a semicircle, Terry to my right, Amanda to my left. I was grateful that Will did not ask us to join hands, as I wasn’t especially keen on joining hands with either Terry or Amanda.

  He instructed us to concentrate on our senses, telling us to focus on specific parts of our bodies. First our toes. Then up to our feet, our ankles, our calves, and so on. By the time he reached our hips and buttocks, I was feeling quite relaxed. And when he began to chant in his native language, I became downright drowsy, drifting off into what I guessed was a meditative state, having never meditated before. I found myself thinking of absolutely nothing; there was only a blank, a rest, a stillness of my mind, and it was a relief, to tell you the truth, a little vacation for my head. Nice.

  It didn’t last long, though. Once Will stopped chanting and told us to get in touch with our feelings, I was forced to think about my job, my father, Steven, Terry.

  Terry. Wouldn’t you know that the second I turned to look at him, he happened to turn to look at me, and we were, therefore, stuck looking at each other. Soulfully. As if the look meant something.

  My heart did a little dance, which I found extremely unnerving. The last—I mean, the very last—thing I needed or wanted or intended at that point in my life was for there to be even the slightest interest or longing between my ex-husband and me. So what if Terry was more appealing now than he’d been twenty years ago, all lean and rangy and cowboy-hippie-New Age-y cool? I was a certified public accountant, not the heroine of some Robert James Waller novel. Marlboro men and horse whisperers and Jeep tour operators weren’t my type. Maybe they were hot stuff in bed, but I had a hunch they were losers when it came to the everydayness of life. I ask you: Can you picture the Marlboro Man doing a load of laundry, never mind adding fabric softener during the “Rinse” cycle?

  Besides, even though Terry ran a thriving business, owned his own home, and had possibly even metamorphosed into a grown-up, there was no getting away from the matter of Annie, the little woman, his “gal.”

  “We are all one with each other,” Will was saying at the precise moment that I was thinking how I wasn’t one with anyone and never had been.

  I was exhausted by the time I got back to my casita at 4:30, and so when I walked in the door and saw that the message light on my phone was blinking, I ignored it. Instead, I stretched out on the bed and leafed through the magazine that had been placed on my night table. It was the September issue of a monthly called Sedona: Journal of Emergence, and, unlike most of the magazines you find in hotel rooms across the country, it was not a guide to area shops and restaurants. It was a collection of articles with titles such as “Life on Neptune,” “Channeling the Archangel Michael,” and “How to Protect Children from Possession by Negative Discarnate Entities.” Needless to say, I put the magazine down and dialed the hotel operator to find out who had tried to reach me.

  “You had three phone calls,” said the operator. “One was from Rona Wishnick. That’s R-o-n-a W-i-s-h—”

  “Thanks, but I know who you’re talking about,” I interrupted, eager to pass on the spelling bee this time.

  “Your second call was from Steven Roth. That’s S-t-e—”

  “I’m on top of that one, too,” I cut her off. “Did Mr. Roth say what he wanted or where he was calling from?”

  “No. The message reads: ‘Just tell her I miss her and I’m determined to prove how much,’” she replied.

  Great. So I still didn’t know when or if Steven was flying out to Sedona, only that his ardor for me didn’t appear to have cooled.

  “The third message came in just a few minutes ago,” said the operator. “It was from Tina Barton, a guest in the hotel. She asked that you contact her in Casita 52.”

  “Tina?” I said, surprised that Amanda’s assistant had called.

  “Yes. T-i-n-a B-a—”

  “—r-t-o-n.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Have a beautiful evening.”

  “Same to you.” I hung up and called Rona at home, since it was after seven o’clock, her time. Unfortunately, she was out of the apartment or communing in the bathtub with Arthur or talking on the other line with Illandra, and I got the answering machine.

  “We’re sorry we can’t take your call right now,” her voice announced, “but please leave us a loving, spiritual message and we will get back to you. Now, wait for the beep.”

  I waited and was about to speak when Rona picked up the phone.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “It’s Crystal, Rona. Did I take you away from something?”

  “Not really. I was in the kitchen, putting Otis Tool in the refrigerator.”

  “You were what?”

  “According to Illandra, the best way to chill someone out is to write their name on a piece of paper and stick it in the fridge.”

  “Between the milk and the orange juice?”

  “Whatever. Otis was giving off especially negative vibrations in the office today. I thought I’d try the refrigerator thing and see if he’s any less negative tomorrow.”

  “If not, you can always move him to the freezer,” I suggested.

  “That’s what Illandra said,” Rona marveled.

  “So. You called me today?”

  “I wanted to see if Steven has put in an appearance yet,” said Rona. “He hasn’t checked in with me since I told him where you were staying.”

  “He left a message, but he didn’t mention his travel plans.”

  “In a way, it’s good that he’s not in Sedona yet.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course. When you’re searching for Meaning, you don’t need a man around to complicate things.”

  “No, I don’t. Unfortunately there is a man around to complicate things.”

  “Crystal! Don’t tell me you met somebody! And so soon!”

  “I didn’t exactly meet somebody. I was reunited with somebody. Oh, Rona, you’ll never guess who lives in Sedona now—Terry.”

  “Your ex?”

  “In the flesh. He owns the company that operates the Sacred Earth Jeep Tour I signed up for. I nearly died when he showed up this morning to take our group vortexing.”

  “I can’t believe this. How did he act toward you?”

  “He told me I was more beautiful than he remembered.”

  “Crystal. He’s sucking you right back in, isn’t he? I can hear it in your voice.”

  “No, of course he’s not sucking me right back in. It’s just that he seems to have changed, become more stable, less irresponsible. He’s a mensch now, a solid citizen.”

  “A senior citizen is more like it. It’s about time he got his act together. He looks great, I suppose.”

  “Why do you assume that?”

  “Because if he were fat and bald he wouldn’t be complicating things.”

  “Who said he was complicating things?”

  “You did.”

  “Right.”

  “So how great does he look?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That great, huh?”

  “What should interest you, Rona, is that he’s very spiritual now. I mean, he knows all about vortexes and auras. He invited me to his house for dinner tonight. He said Annie would be thrilled to meet me.”

  “Are you going?”

  “No. I told him I was having dinner with Amanda Reid.”

  “Yeah, like I’m having dinner with Gloria Vanderbilt.” Rona laughed. “How’d you come
up with that particular excuse?”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you: Amanda Reid is one of the people taking Terry’s Sacred Earth Jeep Tour. She’s part of my group.”

  “You’re kidding.” Rona sighed. “When Arthur and I take trips, the only people we meet are in the doorbell business.”

  “That’s because the only trips you and Arthur take are to doorbell conventions.”

  “True. So what’s this Amanda Reid like? Fancy schmancy?”

  “No. Ditsy schmitzy. Look, Rona. I’d love to chat, but Amanda’s assistant left a message for me to call her and I’m dying to find out what she wants.”

  “Fine. Just promise me something.”

  “Anything.”

  “You said Terry is a very spiritual person now.”

  “From the little I’ve seen of him so far, yes, he is.”

  “Well, you’re a very vulnerable person now. You’re out there in Sedona all by yourself, your relationship with Steven is totally up in the air, and you haven’t had decent sex in…what is it? Weeks? Months? Years even?”

  “What was it you wanted me to promise you, Rona?”

  “That if Terry offers you a little ‘hands-on healing,’ you’ll say no.”

  “I promise.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Mrs. Reid wants to know if you’d like to have dinner with all of us tonight,” said Tina Barton, her words friendly, her tone mirthless. “That’s what I was calling you about.”

  “Oh, how thoughtful. But I’d hate to intrude,” I said, wanting very much to intrude, given that I’d used the I’m-having-dinner-with-Amanda-Reid excuse to wriggle out of Terry’s dinner invitation and if I intruded I wouldn’t be a liar.

  “Believe me, you wouldn’t be intruding,” said Tina. “Mrs. Reid enjoys taking in strays.”

  “I see,” I said, feeling like a dog about to be rescued from the pound.

  “Marie’s making a traditional Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “A Thanksgiving dinner?” It was only September.

  “Yes, roast turkey and all the trimmings, something reasonable for a change.”

  “Why? What does Marie usually cook?”

  “Organ meats. You know the French.”

  “Well, I’d love to join you,” I said, delighted not to have to dine alone.

  “I’ll tell Mrs. Reid,” said Tina. “Dinner’s at eight. Casita 2.”

  “Should I dress?” I asked. Not that I’d packed any ball gowns.

  “Only if you want to incur Mrs. Reid’s wrath,” Tina said wryly. “She may enjoy taking in strays, but she doesn’t enjoy being one-upped by them.”

  There was no chance I would be one-upping anybody, fashion-wise. The only evening wear I’d brought with me was a four-year-old linen dress in a shade I like to describe as “accountant gray.”

  “I’ll see you at eight,” I said. “And please thank Mrs. Reid for including me.”

  “You can thank her yourself when you see her,” Tina muttered and hung up. What a charmer.

  I showered, threw on the gray dress, and hurried over to Amanda’s place. Sure, the woman was a dim bulb, but how many times do you get to dine with a millionaire heiress? It was true that I had come to Sedona searching for Meaning, not clients, but bagging Amanda Reid for Duboff Spector would be the best job security in the world. With all that money, she had to have unspeakably thorny tax issues which would require hours and hours of work and, therefore, stimulate hours and hours of billings. Of course, if I became Amanda Reid’s accountant, I’d also become one of her minions, like Tina, Marie, and the others, setting myself up for the same abuse that they took.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  Suddenly, I remembered Jazeem’s words from the attunement.

  Okay, Jazeem, I thought. What’s the reason Amanda Wells Reid was thrown in my path, other than to scare me off cosmetic surgery forever? Was she destined to become a client? Or was she supposed to play a role in my personal life?

  I didn’t have a clue, but if Jazeem was right, there was some preordained purpose for Amanda’s signing up for Tranquility’s Sacred Earth Jeep Tour the same week I signed up for Terry’s Sacred Earth Jeep Tour.

  It was all a mystery.

  Either that, or it was all bullshit.

  Amanda’s casita was an enormous, two-story version of the adobe building in which I was staying. Perched grandly on a hill, with staggeringly beautiful views of Boynton Canyon, her villa was at least two thousand square feet, with a living room, dining room and kitchen downstairs, two very large bedroom suites upstairs, plus its own swimming pool and hot tub outside.

  “It’s $10,000 a day,” Michael whispered as I entered the casita. “I asked the reservations clerk.”

  “It looks it,” I said, thinking how the rich really were different. Amanda didn’t need two thousand square feet all to herself. She could have made do with the same accommodations I had. It was just that she was used to having the biggest, the best, the most expensive; used to spending money as if there were an endless supply of it; used to having whatever she wanted whenever she wanted it. For the second time, I wondered what it was like to be married to all that wealth, particularly if your own net worth had dwindled to next to nothing. Did Harrison Reid love his wife’s money or resent it? Had he married her because of it or in spite of it? And why hadn’t he come with her to Sedona? Why didn’t he accompany her on any of her highly publicized jaunts?

  “Crystal. There you are,” said Amanda as she descended the staircase slowly and dramatically, pausing at each step as if to allow a battalion of photographers ample time to snap her picture. She was wearing clinging, extremely sheer purple silk pajamas—duds that were probably all the rage with society hostesses a decade ago but looked just plain silly now. On the other hand, who was I to talk? I felt ridiculous in my gray dress. The others were still in their jeans.

  “Good evening, Amanda. Thanks for inviting me,” I said. She had made it to the bottom of the stairs by then and we shook hands, another one of those dead-fish deals.

  “I should have thought of asking you to dinner sooner,” she said, “seeing that you’re traveling alone.” She glared at Tina. “Or rather, my assistant should have thought of it. It’s her job to take care of the little things I simply cannot concern myself with.”

  Obviously, I was one of those “little things,” but I smiled anyway.

  Amanda ushered me into the living room, where Billy was tending bar, Tina was standing next to him, smoking a cigarette, and Michael was heading for the sofa, Jennifer in tow. I assumed Marie was in the kitchen, cooking, because I heard the crash of a plate and then a loud “Mon Dieu!”

  “What can I get for you, honey?” Billy asked me in that lecherous way he had. “Something wet and hard, I’ll bet.”

  You’re disgusting, I thought, assuming he meant…well, you know.

  “I was talking about hard liquor,” he claimed with a wink. “You want a real drink or some wine?”

  “Wine would be fine,” I said primly. “White, if you have it.”

  “Oh, I’ve got it, all right,” he leered at me. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  “No, I suppose not.” He had to be sleeping with Amanda, I thought. He was so in-your-face about it.

  He handed me the glass of wine.

  “So how did you come to work for Amanda?” I asked him after Tina had disappeared into the kitchen, probably to make sure Marie didn’t break the rest of the dishes.

  “Tina,” he said, pouring himself a tall glass of carrot juice.

  “What about her?” I said.

  “She’s the one who got me an interview with Mrs. Reid,” he explained.

  “Tina? You and she knew each other before you took the job with Amanda?”

  “Yeah, we met a couple of times through my girlfriend, who lived in Tina’s building. When Mrs. Reid decided to hire a personal trainer, Tina got my number from my girlfriend and called me. Now, here I am, weight training with Mrs. Re
id, traveling with her, whatever. You name it, I do it.”

  “I sensed that somehow,” I said. “Were you always a personal trainer? Or did you used to do something else for a living?” Like trolling for rich widows on cruise ships.

  “No, I wasn’t always a personal trainer. Were you always so nosy?”

  “Oh. Sorry. I was just making chitchat. You know, cocktail conversation.”

  He wrapped his massive arm around my shoulder and put his face too close to mine. “Hey, I know you didn’t mean anything, honey. Ask me whatever you want.”

  I shook his arm off and moved away. “I just have one more question,” I said, hoping he’d at least hint at his real relationship with Amanda. “You mentioned that you were dating a friend of Tina’s before you came to work for Mrs. Reid. Are you still?”

  Billy Braddick smiled. “I get it now,” he said. “You’re not nosy. You’re hot for me.”

  God, the guy was a jerk. “Okay, I admit it,” I said, holding up my hands in surrender. “But I’ll try to keep my feelings in check, I really will.”

  Billy nodded, as if this sort of problem presented itself on a daily basis, and took himself and his carrot juice into the kitchen. As Jennifer Sibley approached the bar, I realized that he never did answer my question.

  “Crystal! It’s great to see you!” Jennifer greeted me, her blonde ponytail wagging as she pumped my hand.

  “Thanks. How’s Michael’s article coming along? Everything going well?”

  “Absolutely,” she enthused, opening a can of Coke. “And to tell you the truth, I feel vindicated because I really had to coax Michael into doing the story. Personal Life was pretty lukewarm to the idea at first, but I pitched and pitched and pitched and they finally said yes.”

  “You must be a very good publicist,” I said. “You obviously worked hard to land this piece.”

  “Sure, but Harrison’s worth it.” She paused, coloring slightly. “What I meant to say is that both Mr. and Mrs. Reid are worth it.”

  Well, well. What did we have here? I mused. A little crush on the famous writer? An actual involvement with him? Or just a publicist’s gushing? “So you do publicity for both of the Reids?” I asked. I had assumed that Jennifer was strictly Amanda’s lackey.