“And snakes,” Simon said. “And ticks, yellow jackets, and other insects, not to mention a host of varmints just waking up from their long winter’s nap.”
A.J. closed her eyes. “Great.”
“A little rain won’t hurt anyone,” Denise said. “Better early in the season than later when we might have to deal with snow.”
“Snow?” A.J. opened her eyes and gazed reproachfully at Denise, who—before the meeting—had been as unenthusiastic about the idea of camping as A.J. Simon had been very persuasive on the topic, however, and it was beginning to look like a camping trip was in A.J.’s near future.
Denise smiled sheepishly.
“No, no,” Simon reassured. “We’d have to cancel if snow was in the forecast. Of course. The idea is to have fun and learn something.”
Suze said, “And offer something the competition doesn’t.”
A.J. knew when she was defeated. “Right. Then I guess the next question is what’s the focus of the retreat? Adults only? Women only? Teens?” She gazed around the table.
“I’d love to take my teens and young adults on a camping retreat,” Jaci said. “I think they’d really get into that.”
“But looking at this from a commercial standpoint, I think maybe we should start out with adults only. Maybe a working women’s retreat weekend,” Denise suggested.
A tap on the doorframe had them all turning around. Emma stood in the doorway with an uncharacteristically grim expression. “The Reverend Goode is here to see you,” she told A.J. “And he doesn’t look happy.”
Four
Goode was gazing down at the silvery water pouring over the glinting stones of the mini-fountain in the corner of A.J.’s office. He turned as she entered the room, and his expression fell into stern lines.
He quoted, “‘The wife must willingly obey her husband in everything, just as the church obeys Christ.’ ”
“I’m sorry?”
“Knowing my feelings regarding the heathen practice of yoga, you still encouraged my wife to come here and take part in your ungodly activities.”
“I didn’t encourage her.” It occurred to A.J. that she might have let indignation trip her into an indiscretion. She added, “If your wife is a student here, I’m not aware of it.”
“The mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped.”
“I can’t wait.” A.J. met Goode’s gaze steadily. He didn’t look away. Neither did she. The seconds ticked by, and the ridiculousness of trying to stare each other down struck her. A.J. resisted the hysterical impulse to burst out laughing, but it wasn’t easy.
“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked briskly, finally.
Goode, seemingly feeling he’d won the encounter, relaxed ever so slightly. “Yes. Yes, you can, A.J. You can pray with me.”
A.J. expelled a long, exasperated breath. “Thank you, but no. Is there something else I can do for you?”
“You can bring me my wife. Or I can search these premises.”
For real? Did people honestly live like this? A.J.’s marriage had had its problems, no doubt about it, but compared to this, it seemed to her a model of civil interaction.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to disrupt classes. Your wife is not enrolled at Sacred Balance. I’d know if she was one of our students.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t take your word for such a thing. I’ll have to check for myself.”
This could go a couple of ways and none of them were very pretty. A.J. said with a calmness she didn’t feel, “Fine. Will you take the word of our front desk administrator? Emma can confirm or deny whether your wife is enrolled as a student at Sacred Balance. Emma’s a member of your . . . congregation.”
Goode got a little glint in his eyes at the mention of Emma being a member of his flock. He nodded graciously, and A.J. leaned out the door and called, “Emma? Can you come here a sec?”
Emma hustled down the short hallway. Her brows rose inquiringly as she reached A.J. A.J. shrugged and nodded at Goode, who waited with impressive sangfroid for a guy who had to realize how very unpopular he was—although perhaps he didn’t realize it. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care.
“Is Mrs. Goode enrolled as a student at Sacred Balance?” A.J. trusted Emma to read between the lines.
Emma didn’t miss a beat. She shook her head. “No.” “Is my wife attending this facility under another name?” Goode asked shrewdly.
Emma leveled a dark glance his way. “She is not. We’ve only got one class in session right now, and it’s our Sunset Seniors.”
Goode frowned. He looked from Emma to A.J.
A.J. said, “Tuesday afternoons are our staff meetings. We resume classes in the evenings.”
“I see. Very well. Thank you.”
A.J. nodded to Emma, who left the office.
Goode, however, didn’t appear to be in any hurry to depart. He turned to A.J.’s bookshelf, scanning the titles. “Fourteen Lessons in Yogi Philosophy and Occultism. Do you still insist that yoga is nothing but physical exercise?”
“I never said that yoga was simply a form of exercise, although I suppose that’s true for many of our clients. Yoga is, of course, much more than that. But nothing that should contradict or conflict with Christianity. That particular book you’re looking at is a 1909 edition of a series of lessons that made up a correspondence course for a Masonic temple in Chicago. My aunt kept it mostly as a curiosity.”
“Do you believe the men who wrote this book were sincere in their beliefs or do you believe they were con men and charlatans?”
“Maybe a little of both.”
“A little of both? That’s a certainly a . . . tolerant viewpoint.” Goode smiled faintly. “A little of both,” he repeated to himself and returned the book to the shelf.
“Is that it?” A.J. asked.
“Hmm?”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Nothing. She might have been talking to the bookcase itself.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Reverend. I have a staff meeting to get back to.”
Goode at last turned unhurriedly, making it very clear that he was on his own timetable and not being rushed by her. “What? Oh. Of course.”
He turned and left the office.
A.J. followed Goode out to the main lobby. Emma, on the phone, met her gaze in silent inquiry. A.J. resisted the desire to roll her eyes.
Standing at the glass door, she watched Goode stride down the walk and cross the parking lot to a Mercedes.
“What on earth was that about?” she murmured.
Emma put the phone down. “What’s that, honey?”
“What kind of a relationship must the Goodes have if she feels she’s got to hide the fact that she’s taking yoga lessons—or that he feels entitled to track her down. What would he have done if she’d been here?”
“Dragged her out of class?”
“That could have been messy. What if it had gotten physical? What if she’d punched him in the nose? What if I had?”
Emma laughed. “Brings out your violent streak, does he?”
Watching the black Mercedes pulling out of the parking lot, A.J. said moodily, “I bet that man brings out a lot of people’s violent streaks.”
Elysia’s flight from LAX was late, and A.J. spent half an hour strolling around Liberty International Airport drinking very bad coffee and window-shopping for items she would ordinarily never consider buying. Just how many styles of Everyone Loves a Jersey Girl T-shirt were there?
When she finally spotted Elysia by the baggage carousel, surrounded by a small but noisy throng, A.J. inevitably wondered what her mother had done now. Hopefully nothing liable to incite an international incident.
As she approached the madding crowd she realized two things: a number of people seemed to be asking for autographs, and Elysia was not only at the center of the maelstrom, she seemed to be directing it.
She swept her stylish long pageboy out of her face as she s
potted A.J. “Oi! Anna Jolie. Darling!”
“Mother!” A.J. was slightly thrown by the fact that her mother seemed to have had a complete makeover in the months since they’d last met. In addition to the new haircut, Elysia now had a striking streak of silver framing the left side of her face. It wasn’t the silver that shocked A.J.; it was the fact that Elysia would admit to, let alone flaunt, even one single strand of gray. Her jeans and black cashmere coat were decidedly less flamboyant than her typical wardrobe. In fact, she looked disconcertingly . . . well, like a stranger.
They pressed cheeks and A.J. was reassured by the familiar maternal scents of cigarettes and Opium. The fragrance, not the drug, although Elysia had had her substance abuse problems. Happily those seemed to be safely in the past now.
A couple of cell phones turned in A.J.’s direction, photos were clicked, and then the crowd seemed to trickle away. Elysia and two other vaguely familiar-looking middle-aged women bade them a fond, smiling adieu.
“What was that about?” A.J. asked.
“What was what about?” Elysia’s feline gaze turned her way.
“All that . . . fuss. Is it like that everywhere you go now?”
“That was nothing, pumpkin. No one recognizes us here. You should see the reception we get in Beverly Hills.”
The other two women nodded enthusiastic agreement, apparently tickled at the idea of autograph hounds and photographers.
“We?” A.J. asked cautiously.
Elysia made the introductions briskly. “This is Marcie, pet.” Marcie was red haired and freckled and had probably been adorable at twenty. She was still very attractive in her leather jacket and jeans. Elysia waved vaguely at the other woman. “And this is Petra.” Petra was a very thin, weathered blonde in braids and wire-rimmed glasses. She looked vaguely like Diane Keaton, but A.J. was sure that wasn’t the only reason she seemed so familiar.
She said hello and shook hands, sparing an uneasy glance at a fair-haired man trying to load a ridiculous amount of luggage onto a small trolley. He was clearly not a porter, and he didn’t appear to be a fan either.
Which must mean . . .
“Are we dropping you somewhere?” she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.
Marcie laughed. She had a cute little laugh, a sort of pixie giggle.
“Don’t be daft. They’re coming home with me, darling.” Elysia pawed through her bag, searching for what turned out to be cigarettes.
“You can’t smoke here, Lucy,” Petra objected.
“Oh, bother all these bloody rules and regs!”
Lucy? Wasn’t that the name of the character Elysia played on TV? That explained why Petra and Marcie looked so familiar. A.J. hadn’t recognized them without their sequins and guns.
Which meant that the rather handsome man struggling with the luggage was probably not a random Good Samaritan—surely no one would be unwise enough to voluntarily tackle that Everest of suitcases and tote bags—but yet another member of the Golden Gumshoes cast?
He dived to save a Gucci makeup case and threw a slightly harassed look over his shoulder as A.J. said, “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
“This is Dean,” Elysia purred, resting a possessive hand on Dean’s broad shoulder. “Dean Sullivan. He plays Danny O on the show.”
“Oh!” A.J. said brightly. She was trying to remember who the heck Danny O was in the Golden Gumshoes universe. A cop? A PI? Someone’s son?
Dean smiled, straightened a precariously balanced makeup case, and offered a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Anna.”
“A.J.,” A.J. corrected with a forbidding look at her mother.
“Nicknames are for children under thirteen.” Elysia’s expression was pained. “If your father and I had wanted you to be named Scooter or Skipper, we’d have formalized it on a silver mug. Or possibly a pet dish.”
“Gee, I’ve missed you,” A.J. said. “How soon till you start filming again?”
Elysia sniffed.
“We’ve got the green light for February,” Petra responded, taking A.J.’s comment at face value.
Elysia asked, “Where are you parked?”
The official introductions and greetings over with, A.J. led the way, and the others filled her in on what Elysia had been up to in the months she had been in California.
During the short trip by mini train to the parking structure, Elysia asked about Sacred Balance, and A.J. described the situation with Lily and the Reverend Goode.
The night air smelled of rain and plane exhaust as they disembarked and walked to where A.J. had parked. Elysia stopped short at the site of A.J.’s ancient Volvo.
“You’re joking. You’re not still driving that?”
“Why not? It runs beautifully. And it belonged to Aunt Di.”
“Yes, very touching, I’m sure. But how on earth are we going to load all these people and all this luggage into that little car?”
Clearly they weren’t.
Dean offered to rent another car. This was greeted by relief from all concerned. He went off to find the rental desk and the others did their best to load the luggage into the back of A.J.’s car.
“Sort of like a team-building exercise, isn’t it?” Marcie inquired, giving a final shove to a makeup bag that could have doubled as a knapsack. Petra nodded, leaning against the side of the car and wiping her face. Even her braids seemed to be drooping.
“Now what did I do with me . . .” Elysia’s voice trailed as she poked through her purse.
“Whatever it is, you better hope it’s not in a suitcase,” Marcie said.
Dean returned, slightly out of breath, and Petra and Marcie volunteered to drive with him.
“Just don’t lose me,” he requested of A.J. His smile was warm and rueful. A.J. had to admit he was a very attractive man.
“I’ll keep an eye on you,” she promised.
He departed with Petra and Marcie, their voices echoing cheerfully as they vanished down the rows of gleaming cars and cement pillars.
A.J. and Elysia got in the car. Elysia heaved a sigh and smiled the first relaxed smile A.J. had seen from her. “It is nice to be home, I must say.”
“It’s nice to have you back.” A.J. started the Volvo.
“How is everyone? How is darling Andy?” Elysia rooted around in her purse again. “I brought you a lovely prezzie. Now where is the bloody thing?”
Andy was A.J.’s ex, and a year or so ago that would have been a sensitive question. They had been college sweethearts, and after college they had married and set up a freelance marketing consulting firm together. A successful business, an indulgent and affectionate husband; at the time A.J. had believed that was about as good as life got. And then Andy had dropped the bomb on her. He was in love with someone else. And the someone else in question was a man.
But that was ancient history now. Or at least so much had happened since her divorce that it felt like ancient history to A.J. One of the blessings of her new life was that she had been able to let go of her old bitterness.
“Andy is doing great. The business is thriving, even in this economy, and his health seems to be stable for now, which I personally think is largely due to Nick.”
“How so?” Elysia’s voice was muffled as she continued to dig through her purse.
“Just . . . the fact that he has someone to love him, someone to stay well and healthy for. Plus I think Nick watches him like a hawk and makes sure he’s not overdoing things.”
Elysia sat up abruptly. “‘And in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage.’ As the Bard says.”
“Does he? Well, he was right about Andy and Nick.”
Elysia pored over something that looked unsettlingly like an iPhone. “What about you and that big brute of a copper?”
A.J. said warily, “What about us?”
“Has he popped the question or whatever the ghastly term for it is over here?”
“He’s popped a number of questions. None of them have to do with marria
ge.” A.J. spared a glance from the road. “Mother, what are you doing?”
“Checking my Facebook, pumpkin.”
“Ch . . .” A.J.’s voice failed. When she had recovered from the shock, she managed, “You have a Facebook account?”
“Of course. Well, actually it’s the show’s Facebook but we all post in character.” Elysia added with an innocent pride that brought an unexpected lump to A.J.’s throat, “I—Lucy Bannon, that is—am the most popular.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” A.J. felt the look her mother threw her. “The fact that you actually bother to post does.”
“Oh, I have to post. The fans expect it. We have to be accessible.”
“Oh. My. God. Who are you and what have you done with my mother? Next you’ll tell me you’re on Twitter.”
“Of course I’m on Twitter. Aren’t you?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
Elysia sighed. “You sound so like your aunt sometimes. That’s not necessarily a good thing,” she added quickly.
“All right. I admit the studio has a Facebook account. Suze maintains it.”
Mention of Suze distracted Elysia momentarily, and A.J. spent the next few minutes catching her mother up on everyone in Stillbrook from Suze to A.J.’s neighbor and friend, Stella Borin.
“So, Stella’s standing by her jailbird beau?” Elysia’s pointed nails tapped and clicked on the iPhone keys like an old-fashioned telegraph operator signaling trouble.
What on earth was she communicating so urgently to her Facebook friends? The traffic stats outside of Liberty International?
“Yes. She firmly believes Stewie was more sinned against than sinning.”
Click. Click. Click. Elysia said vaguely, “I suppose everyone needs a hobby.”
“I see it as a good thing. Stella needs someone in her life. Everyone needs someone.”
Elysia stopped clicking and sat up straight. She stared out the rain-starred windshield.
Death in a Difficult Position Page 4