Lost and Found (31 page)

"So, she controls your spending?" Matthew sounds surprised.

Ahsan says nothing, but he takes it all in.

"Yes. She paid Gerard a salary, of course, so we had some discretionary funds, but not as much as you'd think." I look down at the table and feel my face redden. "She's always given me an allowance. Some cash. The rest is deposited into an account with my name and her name on it. I use a debit card so she can track my purchases. If I take cash from the account, she asks for receipts. I've learned what are acceptable expenditures in her eyes, and what are not. In some ways, it's a generous arrangement."

"And now that Gerard is gone?"

Leave it to Matthew to cut to the heart of the issue. "I don't know. We haven't discussed it yet."

Skye reaches over and pats my arm. "Either way, Jen, God provides and He'll do so for you."

Ahsan leans forward and looks at me. "Mrs. Jenna, because you keep your eyes on Jesus, you have run the race well. But now, the course changes."

Matthew and Skye nod, but I wonder at his meaning.

Our waiter comes, takes our bill, and the conversation shifts as we stand, put on our coats, and ready ourselves to leave. Once back in the cab, Ahsan looks to me. "Where to now?"

We determine our route—Skye gets dropped off first, then Ahsan will drop me off, and Matthew's stop is last. I'll pay Ahsan enough to get Matthew home. But when Ahsan pulls up into the Pacific Heights neighborhood, Matthew changes the plan and gets out with me.

Ahsan joins us on the sidewalk and I pay him, then Matthew reaches for his wallet and chips in. I lean over and give Ahsan a hug. "Thanks for joining us tonight. I continue to pray for your family."

"Thank you, Mrs. Jenna."

After Ahsan pulls away, I turn and look at Matthew, and then I look up to the house. Our presence won't go unnoticed.

"You being watched?"

"Maybe." I look up to the sky and see a patch of dim stars between the clouds. The rain has stopped and the air smells clean, fresh. "Beautiful . . ."

Matthew gazes at the stars with me for a few minutes and then looks back at me. "Hey, Lightseeker . . . want to take a walk?"

I look from the stars to him. "You know . . ."

"Yeah, but I didn't know if you knew that I knew, so I thought it was time I let you know that I know. You know?"

I laugh again. "I suspected." I glance back at the house. "Let's walk."

As we walk, the moon shrouded by clouds and the patch of stars visible overhead, I turn to Matthew. "You're the only one who knows."

"How does it feel to be known?"

I take a deep breath and exhale. Then I stop, look up at the stars again, stretch my arms out, and turn round and round. I lean my head back and watch the stars circle with me. Joy bubbles forth into laughter. "It feels wonderful!" I stop and look at Matthew. "It feels like freedom."

"It's just the beginning, Jenna."

I nod. I don't fully understand, but I want to believe him.

By the time we walk around the block and end up back in front of the house, I realize how tired I am. "I'd better go, but thank you for a wonderful afternoon and evening. I don't remember the last time I spent a day with friends—at least, my friends. I need more of that."

"We all do. One of the ways God speaks to us is through the body of Christ. We need to spend time hanging with other believers."

I nod. "I've missed that. Hey, how are you getting home?"

"I'll walk awhile and then catch a bus. I need to burn a few calories"—he pats his stomach—"It's been a full day."

"Okay. Thanks, again, Matthew." I turn to go, but he reaches for my arm and pulls me back. "Dude, wait. I have something for you." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out two almond cookies. "Dessert!"

I laugh and then reach for the cookies. "Gee, thanks." I give him a quick hug. "Good night, my friend."

"Good night, Lightseeker."

I climb the steps to the front entrance, and with each step I take, the fatigue weighs on me. When I reach the front door, I turn and wave to Matthew, who's waited to make sure I get in.

As I reach into my purse for my key, the front door opens.

Hannah.

I glance back at Matthew and then step inside.

I beg you to renounce your own wisdom and self-leadings. Yield yourself up to God. Let Him become your wisdom. You will then find the place of rest that you need so badly.

JEANNE GUYON

I SLAM THE
receiver down. "Idiots!" I stand, take a deep breath, and then stretch, turning my neck from one side to the other, and then from chin to chest and back. The conference call with the executive producers of one of the network morning shows didn't go well.

"You get what you pay for, people. And if you're not willing to pay well, you don't get me. Your loss."

I go to the kitchen, reach for an espresso cup, and hold it under the maker's spout. As I do, I notice my hand shaking. I set the cup down, put my hand across my chest, and feel my heart racing. Okay, I get it—I've had enough already. "Oh, happy Monday!"

I go back to my office, grab my purse and briefcase, and head for the front door. I'll be a few minutes early for my meeting with the commercial broker who's showing me office space and buildings today. If he's any good, he'll be early himself.

I step into the elevator, push
L
, and watch as the numbers flash—30, 29, 28 . . . I glance at my watch and tap my foot. "Anytime today . . ." When the doors open in the lobby, I step out, glare at the doorman, and dare him to say
good morning
. But he knows better. Instead, he tips his cap to me and opens the door.

Smart man.

I head for the curb with the doorman in tow who whistles for a cab. Once inside the cab, I give the driver the address on Market Street and then lean back against the seat—the filthy seat. "Don't you ever clean this thing?"

Dark eyes stare me down from the rearview mirror as he raises a hand and taps the cardboard pine tree hanging from the mirror.

"Yeah, that helps."
Whatever
.

I reach for my phone, check my e-mail, scroll through my calendar, and then text a reminder to Cassidy telling her I'll be out when she arrives at the office today. The cab pulls to the curb, I take the appropriate bills out of my wallet, pay the driver, and get out. I stiff him on the tip.

I navigate my way through the business suit-clad crowd on the sidewalk until I reach the broker's office. I push through the glass entry doors and announce myself to the receptionist.

And then I wait.

And wait.

When Mr. Broker saunters into the reception area, I share my mood with him. "Are you interested in making a sale? If not, I'm happy to find someone who is. Do you know who I am?"

His condescending smile doesn't help.

He holds out his hand. "Ms. Bell, I do apologize. I'm so happy to be working with you."

I ignore his hand and cross my arms. "May we go?"

"Of course. We'll walk to the first site if that's agreeable?"

"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?