The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (39 page)

The waitress placed a basket of warm bread in front of me. I grabbed a whole-wheat roll, slathering it with butter. I’d dropped about six pounds over the past few months and lost some muscle mass besides. Too many skipped meals and workouts. Too many skipped everythings.

Not anymore. Yeshe and Lobsang had listened to my full confession and had assigned me a new regime of two visits a day to my meditation cushion, to which I’d added at least 45 minutes of sweaty exercise. This morning, I’d sat on the cushion after months of neglecting my inner world. My eyes had found the small statue of the Buddha.

You’re still here
, I thought.

Look inside: I never left
, he seemed to reply.

I popped the final morsel of roll into my mouth. The diner at the table next to me, a very handsome man, nudged his companion, another very handsome man, and directed his attention across the restaurant. They were looking at a woman making her way down the stone steps. Both men gazed in awe, as if viewing a favorite work of art.

Heather was here, parting waves, as usual, with her beauty.

She had dressed up for the occasion as well, and her white silk halter dress managed to be demure and incredibly hot at the same time.

She pecked me on the cheek and sat.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

I poured her a glass of wine. She took the bottle from my hand, read the label, and hummed with appreciation.

We clinked glasses and drank.

“You look beautiful,” I said. “How are you?”

She met my eyes. “Are you asking, or, you know, really asking?”

“I’m really asking,” I said.

“Then the real answer is, I’m a bit of a wreck, but I’m going to be okay.”

“Good,” I said. “Me, too.”

“Ten, I have to tell you something before I lose my nerve. I … I’ve been seeing this doctor …”

I reached across the table and touched her hand.

“I understand. And I’m really sorry things happened the way they did. I wish Kestrel hadn’t turned out to be such a crook.”

Heather blinked at me. “What?”

“He’s under investigation. Didn’t he tell you?”

“Ten, what are you talking about?”

“Your affair,” I said. “With Kestrel. You know, the doctor you’re seeing.” I looked away, and then forced myself to meet her eyes. “I found the Post-it, Heather.”

“The
Post-it
?”

“‘Dr. K., 6
P.M.
’?”

Heather’s face cleared, and she started to laugh. Hard.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, Ten, I do love you sometimes. The Post-it.” She wiped her eyes. “Not
that
kind of doctor. Not
that
kind of seeing.”

Now it was my turn to blink.

“Let’s try this one again,” she said. She took a deep breath and met my eyes. “I have an eating disorder, Tenzing. I’ve had it for years. It’s called bulimia, but the name doesn’t matter. I binge on food, and then I purge it. It’s this big, horrible, secret thing I do, my most unfixable and shameful thing. But I’m finally getting help for it.”

A series of moments flashed across my mind, like a sped-up slide show. The trips to the bathroom after every meal. The reddened eyes, when I thought she’d been crying. The breath mints, not quite successfully coating over something slightly sour when I kissed her. The missing …

I cleared my throat. “So the, uh, the peanut butter?”

She nodded. “Hopefully, my last binge,” she said. “Oh, Ten, I’m so sorry. This thing has been like a wall between me and the rest of the world—between
us
, this whole time. I thought I was better. I mean, I was better for a little while after I met you, but it came back, got worse even, especially after you left and I was promoted to ME. I just felt so much pressure all the time.”

“So Dr. K … ?”

She smiled. “Kirsten, Kirsten Lewis. Clinical psychologist, specializing in eating disorders. Dr. K.’s lovely. You’d like her. I’m seeing her three times a week for now. She says it’s a long road back to healthy, but she’s confident I can do it.”

The waitress arrived with menus. “Would you like to hear our specials?”

I waved her off quickly. Heather cocked her head at me.

“Sorry, but I mean, can you eat?”

Heather started to laugh again, before she started to cry.

“I’m going to really miss this,” she said. “You.”

A warm wave of affection flowed through me. “You know what’s weird?” I said. “I’ve never felt closer to you than right now.”

It was true. We’d had our first heart-to-heart talk on the phone last night, and I’d been the one doing most of the talking. I’d told Heather about how lost and angry I’d felt after my father died. I talked in detail about his death and the death of Julius Rosen. I shared everything—the money from Julius, my sudden craving for meat. How it felt to shoot two men. How it felt to almost be shot by another. I even told her about my one-night stand with Cielo.

“I knew it,” Heather said. “That skank wasn’t going to take no!”

Finally, hesitantly, I’d told Heather about what happened in Baja Mexico. How, when I’d thought I might die, I’d realized that there were two things I’d harbored in my own deeply buried facility, things that I needed to admit, because we both deserved to know the truth.

I’d hated a man enough to kill him, before I came to my senses.

And I’d let Julie, the woman I loved, get away, but I hadn’t let her go. And until I did, I wasn’t free inside to love anyone else.

Heather ordered buckwheat noodles with roasted mushrooms and tofu. I ordered angel hair with Parmesan, lemon, and chives. I was no longer a soldier at war. I couldn’t imagine eating meat.

We spent the rest of our meal chatting about our day. I described my afternoon at Mac Gannon’s estate, mostly watching Melissa and Tank fall in love. I’d finally kept my promise and brought the two of them together. Tank had immediately rolled onto his back and waved his four paws skyward, his highest salute of approval.

Mac joined us for the last half an hour, so I could bring him in on Lama Sonam’s foolproof method for mindfully quitting nail biting—an early form of exposure therapy minus the actual nibbling

“With your mind, pick a nail, one you’d most love to bite,” I told Mac and Melissa. “Now, take three deep in-and-out breaths and change your body position. Then pick another nail and do the same thing.” I made them do it for ten minutes. Well, Melissa got bored and ran off, but Mac stuck with it. I explained how Lama Sonam claimed that interior breath and body shifts were the best tools we have for breaking old patterns. I think maybe it helped Mac a little bit.

I even paid a quick visit to Mac’s wife, Penelope, who was holed up in her bedroom with another one of her chemically-induced “little headaches.” I handed her my favorite waitress Jean’s phone number, and told her Jean used to suffer from the same headaches and would be happy to talk to her about recovery any time. I did it for Melissa, more than anyone. The child needed her mother. Every child does.

She and Tank had been waiting for me outside her mother’s bedroom door.

“We made you a tea party,” she announced. She led me to her playhouse, Tank following on our heels. The tea was pretend, but karma came around deliciously for me anyway. I, who had served tea and cakes a thousand times to elder monks, now had my own cup of tea and pretend cake carefully handed to me by a nine-year-old
bodhisattva
.

As I told Heather the story, I was happy at how my heart softened.

We switched gears after that, as Heather filled me in on her busy day. Three autopsies: one accidental overdose and two drive-by gunshot deaths, gang-related.

Chaco was gone, but the senseless turf wars continued.

We skipped dessert. I was still catching up on sleep, and Heather had an early call. I walked her to her Prius.

“I’m proud of you,” I said.

“I’m proud of us.” She smiled, blinking back tears.

“I really hope we can be friends,” I said. “You know, down the road….” The lump in my throat made swallowing difficult.

“We’ll get there,” she said and climbed into her car.

I was about to make the turn into my driveway when I changed my mind and kept going, continuing all the way to Pacific Coast Highway. I headed up the coast until I reached the turnoff to a favorite spot of mine, high on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. The lot was empty. I locked my car and carefully picked my way along the trail to the edge of the bluffs.

I sat. Closed my eyes and settled into an awareness of my heart area. I made myself reopen the “Is Heather the One?” folder. My inner cabinet was full of such files, starting with a beautiful young girl I’d met in India years ago, called Pema. “Is Pema the one?” “Is Charlotte the one?” “Is Julie?” “Is Cielo?” I even had a folder for Gus, a woman I should have sensed wasn’t remotely interested in me romantically.

Jean once gave me sound relationship advice: “Put down the flashlight and pick up a mirror.” In my case, the flashlight was more like a microscope. Now I picked up the mirror, and here’s what I saw: the minute I appeared headed for a breakup, no matter the woman, my surveillance gear kicked in. I was like a heat-seeking drone, desperately surveying my surroundings for the next warm woman who would fix me. Complete me. Love me no matter what.

Now I drilled into my own deeply buried facility, the one I still wanted to keep invisible.

You claim to love your independence, but you’re terrified of being alone. You need them to survive, but you hate them for making you so needy. You expect them to fix you, but you always end up more broken.

Admitting each truth cracked open more possibility for change, until an idea gusted in, like a cool, fresh breeze. Maybe it was time to take a break. Maybe I should make sure my own structure was solid for once. Maybe I needed to practice the microscopic truth with myself, before sharing it with, or expecting it from, someone else.

I watched the ocean waves break and retreat, break and retreat, in their own teasing dance with the shore. Then I shifted my eyes toward the dark horizon. Felt the tug of another unsettling thought, free to surface now that I was both quiet enough and open enough to let it.

Who was I but a living paradox—the embodiment of mixed blessings and a walking contradiction?
I was born into a spiritual tradition that had been thriving in one form or another for thousands of years. In spite of that, or maybe because of it, now I seemed to be thriving in Los Angeles, the ephemera capital of the world. Did that make me the poster boy for the American Dream? Or the Buddha’s worst nightmare?

I looked across the ocean’s vastness, toward the place of my birth. I could feel within me a deep connection to Asia, both its exquisite mysteries and its relentless misery. For me, the very best of Asia was the Dharma, the teachings of the Awakened One. I carried the truth of those teachings in my bones. But now that my father was dead, I could also feel a new excitement building in me, a desire to plant myself more deeply right where I was. My divided youth, trucked as I was between parents and countries, had left me a perpetual nomad. I was finally starting to feel grounded, rooted in one place.

Allow. Allow.

A new sense of belonging sprouted like a seed inside. It felt good, natural even, but on the heels of it came a ripple of fear. Would I lose an essential part of me in the process?

I couldn’t think of any way to find out without stepping fully into the present and seeing where it took me. I slipped off my shoes and pulled off my socks. My bare soles came in contact with the fine earth of my chosen land, letting my feet touch the truth of my commitment:
This is where I am. This is where I choose to be.

I tasted the tangy salt-breeze and drew it into my lungs. I brought my hands to my heart and beamed a new prayer—my own words, my own deeply held mix of traditions—into the cosmic jet stream:
Wherever I go, may I learn and love as much as I can in every moment. Wherever I am, may I be open to inspiration and truth.

I walked back up the path, shoes in hand. I climbed into the Shelby and headed for home. It was getting close to Tank’s snack time, and there’s a certain look he gives me if I’m late.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

GRATITUDE FROM

GAY HENDRICKS

I continue to be astonished by the skill, sensitivity, and beneficent vibes of my co-author, Tinker Lindsay. I’ve worked with her for years now, with never a blown deadline and never a cross word between us. Katie and I treasure her friendship as well as the gift of her talent in our lives.

To Katie, my beloved mate and co-creator for 34 years now, my gratitude is boundless. I read each new page of a Tenzing novel to her as soon as I’ve finished writing for the day. To try out my new words in the space of Katie’s generous listening is one of the great delights of my life.

A deep bow of gratitude goes to Reid Tracy, Patty Gift, and the lovely people on the Hay House team. It’s a writer’s dream to have a publisher who really cares about the work and about making the world a better place. Thank you, Reid and team, for making that dream a reality.

I appreciate the detectives of the Santa Barbara Police Department, the Ventura County Sheriff’s Department, and the guys at the Far West Gun Shop, all of whom are remarkably gracious when a harried writer calls in need of some obscure crime or gun detail. These folks see and hear things every day that no writer could possibly invent, and I appreciate them for passing along their juicy wisdom to me.

Thanks as always to Sandy Dijkstra, agent extraordinaire, for her dedication to my books through 25 amazing years. I can always count on Sandy and her staff to go the extra mile in making my life easy.

I’m grateful to all the readers who have posted the hundreds of great reviews of the Tenzing books on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other online venues. I’ve been moved to tears many times by reading the warm-hearted reviews by readers who have been touched by Ten and the world he lives in.

GRATITUDE FROM
TINKER LINDSAY

As our books continue to multiply and expand, so, too, does my gratitude for my co-author, Gay. His humor, generosity, openhearted affection, and extraordinary talent bring me daily joy, and I absolutely love working (playing) with him. He and his wife, Katie, are, quite simply, splendid, and I feel blessed to be a part of their lives.