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?
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.