Calm, Cool, and Adjusted Read online

  calm,

  cool, and

  adjusted

  Other Books by Kristin Billerbeck

  Ashley Stockingdale novels

  What a Girl Wants

  She’s Out of Control

  With This Ring, I’m Confused

  Spa Girl Series

  She’s All That

  A Girl’s Best Friend

  Calm, Cool, and Adjusted

  Split Ends

  calm,

  cool, and

  adjusted

  kristin billerbeck

  © 2006 by Kristin Billerbeck.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Published in association with Yates & Yates, www.yates2.com.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, Today’s New International Version® (TNIV®). © 2001, 2005 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Billerbeck, Kristin.

  Calm, cool, & adjusted / Kristin Billerbeck.

  p. cm. — (Spa girls collection)

  ISBN 978-1-59145-330-7 (tradepaper)

  ISBN 978-1-59554-376-9 (repack)

  1. Chiropractors—Fiction. 2. Santa Clara Valley (Santa Clara County, Calif.)—Fiction. 3. Chick lit. I. Title. II. Title: Calm, cool, and adjusted.

  PS3602.I44C36 2006

  813'.6—dc22

  2006019854

  Printed in the United States of America

  08 09 10 11 RRD 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all the men and women in natural health management who helped me fight my way out of multiple sclerosis, especially Doctor Lambertson of Fort Wayne, Indiana, and Carolyn Rueben of Sacramento, California. And to my writing partner, Colleen Coble, who got me started and prayed me through to its finish.

  And most of all to my husband, who has lived “in sickness and in health” with integrity and much love.

  Acknowledgments

  To have a trustworthy editor is pure gold. Leslie Peterson, thank you for all your time, effort, and encouragement. You are the best in the business, and I am so grateful to have you. I know when I send you something and you tell me it needs work, it does. That in itself is a calling and I’m so glad you heeded it.

  To Jeana Ledbetter, my agent, who not only puts up with my whiny phone calls but is there when I have a stupid joke I have to share or a question about a single line of copy. You go above and beyond, and I trust you implicitly to keep me on track. Even if you weren’t my agent, I would love you unconditionally.

  And finally, to my writing “group,” Colleen Coble, Diann Hunt, and Denise Hunter, for seeing me through each day and keeping this job from being lonely and solitary. You are each my daily blessing.

  Desperation has a scent. I’m certain there’s a science to it— a research grant out there somewhere. I’m waiting for the National Geographic special on some poor, unsuspecting Capuchin monkey in the rainforest. Silently, she watches the next tree, full of capuchin bachelors as they mix and mingle, reveling over some juicy fruit morsel. Suddenly, overcome by their sheer numbers and her endless options, she leaps across the branches. A riot ensues. She startles the fray of monkey men, who abandon their tree in a frenzy of flying, frenetic fur. The insistent, excited monkey squeals peal through the rainforest as the jungle stampede unfolds before her unsuspecting eyes. And then, just as quickly as the ruckus began, all is silent, and our capuchin heroine rests alone on the top branch, catching her breath while watching the last of the tails disappear into the green canopy. Her dreams dashed, she sits and analyzes where she went wrong . . .

  “The human spirit can endure in sickness,

  but a crushed spirit who can bear.”

  Proverbs 18:14

  chapter 1

  Miles run: 6

  Laps swum: 24

  Desperation scale: 2

  Contrary to popular opinion, I am not desperate. Not yet anyway. I would just prefer to have an escort for my best friend’s wedding before my friends find me a mercy date. I suppose I just don’t understand why anyone cares that I have a date for the wedding. It’s not like I have a reputation for being normal. When I show up to any event, it’s expected that I’ll dance to the beat of my own drum. It’s part of my charm.

  Besides, a mercy date is so demeaning. I shudder to think about the reading of the vows next to someone I barely know. There’s the uncomfortable shifting, the avoiding of glances while the romantic promises are read. Does anyone facing thirty really need that kind of pressure? I think not. A girl of my age should be allowed to show up at a wedding unencumbered, to pluck from the trough of the buffet without fear or recriminations. I am a modern woman. I’ll get my endorphins from chocolate, thank you very much.

  Why must we always come down to the men? Men are a dime a dozen. (Well, not the good ones, but my point is still valid.) I’m not doting or cutesy or even able to hold my tongue at the point when most women know better. My goal is health: to make as many people healthy as possible. Most people simply aren’t concerned about their health, and when I look into a pair of green eyes surrounded by a yellowish tint, how can I not comment on their liver function? I’m a doctor, after all! Granted, I didn’t actually take the Hippocratic oath— I’m a chiropractor. However, I did earn the “Doctor” title and so I like to think that brings me in under an umbrella clause. One of the benefits of doctor status is my free advice. Am I right? What’s the first thing people do at parties to a doctor? “Oh, Doc, I have this ache in my shoulder.”

  Emma, my receptionist, comes in gnawing on a carrot. Emma is the epitome of health and beauty—what the women’s magazines put on their covers—and yet she sees none of it. Wastes her life on a useless boyfriend and working here. Not that I’m not grateful, mind you. I just see her accomplishing so much more with her life and healthy habits. Perhaps finding a sexy marathon runner and settling down. But Emma will have none of it. Her ambition is to have conversations all day with my patients, and then fill me in on the gossip. It’s a quest for her. To know more about everyone than they know about themselves.

  “Hey, Poppy, Dr. Nip/Tuck is here to see you.” She bites off another piece of carrot as she finishes her sentence. “He’s so fine. You be nice.”

  I force down a smile because I know exactly why Dr. Jeff Curran is here. I push through the
custom curtain to the office foyer, which is a muted red to inspire energy, wealth, and romance. The plastic surgeon from the office next door sort of matches the wall—his face is a deep shade of scarlet, and something tells me he’s not getting the peaceful feeling from my waterfall feature in the office.

  Dr. Jeff is a bit of a dichotomy. You get the impression he used to be ruggedly handsome and hardily masculine before succumbing to the evils of his trade. Now, his skin is as smooth as a baby’s bottom—as if he’s microdermabrasioned daily. Truth be told, he scares me a little because this man is wielding a knife to bring others into his plastic fold.

  Perhaps I’m too harsh on him. He is quite handsome; it just pains me to admit it. He’s attractive in that high school quarterback way. But I imagine the only kind of woman he wants is his own mirror image with implants. At least that’s my assessment. As I said, maybe I’m too harsh on him.

  “Hi, Dr. Curran. Is there something I can help you with?” I use my sweetest, low-toned voice to inspire calm. His eyes thin in immediate challenge, which makes me sigh. Why are there people on earth who make Christianity so difficult? Those who seem to make you an immediate hypocrite just because they are so grating? I suppose it’s the weeds in the field, a product of the fall, but Jeff Curran makes me feel so spiritually weak. He claims Christianity, actually goes to my church, but he and I could not be more opposite if he were a Hindu and I a Muslim. We are, most certainly, unequally yoked in the Christian sense.

  “You parked your Subaru in my space again.” He tries to keep the anger from his voice, but he doesn’t succeed. He says Subaru like it’s a main course on Fear Factor.

  I did park my car there. On purpose, actually. It’s not technically his space, but he’s so attached to it I just can’t help but taunt him with my inferior car. I sort of enjoy forcing humanity upon him, making him deal with us little people. Yes, it’s childish, but what else do I have going on? When life is boring, you spice it up. Granted, it’s the same way I did it in second grade, but what can I say? I’m easily amused.

  “Have I defiled the space? How will you ever park your Beamer there again? Did I leave an oil stain?” I ask hopefully.

  His jaw clenches. “My reputation is everything in this career, Ms. Clayton.” (He refuses to call me Doctor.) “Would you like it if your earthy clients caught you driving a Hummer?” He crosses his arms, waiting for my answer. “I didn’t think so.”

  “Maybe you’d like me to get you a nameplate for the spot so everyone will know what you drive.” This makes me laugh a little. As though his personalized “TuckMe” license plate doesn’t tell everyone just whose car it is.

  “Poppy, you are the most peaceful woman I know. I come in here and there are scented candles burning, soft music playing, a water fountain. So tell me, how is it you’re so peaceful . . .” He pauses. “ . . . to everyone else? Why must I endure your wrath? What makes me so special?”

  That’s a good question, and the simple answer is that I don’t like him, and I don’t like what he does for a living. Feeding off the insecurities of women. Hmm . . . I suppose I believe I must be his voice of reason. Oscar has Felix, SpongeBob has Squidward, and Dr. Jeff has me. It’s the natural course of life.

  Since I didn’t answer him, Jeff continues. “Since we must share office space, would you mind keeping your clients’ cars from my side of the parking lot? It’s closer for them, anyway. I think the more convenient we make it for our clients, the better—” He swallows abruptly. “—doctors—” He chokes on the word. “The better doctors we’ll both be. Certainly we can agree on that much.”

  I hate to be patronized. For all intents and purposes, I’ve been an adult since I was thirteen. At thirty, I hardly need someone to dumb it down for me. “I can’t exactly go outside and direct traffic. I have a business to run here. Besides, maybe if your clients walk more, they’ll need less liposuction,” I say.

  He stands over me menacingly, and I have to admit, he is prettier than me. He’s like a work of art, and I find myself getting lost in his baby blues, which hold no sparkle at the moment. Even angry, they’re beautiful. “You’re sabotaging my practice, Poppy, and I know you wouldn’t do that on purpose.” Again with the patronization. “My clients see the beaters your patients drive and worry that I’m a hack surgeon. They need to trust me with the knife, and part of that is creating an environment they trust. Like your Zen spa space here.”

  “Red is the color of energy. My clients should leave here energized and ready to face the world, not relaxed.” Somehow, that seems different to me than judging a surgeon by the cars in the parking lot, but what do I know of his world?

  He gazes up at the wall. “Whatever. Listen, when I have my own surgical center in a few years, I won’t be here. So let’s do our best to coexist, shall we?” He moves a hanging leaf away from his face. “After that, your jungle can reclaim its own and you can go back to smoking incense or whatever it is you do over here.”

  “Jeff, you park your car in front of my office. Granted, I understand you don’t want your beloved Lexus scratched, but it makes it look like I’m here for the money. Just like you don’t want the beaters in front of your office, I don’t want the status symbol in front of mine. It says that I value the wrong things in life.”

  “Status symbol? I beg your pardon, but I drive a very practical car and the space in front of your office is bigger. No door dings, as you pointed out.”

  “It really bothers you this is a free country, doesn’t it? All these people running around with wrinkles and fat you can’t suck out. It’s just criminal that God makes you deal with the riffraff, but I’m afraid that’s the way it is. I park there because I want my patients to trust me. It’s the same difference.”

  “Uh, no, it’s not. I’m not charging them seventy-five bucks a pop for voodoo. My clients actually get what they pay for. I promise and I deliver. With you, it’s just the luck of the draw.”

  I gasp audibly at his true belief in my practice. “I beg your pardon. Chinese medicine has been around longer than your rudimentary surgery skills. Which will, I’m sure, be out of date with the next brilliant procedure that plasters the skin tighter to the bone. I cure the whole body, not just focus on the superficial.”

  He looks around my office and at the water feature in particular. “I’m doing important work over there. I’m not just creating an ambiance.”

  Just as he says this, a woman with lips the size of inflated tires comes through the door. “Oh, thorry,” she lisps. “Thought thith wath the exit.” She quickly retreats, and I have to cover my giggle. I’m not sure where plumping lips the size of life preservers comes in on the importance scale, but that’s his problem, not mine.

  “Your lips thin when you get older, Ms. Clayton. Someday you too may want injections and just so you know there’re no hard feelings, I’ll be happy to plump them up the first time for free.”

  “If you’re hoping I’ll give free adjustments for oversized implants and their effects on the back, I’m afraid I won’t return the favor.”

  “I don’t do implants for cosmetic reasons, and you know that.”

  I’ve heard him make a point of that, and as much as the rest of his work disgusts me, I can respect that. But we rarely give each other the benefit of the doubt. It’s part of our insane and ludicrous mutual attraction, I suppose.

  “Poppy.” He lowers his voice to that sexy purr he possesses. “Does it really bother you that I park there?”

  I pause for a moment to really ponder the question because he sounds as if he’s really interested. “No,” I admit. Just your very presence in my building annoys me, I think with regret for my own control tendencies.

  As much as this man drives me crazy, he’s a very warm spirit. He’s gentle and kind, just incredibly misguided. And Lord forgive me, there’s something within me that wants to set him on the path to righteousness on a daily basis. If I wasn’t visited weekly by people who had destroyed their health over something cosmeti
c or unnecessary, I wouldn’t have this attitude. I really wouldn’t.

  “My patients just don’t want to get old before their time. I know we disagree on methods, but—”

  I interrupt him. “How can you perpetuate the myth that it’s about nothing more than being an ornament?”

  “I don’t perpetuate that myth, as you put it. But it seems selfish that you would stop women from trying to improve themselves. It’s a choice, you know, and most women aren’t blessed with your looks or that body.”

  “Is that a professional opinion?” I ask him. I have no idea why I love to see him squirm, but I apparently live for it. I see his eyes fall on my figure and quickly come to my eyes as if he hasn’t noticed a thing.

  “As I was saying . . .” I see him visibly swallow and for some reason, this gives me a small thrill. “Clients seek my help when they aren’t given what nature has been so generous with for you. I would think being beautiful—”

  I look down. I’m above this. I know better than to fall for smooth talking, but as I meet his gaze I realize I’m only human.

  “And don’t play coy as if you don’t know it, Poppy. Women know the power beauty yields them, and you’re no different. As I was saying, I think you’d have a little more mercy on your fellow woman.”

  Dang, he knows how to make me feel small. I want people to know the power that healthy living can bring them; I want them to know they hold the gift of God’s creation right at their fingertips. But I stumble and become so very human when Jeff calls me beautiful. I am so petty. So vain in my own way. “I won’t park in your beloved space, all right? Are we done now?”

  “I appreciate that.” He flashes those teeth once more and retreats into his world of Botox and silicone. Plastic surgery. Even the name drives me insane. Everything about it says fake, facade, industrial, when we, as doctors, should be teaching the world all things natural: eating habits, renewable resources, exercise. If he wasn’t so Neanderthal, he would see that. But I hold out little hope for him as he slinks back to where he came from.