Calm, Cool, and Adjusted
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
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.
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
Miles run: 6
Laps swum: 24
Desperation scale: 2
C
ontrary 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.