For Shannon
Wren
I get to make people feel better for a living—without having to slice them open or prescribe medication. That’s pretty cool, if you ask me. As a traveling massage therapist, I move from site to site, making house calls. That’s another thing I love about my day job: I never have to do it in one place. The company I work for, Elite Massage, has an office downtown, where I go once a month to stock up on supplies and check in. When I stopped in this afternoon, my boss, Trina, had an update for me.
“So, I just added something new to your schedule, if you can fit it in tomorrow,” she said.
“Where is it?” I asked, stuffing a variety of oils into my backpack.
“Brookline. Actually, you were specifically requested.”
I stopped for a moment. “By whom?”
“His name is Dax Moody. Ever hear of him?”
I shook my head. “No. Not at all.”
“Well, he came up clean.”
Trina always runs a criminal background check on new clients, which I appreciated since most of the time I was going into their homes and would often be alone with these strangers.
“I also Googled him and got his business page,” she continued. “He’s the owner of a capital investment company.”
Dax Moody. Huh… nothing. “I guess someone must have recommended me to him.”
Trina gestured toward her computer. “Check out this property. This is where he lives.” She’d pulled up Google Earth and zoomed in on a house. It was a large, brick structure with a black wrought-iron fence around it.
“Wow,” I said.
“Yeah. Might want to wear something a little nicer than the usual T-shirt and ripped jeans.” She winked. “You know, in case he’s single.”
“I’m certain if he lives in a house like that in Brookline, he’s not. It doesn’t matter anyway. Isn’t there a rule about mixing business with pleasure?”
She shrugged and zoomed in farther on the house. “You know what they say about rules.”
• • •
The next day I parked in front of the sprawling estate, unsure where these butterflies in my stomach were coming from. I’d had wealthy clients before. But something about this assignment felt different, though I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Brookline was just outside of the city, and a trolley line ran right through the center of town. With its proximity to Boston universities, the neighborhood was a mix of college students and wealthier professionals, depending on the section. This particular street was one of the quieter ones, lined with big, beautiful homes, and not far from where I knew a couple of the New England NFL players lived.
The leaves on the trees surrounding the estate were a multitude of colors, evidence that fall foliage season was in full swing. Looking up at the two-story brick house, I noticed an older-looking Camry that seemed out of place parked in the driveway.
With my supplies hanging in a bag over my shoulder, I carried my portable table as I walked toward the massive black door with a vibrant wreath of autumn leaves hung on it. I rang the bell and anxiously waited.
A woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties, wearing khakis and a pretty cowl-neck sweater, opened the door. This must be Mrs. Moody.
She looked down at the table I held and then up at me. “Can I help you?”
I cleared my throat. “Uh, yes. I’m here to see Dax Moody. He scheduled a twelve o’clock massage-therapy appointment with me.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she laughed a little.
Is this funny?
“Uh…okay.” She waved me inside. “Wait here in the foyer, please.”
“Thank you.”