Gone But Knot Forgotten Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Triangle.” Still in a wide stance, they all bent sideways at the waist and shot an arm straight up. “Tree pose.” The students effortlessly balanced on one leg and reached their arms straight overhead. I got the picture.
    Ten minutes later Heather settled me on a borrowed orange rubber mat on the bamboo floor of classroom two. Two men stuck out in this class of mostly senior women of every body type, including a white-haired former ballet dancer and me.
    The short, buxom teacher in her forties with wild cherry-colored curls stood in the center of the classroom and knocked together two delicate brass bells to get everyone’s attention. “Hello, class!” she said in a thick Russian accent. “This is Yoga for Seniors, and I am Dasha. Do we have anyone new today?”
    I raised my hand.
    Dasha walked over and smiled. “Do you have physical problems I should know?”
    I told her about my fibromyalgia.
    â€œYou’re in the right place. Welcome.”
    An hour later, after breathing deeply through leg, hip, and spine stretches, we assumed the corpse pose, Shavasana, and rested quietly on our backs for the last five minutes of class. My muscles protested against all the unaccustomed exercise, but I was energized. Maybe Dr. Lim at UCLA knew what he was talking about. I walked out of Sublime Yoga with a new pink rubber mat, a six-foot-long woven strap, and a little plastic tag with my membership number.
    After a shower at home, I changed into jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and sweater and demolished the leftover coleslaw and kasha varnishkes from the night before. By twelve thirty I headed on the 405 south toward Harriet’s house in Brentwood.
    I took Sunset Boulevard west to Bundy Drive, turned right for a half mile to her large Tudor-style home, and parked in a circular driveway hidden from the street by lush landscaping. Not one flyer, throwaway paper, or business card lay on the ground. By the moisture in the soil, I guessed the gardener recently watered and cleaned up, just as he had been doing for the last ten months.
    I braced myself before turning the lock with the keys Abernathy had given me. What would I find? What would I smell? Poking my head inside, I took small, cautious sniffs of the air. Thankfully, the house harbored no unpleasant odors.
    At least a couple weeks of mail, dropped through the slot in the door, littered the hardwood floor. Several months’ worth of envelopes and papers sat in cardboard boxes on a round table in the middle of the walnut paneled foyer, waiting for me to sift through them.
    I closed the door and flipped a light switch. An iron chandelier with alabaster globes turned golden in the gloom. Directly in front of me a dark staircase led straight to the second floor. A powder room stood opposite the stairs. A painting hung on the foyer wall of a fair-haired toddler holding a toy fire engine. He bore Harriet’s smile and sensitive eyes.
    The living room to the right gave off an English vibe, with hand-rubbed plaster and a ceiling coffered in more dark wood. Harriet loved Jane Austen and Paul McCartney.
    A pair of overstuffed chairs, upholstered with red chintz roses, sat on either side of a game table, and two green leather sofas flanked a large stone fireplace. Photos of Jonah, Harriet, and Harriet’s family lined the wooden beam serving as a mantel.
    Where was Nathan’s picture?
    Framed paintings hung slightly askew on the walls as if shifted by an earthquake. Didn’t Abernathy say he thought things looked a little messy?
    Continuing on to the right, a door at the end of the living room opened to a library, which also served as an office. Books stuffed the floor-to-ceiling dark shelves on the far wall. An antique rolltop desk sat in one corner and a rectangular table with six oak chairs took over the center of the room.
    Two volumes lay on the floor. I read the titles as I picked them up and placed them on the library table.