Synopsis

When her charismatic mentor, Ernesto, publicly chooses her as his professional partner, all indications are that Vera’s bodywork career is about to ignite. There is just one glitch—no, make that two. Vera—single mother of savvy, smart teenage India and her scruffy mutt, Francisco—is having an affair with Ernesto. As for her new promotion . . . Ernesto took it from his wife, Jean, in order to give it to her. As Vera becomes increasingly embroiled in Ernesto and Jean’s dark shenanigans, she quickly realizes that what seemed like an exciting opportunity is more like a deal with the Devil. Confronted with the consequences of her own yearning for male validation, it takes India, a glamorous and aristocratic client named Grace, and the mysterious goddess White Tara, Tibetan Goddess of compassion, to teach Vera the virtues of a sustainable path to self-authority.

A luscious, propulsive, humorous romp, The T Room is sure to prove irresistible to every yogi and yoga mom familiar with that Saturday-morning-bookstore trajectory that starts with Self-Help, diverts into Romance, and lands heart first in Spirituality.

Bookshop * Amazon * B&N

Excerpt

WHITE TARA

7

I work three more sessions with Ernesto before I grab my stuff and depart down the walkway. When I get in the car, I find a text from India:
where r u mom.

Late again, late being the current story of my life. I spring Francisco from his doggie day care purgatory. Shackled, he yanks at his harness, toenails scrabbling, all thirteen and a half pounds of dachshund straining for freedom from this hell. He claims his blanket in the front seat so he can ride shotgun. We pull up in front of Fairview Prep. India opens the passenger door and pushes Frank, who hops into the back seat.

He relinquishes ownership only because he loves her more than anyone in the world. And even then, only after she orders him twice. That is, before she gives me the one hundred and third degree about what she calls my issues with chronic tardiness.

Making dinner, I reflect back over my workday. It takes both hands for me to count all the times I felt insecure in the course of just one day at work. At least I have this much awareness at six fifteen on Tuesday evening. But I also realize that a goddess named White Tara sits up on that stone mantle in the T Room, just waiting to alleviate my insecurities. After all, I am the one who put her there.

“If only it were that easy,” I say out loud. I swear a voice enters my mind.

Start your own group. I look up from chopping onions in disbelief. There is no way a clay icon is actually talking to me, especially one that is in a studio across the Golden Gate in Tam Junction.

Then it dawns on me, whether she’s giving me a long distance kick in the butt or not, I can start my own group. Immediately, I decide to create a group that will teach people how to transmute their feelings of insecurity. The only person who is holding me back is not, in fact, Ernesto, it’s moi from Moiville.

After we eat hamburgers, India and I hang out at the table. India does her homework while I debate whether to invite some colleagues as a dry run for the group. As I sit back in my chair, I warm to this idea. I’m not sure what is going on astrologically. Not that I know jack about astrology anyway, but somehow it feels like it is time to say, this, ladies and gentlemen, is who I am. Or at least it’s time to start thinking about it.

Boldly, I pick up my phone and call Ernesto. He answers, “Hey, baby,” after the first ring.

“Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.”

Harnessing my courage, I say, “I’m considering hosting a group in the T Room. Do you mind?”

“What a great idea. Feel free to run anything by me. Hey, do you mind including Star? It might be a nice way for her to reconnect with this community.”

I do mind. A lot. But I don’t know how to say so without sounding like a bitch. I settle for a lame, “I don’t have her contact information.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll send it to you just as soon as I finish unclogging the kitchen sink in the studio. I’ve had to call the plumber.”

I volley, “Is this another version of yourself?”

“Ha! How do you always know?”

“Twin flames.”

“You are so sweet,” he says, and then he’s gone.

I put my cell down and look up at India sitting across from me, face buried in an enormous textbook. “Don’t most kids take chem sophomore year?”

“I’m good. My teacher says I’ve definitely been a scientist in my past life.”

“Smart teacher.”

“Mom, did you listen to what I sent you?”

“Hmmm?”

“The Daily, the podcast I sent you.”

“About what?”

India rolls her eyes, “Jesus, Mom, hel-lo, the coronavirus that everyone’s talking about?”

“I am not everyone. I am me, trying to make a living, trying to not be overwhelmed.”

“I’m sorry, but you need to check it out. Listen to that podcast on your way to work.” Then she asks, “How are things going at work anyway?”

“Pretty good. I’ve decided to try starting a group at the T Room.”

“Cool. What kind of group?”

“I want to learn how to teach people how to own and release their insecurities via their bodies. I mean, everybody knows how to do it to one degree or another. We just don’t realize that we know how to do it. I think it’s one of the reasons why I end up feeling so emotionally backed up sometimes. I forget to transmute. If we all had more productive ways to offload our emotional stuff, maybe we could all be nicer to each other.”

“I like it. You sure he’s cool with this?”

“He said so.”

“I’m a little suspect when it comes to him letting you branch out on your own. He’s tossing you a carrot.”

“Well, he did include one caveat. He wants me to invite Star Ling.”

“Wow. OMG, Mom. That fake Asian?

“Yeah, she’s in no way Asian. She’s from Castro Valley. Star Ling is apparently her alias.”

“I can’t believe that these are the people that you work with.”

“Honey, I wouldn’t be working with her if he wasn’t asking me to do so.”

“Right,” says India as she flounces out the door, skirt rippling against her thighs, tossing an OK, Mu-thur look over her shoulder as Francisco runs after her.

I holler down the hallway at what used to be our dog. “Traitor!” Both of them ignore me. She closes her door, leaving me to stew over my daughter’s annoyingly accurate
powers of perception.

Not long after, I go to bed naked, feeling like I could be coming down with the crud. It is later I become aware that I am dreaming.

In the dream I’m standing barefoot on the threshold of the door to the studio. I am wearing yoga pants and a tank. My hair hangs loose down my back. Ernesto’s wife, Jean, is standing across from me on the deck, just off to my left wearing a jacket. With her right hand, she hands me a white paper bag with handles. As she does this, she says, “I won’t be needing this anymore.” I take the bag and open it. Inside, I find a large golden key. I take the key out and hold it in my right hand.

Abruptly, I wake up. My memory of the dream is so vivid that I almost expect to find a key in my right hand. I lie there feeling haunted by the dream. Despite being wrapped in a duvet and a couple of blankets, I am slathered in cold sweat, experiencing what I can only call an uncanny sense of dread.

The dream was brief, but I can’t shake it. I realize what the bag reminds me of, Jean’s bag. Both are the same size and shape. I shiver. This dream-time real-time connection is just totally weird. But it’s also way too early in the morning to focus on it. I burrow down into the soggy flannel, reminding myself to Google the symbol of that key before I fall back asleep.

The next morning, I never get around to Googling the key symbol. Soon I forget about it all together as I focus on my client work. It is now Wednesday, and I’ve managed to put a little group together for tomorrow, Thursday.

Star wants to show. So does another woman. This makes two men and three women including me. We’re a go.

About the Author

Combining her passion for women’s mentorship with a commitment to philanthropy, San Francisco native Victoria Lilienthal writes books that explore the quest for freedom. Outside of her work, Victoria, together with her husband and their dachshund, Luigi, splits her time between San Francisco and Western Sonoma County. The T Room is her first novel.