The Hollow by Nora Roberts Page A

OFF THE kitchen table. Then he poured her another glass. She didn’t say a word, and he gave her room for silence, room for her thoughts until he sat.
    â€œOkay, do you know how to meditate?”
    â€œI know the concept.” There was a thin edge of irritation in her tone. He didn’t mind it.
    â€œYou ought to sit down so we can get started. The thing about meditating,” he began when she joined him, “is most people can’t really reach that level where they turn their minds off, where there’s not something in there about work or their dentist appointment, the ache in their lower back. Whatever. But we can get close. Yoga breathing, using the breath. Closing your eyes, picturing a blank white wall—”
    â€œAnd chanting ‘ummm.’ How is that going to help me tap in to this thing? I can’t walk around in a meditative state.”
    â€œIt’s to help clear yourself out after. To help you—I sound like my mother—cleanse your mind, your aura, balance your chi.”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œIt’s a process, Layla. So far, you’ve only skimmed the surface of it, or dipped your toe in. The deeper you go, the more it takes out of you.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œToo deep for too long? Headaches, nausea, nosebleeds. It can hurt. It can drain you.”
    She frowned, then ran her finger down the bowl of her glass. “When we were in the attic of the old library, Quinn had a flashback to Ann Hawkins. And she came out of it pretty shaken up. Severe headache, queasy, clammy.” Layla puffed out her cheeks. “All right. I’m crappy at meditating. When we end with the corpse position in yoga class, I’m relaxed, but I’m going to be thinking of what I’m doing next, or if I should buy this great leather jacket that came in. I’ll practice. I can practice with Cybil.”
    Because she’s safer than I am, Fox thought, and let that go. “All right, let’s just skim along the surface for right now. Relax, clear the clutter out of the front of your mind. Like when you were doing the dishes.”
    â€œIt’s harder when it’s deliberate. Things want to pop in.”
    â€œThat’s right. So compartmentalize,” he suggested with an easy smile. “Put them in their slot. Tuck them away. Look at me.” His hand moved to rest on hers. “Just look at me. Focus on me. You know me.”
    She felt a little strange, as if the wine had gone straight to her head. “I don’t understand you.”
    â€œThat’ll come. Look at me. It’s like opening a door. Turn the knob, Layla. Put your hand on the knob and turn it, ease the door open, just a couple inches. Look at me. What am I thinking?”
    â€œYou hope I don’t eat all the pot stickers.” She felt his humor, like a warm blue light. “You did that.”
    â€œWe did that. Stay at the door. Stay focused. Open it just a little wider and tell me what I’m feeling.”
    â€œI . . . calm. You’re so calm. I don’t know how you manage it. I don’t think I’m ever that calm, and now, with what’s happened, what’s happening, I don’t know if I’ll ever be really calm again. And . . . You’re a little hungry.”
    â€œI pretended to eat most of an eggplant salad at lunch. Which is why I ordered . . .”
    â€œKung Pao beef, snow peas, cold noodles, a dozen egg rolls, pot stickers. A dozen egg rolls?”
    â€œIf there are any leftovers, they’re good for breakfast.”
    â€œThat’s disgusting. And now you’re thinking I’d be good for breakfast,” she added and drew her hand from under his.
    â€œSorry, that slipped through. Doing okay?”
    â€œA little light-headed, a lot dazed, but yeah, okay. It’s going to be easier with you though, isn’t it? Because you know how to work it. Work me.”
    Picking up his neglected beer, he