# WAY #77: Watch what you eat.
The purpose of food is to provide nutrients for life—not to help us through the bad times. Confront your emotions honestly, and don't hide behind the vice of chips and chocolate. Both your life and your waistline will be better for it.
—from 707 Way to Cheat at Solitaire
" Julia, honey, I've got biscuits and gravy. You love biscuits and gravy," Caroline was saying as Lance followed a wonderful aroma into the kitchen.
"Here, honey, have some juice. You like juice," Caroline reminded her sister.
"Jules," Nina chimed, "no one could have stopped him."
"Stop who? Not..." Lance asked, but one look at the three faces around the island told him that his agent had indeed come calling. He tried to focus on the humor of the situation, because if he thought about anything else, he was afraid he'd be tempted to lose himself in the pan of homemade biscuits that Nina was pulling out of the oven. "Why didn't someone get me?"
"It happened too fast for that," Nina said. "It just happened too fast." She went to the refrigerator, but Lance didn't know what could possibly be left in there—the kitchen counter was already overflowing.
"And Myrtle gave him the manuscript?" he asked.
"Yes. He's got it," Caroline said. She turned to her sister. "That which does not kill us makes us stronger. Right?"
Julia didn't respond. She just looked blankly ahead.
Lance studied her. It wasn't just her puffy eyes that weighed on him—it was the overall feel of her that made him worry. Gone was the steadfast woman who'd seemed at ease with the world while sitting alone at Stella's; missing was the gracious celebrity who'd signed autographs, the caring aunt who'd bought half the inventory of FAO Schwarz. The protective layer that had kept Julia calm and serene had been stripped away, and what was left was something far too fragile to exist in the world.
For Julia, a career wasn't a livelihood; it was an identity. Lance looked at her and realized that if Julia James and Veronica White ever tried to exist on the same plane, one of them would have to die, and he couldn't let that happen.
"Nina, can I borrow your car?" he asked.
Nina reemerged from the freezer, looking as though she'd developed a mild case of frostbite. "Why?"
"I just. . ." he started. "There's just something I need to do."
***
Evidently, Tammy with the great eyes and love for Thai food hadn't skipped the country entirely, because she was the person who answered the phone when Lance called the offices of Poindexter-Stone in New York. It had taken a little persuading, but eventually she told him what he needed to know, and that was how he found himself poised outside room number two-fifteen at a motel outside of Tulsa. He raised his hand to knock, but his fist hung involuntarily in midair. Maybe I could sweet-talk a maid into letting me into the room? I might get lucky and find the manuscript just lying there, unattended and ready to be taken. But then Lance shook his head. Nina was starting to rub off on him. This was a serious problem. It required a serious solution.
After Lance had talked to Tammy, he'd called his mother and laid out all the details of the bargain he was prepared to make with Richard Stone. She had actually cried, not because she was upset but because she was very proud. And very theatrical. His mother had proclaimed that he was prepared to fall on his sword to save the woman he cared about, but standing on the motel balcony, Lance didn't feel noble. Instead, he felt like a failure, like someone who doesn't keep his promises, even the ones he has made to himself.
I did this, Lance admitted. I conned my way into Stella's, he remembered, taking responsibility for the first in a series of lies that had changed Julia's life and exposed her secret, and now he was willing to break one promise to keep another—the promise that he'd never take advantage of her again. He raised his hand to the door. He knocked.
"I've been doing some very interesting reading," Richard, Stone said after he'd opened the door and gotten over his surprise at seeing Lance. "What I can't figure out is whether the two of you have known each other for years, and she wrote this about you then, or if you're just a dream come true." He snickered.
The room fit the man, dated and dingy. Lance stepped inside onto the shag carpet as Richard went on.
"So, what is it? Long-lost love? College fling?"
"You know that's not the way it is," Lance shot back.
And with that, Richard Stone's snicker evolved into a full laugh. "Oh, you are so serious. Only dramas for you. No comedies." Richard slipped his glasses on and looked back down at the manuscript pages. Then, glancing up, he asked Lance, "Do you think she still has the film rights to this, because with you starring—"
"I want you to give that to me," Lance said and held out his hand.
Richard laughed. "That's a good one." His gaze dropped again, and he began flipping through the dog-eared pages. "That woman of yours is very ingenious. In fact, I've got some buddies who'd probably love ..."
"I came for the manuscript," Lance said. He heard his own voice ripple with tension. "I'm not leaving without it."
"Now, that sounds like love talking to me," Richard said,
eyebrows raised. "Did you know there is a whole other level of parts I can get for you if you really love her—some honey stuff?"