Ms. Simon Says

by Mary McBride

  Legend had it—or rumor, in this case—that old Orvis, Jr., was a cross dresser who spent thousands and thousands of dollars on the annual affair in Shelbyville just so he could indulge his little lace-trimmed, high-heeled hobby in public once a year. Shelby suspected there was some truth to the rumors, especially since her mother’s memories of the man always seemed deliberately vague and misleading. She hoped it was true, really. Didn’t everyone want a horse thief up in the branches of their family tree? And if they couldn’t have a horse thief, a cross dresser would certainly do.

  She and Beth had attended Masque one year as the Olsen twins of television fame. One year they’d gone as Sonny and Cher, with the loser of a coin toss—poor Beth, naturally—having to be Sonny in a ratty faux fur vest while Shelby, aka Cher, got to wear a pink wig, false eyelashes, hip huggers, and platform shoes studded with rhinestones. That was the same year, as Shelby recalled, that her parents had dressed as Ashley Wilkes and Scarlett O’Hara. Talk about your mismatches of all time.

  Okay. That settled it. Her mind was made up. She owed Beth and Sam a second chance, and Masque was the perfect way to get them back together. Tomorrow she’d call her sister, remind her about all the fun they’d had at the annual event, and offer to pay her airfare from San Francisco so they could celebrate again and play dress up together for what might be the last time in their lives.

  It occurred to her then that the costume party might also be the perfect opportunity to reunite her parents. Maybe if they attended the party as Rhett and Scarlett this time, the sparks would carry over into their actual lives. It was certainly worth a try.

  So, in a single evening, nearly in the blink of an eye, Ms. Simon had solved the problems of two pairs of problem lovers. And once again, here she was alone, having paired up everyone in the world but herself. A typical end of a good day’s work. It should’ve made her happier somehow...

  She heard a creak at the bottom of the staircase, which meant that Callahan had come silently through the front door left unlocked for him and was on his way up to bed.

  Or not.

  She assumed it was Callahan, but what if it wasn’t? People who’ve been threatened with death by letter bomb probably shouldn’t make assumptions of any kind. Should they? What if it was someone else? What if...?

  With her heart thumping hard, this time out of fear rather than physical attraction, Shelby reached for the nearest weapon, the empty wine bottle on the nightstand. She slipped out of bed, then tiptoed to the closed bedroom door and listened almost fiercely to the squeaks of the treads and the creaks of the banister. Oh, God. It sounded way too spooky to be Callahan.

  Her knees were turning to tapioca. Okay. Calm down. Let’s be smart here, she told herself. What would you rather do in a situation like this—clunk someone over the head with a wine bottle, or just lock the damned bedroom door and be safe behind it?

  Duh.

  The only problem now was that this ancient and oh-so-familiar door locked not with a regular turn of a bolt but rather with a big, curlicued metal key, which was not currently inserted in the keyhole. Not on her side of the door, anyway. Shelby bent to peek through the ornate brass doorplate, possibly to glimpse whoever was coming up the stairs, but naturally her view through the keyhole was blocked by the big, curlicued, goddamn metal key that was stuck in the lock from the outside. Shit. She had to retrieve that key.

  Twisting the knob and opening the door just wide enough to slide her hand through the opening, she felt for the key, hoping to whip that sucker out in the blink of an eye and then to close and lock the door from the inside.

  Only...

  The key, when her shaking fingertips made contact, wouldn’t budge. She edged her arm farther out through the crack in the door, trying to get a bit more leverage on the damned thing, but when she stretched her fingers toward the key again, it was gone. God. She almost slammed the heavy door closed while her arm was still in it.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” Callahan’s voice rumbled on the opposite side of the door at the same instant that she felt the cool touch of metal against her palm. Shelby didn’t know whether to sag to the floor with relief or to whip open the door and smack him. Clutching the key, she opened the door a few more inches to find herself staring straight into the soft plaid collar of his shirt. Her eyes jerked up and met the Grinch-like expression on his face.

  “That was really a bone-headed move,” he said.

  Like she really needed him to tell her that, especially when the insult wafted through the space between the door and the frame on the wings of the Anheuser-Busch eagle. Angry now rather than frightened, she pushed the door with her shoulder and heard it thud against him. With any luck, she’d bruised something important.

  “What were you going to do, Shelby?” he asked. “Stab me to death with the key?”

  “No.” She pulled the wine bottle from where she’d wedged it under her arm and brandished it. “I was going to brain my attacker with this. Of course, if I’d known it was you, Callahan, I wouldn’t have bothered since you don’t have one.”

  “Cute.”

  He jerked the door all the way open and blew across the threshold like some sudden storm, forcing Shelby to step back out of his way, and continued until he reached the windows on the far side of the room, where he began yanking on one of the long brocade panels that was swagged back against the window frame.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she shrieked. “Stop that.”

  Callahan turned toward her, a wad of brocade fabric in his fist and fire in his hazel eyes. “I’m trying to discourage any more Peeping Toms is what I’m doing. There was a kid out there tonight who could barely wait for the Shelby Show to start.”

  “Oh, jeez.” She felt her expression sort of flattening, almost sliding off her face, as she tried to recall where she’d changed out of her sweater and jeans and underthings into her long sleep tee earlier this evening.

  God help her. Had she done anything stupid with her bra, like waving it over her head before she’d tossed it onto the dresser? Or had she performed a quick little Bob Fosse hip twitch in the buff? Or—oh, shit!—had she inspected various and sundry parts of her anatomy for sudden moles or discolorations or errant veins or patches of dry skin. Judas Priest. She was used to living on the twelfth frigging floor, after all. Now she wished she were twelve stories underground.

  “Yeah. Oh, jeez,” he said, mimicking her tone.

  As he spoke, Shelby couldn’t help but notice that Callahan seemed to be having a hard time maintaining eye contact with her. His gaze kept dropping to her bare feet, then wallowing at the hem of her pale blue cotton shirt, then sort of creeping back up with a pronounced lull at her chest. Talk about your Peeping Toms!

  “Just pull down the shade, you jerk,” she snarled at him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Quit yanking on the curtains, Callahan. They aren’t even supposed to close. Just pull down the stupid shades.”

  Now it was his turn to mutter a foolish “Oh.” Ha! But then he reverted to full macho mode by nearly ripping the shades off their rollers when he whipped them down one after another on each of the tall windows.

  Shelby, still miffed, would’ve crossed her arms over her chest with a proper amount of righteous indignation, but she had some concerns about that pose as it related to the length of her garment, so she placed her hands on her hips instead.

  “I know I should thank you,” she said, “but you make it almost impossible, Mick. You are without a doubt the most irritating man I’ve ever met in my life.”

  He turned from the now-secured windows and stared at her, from her bare feet on upward, for a moment before he said, “That’s because you want me.”

  Everything on Shelby’s face that could form an O did so. Her eyes. Her nostrils. Most of all her mouth. “I beg your pardon.”

  “I said you’re irritated because you want me.” He stopped speaking just long enough to let his mouth slide into a goofball
grin. “I feel the same way. You’re the most irritating woman I’ve ever met, and it’s all I can do not to toss you down on that mattress right this minute.”

  “It is? I mean, I am?” She swallowed. The sound was embarrassingly loud and vaguely reminiscent of a Disney character. She might as well have had a bubble over her head with the word “Gulp” printed in it.

  “You are,” he said, moving toward her the way a lion might move toward a shivering antelope. “And, yeah, I do.”

  “You do what?” she asked, having lost track somewhere, somehow, of the banter, of the you’s and the I’s and what they did or did not want. Pretty much all Shelby knew just then was what she wanted. Him. And here she was all of a sudden. Antelope on a stick.

  “I want,” he said, “you.” The words had hardly left his lips before those lips made hard contact with hers, and his arms—they were hard, too, like young tree limbs— wound around her and pulled her against him. And speaking of hard...

  This kiss was as astonishingly visceral as the one on the beach earlier that day. Shelby responded in every single cell of her body.

  Then Callahan’s radioactive mouth moved to her ear, where his tongue made a hot circuit that sent jolts of desire through all of Shelby’s bones.

  “Dear Ms. Simon,” he whispered, his lips at her ear. It took her a moment to realize that his rasped “Dear” wasn’t meant as an endearment, but rather a salutation.

  He continued his wet, hot speech with “There’s this woman...”

  Oh, brother. Oh, damn. Shelby felt all of those sex-drunk cells of hers instantly sober up while her melting bones took on a distinct and rather unpleasant chill.

  There’s this woman, huh? Here it comes. Sadly, she knew this drill all too well, not just from letters she’d received, but from her own experience as well. He’s involved with somebody else, but oh, you kid. She had to hand it to Callahan, though. Usually this little speech came accompanied by the mournful recriminations during the afterglow rather than during the foreplay. Apparently, the lieutenant liked to live (and love) on the edge.

  She let him continue, although her ear suddenly didn’t feel like an erogenous zone anymore.

  “There’s this woman,” he whispered, “and I think she wants me as much as I want her, but it feels like it’s too damn soon. I don’t know. I just don’t want to fuck this up. What do you advise?”

  Her head snapped back. “You’re talking about me?” “Well, yeah.” Callahan seemed to have a little trouble focusing on her face. He looked bewildered. Absolutely adorable.

  “Omigod,” she breathed. And then she laughed. “You were talking about me!”

  He stepped back, abruptly releasing her from his embrace. “Well, who the hell else?” he exclaimed. Then he shook his head. “Okay. You know what? It’s getting late here. I think I’ll just...”

  Shelby had obviously drenched his ardor with her laughter. But she couldn’t help it. She was just so damned surprised. And pleased. Tickled, actually. Callahan was afraid of screwing up their relationship by moving too fast. That was so...It was so...Well, practically unheard of, for one thing. And...

  “That’s just so damned sweet,” she said, lifting her hand to touch his cheek.

  He swore and rolled his bleary eyes. “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning,” he said gruffly. And just to prove to her that he wasn’t all that sweet, he growled from the doorway, “And keep those goddamn shades pulled down, will you?”

  “Yessir.” Shelby gave a little salute in the direction of the slamming door.

  Son of a gun.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next morning Shelby slept late. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. It was closer to lollygagging than sleeping late. When she woke a little after seven, the room was still nearly pitch-dark because of the closed shades, which immediately set her to thinking—okay, dreaming—about Michael Rainbow Callahan.

  His middle name didn’t strike her as silly anymore, but utterly romantic. She must have been out of her mind.

  But when had a man ever kept his gun in its holster, so to speak, when—quite clearly with another kiss or two, or with another hot, moist, sensual breath in the vicinity of her ear—he’d have had Shelby flat on her back with her legs wrapped like a pink satin bow around his waist?

  Never. In her experience, admittedly somewhat limited, the majority of men were gunslingers, latter-day Wyatt Earps and Bat Mastersons, who stood ready—no, eager!—to whip out their forty-fives, their thirty-eights, or whatever size pistola at the slightest provocation. Hell, they didn’t call it “banging” for nothing.

  Shelby smiled up at the ceiling, and for a moment she lingered over those images—Callahan’s gun and her pink satin bow—and then she decided she was being pretty sappy, especially about a man who, when all was said and done, had walked out on her. She’d believed him completely last night, but what if he hadn’t been telling the truth? What if his restraint hadn’t been a fear of screwing up their relationship with premature sex, but fear of something else? Something entirely different?

  Shelby’s mind raced through a list of possibilities for his uncharacteristic behavior, from A for AIDS to Z for zipper deficiency. Well, she doubted that last one since she’d felt the strength of his arousal. Still, his behavior differed so radically from the typical male that she had to wonder.

  In the end, though, she dismissed them all because Callahan had given her no reason not to believe him. Which brought Shelby back to his words—It feels like it’s too damn soon—and to the remarkable conclusion that perhaps this man shared her view of great sex as the accompaniment to a great friendship.

  She stretched, enjoying the darkness of the room and the warmth of the sheets, reluctant to begin a day in which she might discover she was wrong about her protector and his motives.

  By eight-thirty, she had showered and dressed and trotted downstairs to discover her potential lover in the kitchen, wearing a chest-hugging, biceps-revealing black tee over his jeans, and helping her mother unload the dishwasher. Okay. There was “good,” and then there was “too good to be true.” Just her luck, he was probably the latter. She sighed softly as she entered the kitchen.

  “There’s my sleepyhead,” her mother said. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

  Callahan’s “Good morning” was accompanied by a fleeting grin and a quizzical tilt of his head, as if he were trying to gauge Shelby’s mood.

  “Good morning,” she responded, padding toward the refrigerator while trying to gauge her own mood. It felt somewhere east of reason and slightly north of lust.

  Over the clatter of silverware, her mother said, “Shelby, Mick has volunteered to run a few errands for me this morning. I thought maybe you could go along in case he has trouble reading my directions. You know how difficult it can be to make out my scribbles.”

  She was pouring a glass of orange juice while her mother spoke and she nearly spilled it at the part about the scribbles. Her mother printed so neatly it was less like penmanship than a damned font. Still, it was nice of her to play the eternal matchmaker. Too bad she didn’t know her daughter couldn’t wait to get Mick Callahan alone.

  “Sure, Mom. I’d be happy to go along.” She shoved the juice carton back onto its shelf and used her hip to close the door. “If Mick wants company.”

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  “Fine.” Shelby took a long sip of her orange juice, wondering if anybody else was aware that the sexual tension in the room was so thick a person might need a snowblower just to get from the sink to the door.

  Probably not. Her mother seemed blissfully unaware as she dropped the last fork into the silverware drawer and said, “Well, let me just go scribble down a few notes and you two can be on your way.”

  “Great. I’ll run upstairs and get my jacket,” Callahan said, making a beeline for the door. “Be right back.”

  The next thing Shelby knew, she and all that sexual tension were alone in the kitchen. She trudged through it to
rinse her glass in the sink.

  Mick fired up the Mustang. There was frost on the ground this morning and a bitter chill in the air, so he cranked the heater up all the way so the car would be warm for Shelby.

  Just because he’d been an asshole last night didn’t mean he had to be one today, he told himself. Ms. Simon had probably laughed herself to sleep after he fled her room like some kind of squeamish virgin.

  It feels like it’s too damn soon.

  He must’ve been out of his fucking mind to say something like that with a woman like Shelby Simon in his arms and apparently in the mood. Christ. This courtship business was a mystery to him. Worse than a Rubik’s Cube. There had never been anything resembling a courtship with him and Julie. They simply were. At least that was how it had always seemed. Considering the course of events, however, a bit of courtship might not have been such a bad idea.

  He reached up to skew the rearview mirror his way, to see if he looked as idiotic as he felt. Yeah, idiotic. And tense. Wound way too tight. He passed his fingertips across his jawline, wishing he’d shaved this morning, wishing his life hadn’t come undone two years ago, wishing he knew how to fix it.

  Over breakfast this morning, Linda Simon had given him a couple interesting insights into her daughter. It seemed that Shelby was single-handedly responsible for pairing off most of her friends, while she herself rarely went out with any guy more than a few times.

  “It isn’t that she can’t make a commitment,” her mother said. “At least I don’t think that’s the problem. Well, on the other hand, maybe she can’t commit to anything. Look at her apartment. You’ve seen it, haven’t you, Mick?”