Ms. Simon Says

by Mary McBride

  For the first time in his life, he’d felt something close to a normal homelife in Chicago, where he spent most of his time at the home of his ninth-grade classmate, Julie Travers. Even though her parents kept a wary eye out for their daughter’s virginity, they seemed to take pity on the son of the woman they referred to—always behind his back—as The Gypsy, and invited Mick to stay with them if he chose not to accompany his mother to the West Coast. So Mick waved good-bye to Carrie and her four-foot ten-inch lover, and moved his few belongings into the Traverses’ basement next to the Ping-Pong table.

  Shelby gasped. “She left you? Your mother went to California and left you behind? Just like that?”

  “Pretty much,” Mick said.

  “That had to have hurt you,” she said, nestling closer, pressing her hand over his heart.

  His first instinct was to utter a macho “Nah,” but he took a deep breath and dispensed with the bullshit. “It did,” he said. “But I was so damned glad to have a permanent home that I didn’t let myself spend too much time thinking about it. The Traverses were good people, and Julie...Well, she became my whole life.”

  They did everything together, from eating breakfast to going to school to homework to brushing their teeth before bed. And it was fairly predictable that despite the eagle eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Travers, they eventually lost their virginity together during their junior year beneath that Ping-Pong table in the basement.

  “What was she like?” Shelby asked him in a voice that was equal parts curiosity and dread.

  Although he hadn’t kept a single picture of his late wife, he couldn’t excise the one in his head.

  “She was blond,” he said. “With blue eyes. Picture one of the Brady Bunch kids. And she was smart. Probably a lot smarter than I was, which was why I dropped out of college to support us while she went to medical school.”

  “But what was she like?” Shelby asked again. “Shy? Brazen? Funny? Finicky? What?”

  Brazen in the end, Mick was thinking. Disloyal. Julie Travers Callahan devastated him, but she was already dead so there was nothing for him to do but be devastated and get over it. He wasn’t ready to disclose the whole sorry tale. He wasn’t sure he could do it without choking up, and as Shelby’s Superhero protector, that didn’t seem like such a good idea.

  “She tended to be more serious than funny,” he said. “She was a good doctor, as far as I know. And she collected antique toys for some reason I never understood since she wasn’t interested in having kids.”

  “Never?”

  “Not that I was aware of.” He heard his own voice taking on a hard edge, and decided to put a capper on the subject of Julie before his mood curdled like month-old milk.

  “Okay,” he said, smoothing his hand over her wonderful, sleek-but-I-don’t-spend-all-my-time-in-the-gym abdomen. “I don’t want to talk anymore.” His hand progressed downward. “I’m more a man of action.”

  Shelby made that murmuring sound, that hot fudge sundae with whipped cream and a cherry on top, warm kitten purr he loved to hear as she arched in response to his touch, then opened her mouth for his kiss.

  It took him a full three seconds to forget about Julie and all that pain.

  The next morning Shelby kept her eyes mostly closed in the shower in order not to see the mildew in every conceivable corner and crevice. She decided it was a measure of her growing attraction to Mick that she had the courage to step inside the tiled enclosure at all.

  He showered then while she dressed in her basic black silk sheath with matching jacket. The memorial service was scheduled for ten o’clock, and she didn’t want to be late. Just as she was putting on her earrings, the sound of a cell phone rang out from the living room. It took her a moment to figure out it was her phone that was ringing.

  “Okay. You win. I just hung up from Mom, and I told her I’d come back to the lake for Masque.”

  “Beth! Oh, that’s great,” Shelby said. “It’ll be so good to see you.”

  “You, too, kiddo. So what kind of trouble are you in with this mad bomber thing? Mom told me about that, too.”

  Shelby sighed. “I don’t know. It’s pretty scary, but . . .” She glanced toward the closed bedroom door. Callahan had apparently made his exit from the bathroom without her having witnessed it. “I’ve got a bodyguard who’s gorgeous enough to make me want to stay in trouble for a long, long time.”

  “I heard about him, too. Hard Harry and Picky Linda, who never like anybody we bring home, liked him a lot.”

  On her end of the conversation, Shelby smiled. “I like him, too. A lot. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

  “Me, too, sweetie. Okay. Well, I’ll see you sometime Friday afternoon. I’m flying in to Grand Rapids, and then renting a car to drive up to the lake, so I should be there around four.”

  “I can’t wait, Beth. Oh, and...”

  She was about to mention Sam, but her sister had already hung up. That was probably for the best, she decided. Beth could be easily spooked.

  Just as she was reaching for the earring she had put down in order to answer the phone, the bedroom door opened and Shelby drew in a sharp breath. Where were the faded jeans and ratty flannel shirt? Where was the duct taped vest? For that matter, where was Callahan?

  The man who stepped out of the bedroom wore a beautifully tailored navy suit, a snow white shirt with French cuffs, a purple tie that fairly screamed Hermes, and polished black Gucci loafers. His usually scruffy hair was slicked back. Sleek. Sophisticated. He looked...He looked... All of a sudden Shelby remembered to take a breath.

  He lifted his arm and cocked his wrist, revealing a thin gold watch. “Ready? We’ll be late for the service if we don’t get out of here in the next few minutes.”

  “I’m ready,” she said. “You look pretty spiffy, Callahan.” “Yeah?” He gave her one of those killer grins that always loosened her kneecaps. “You look pretty good yourself, Ms. Simon.”

  Shelby thought that in a million years, after a million makeovers, she’d never look as good as Callahan did to her just then.

  When they arrived at the Daily Mirror building, the man actually turned heads in the lobby, but none as frequently as Shelby’s. When they rode up in the elevator, hand in hand, she couldn’t take her eyes off their paired reflection in the polished chrome door. This visceral response to him made her feel incredibly guilty, and she tried to clear her head of everything but poor Derek.

  It made sense to hold the memorial service in the auditorium of the Daily Mirror building. Derek, in addition to being an ace journalist and a legendary elbow bender, was a card-carrying agnostic who would’ve spun in his grave if he were memorialized in a church. Shelby was going to miss his caustic wit and his skeptical eye. When she and Callahan stepped out of the elevator on the fifth floor, the first person Shelby saw was Kellie Carter, her face streaked with tears and mascara. Her sense of guilt deepened. She should have called and offered her condolences if not her advice to the bereaved young intern who had just lost her lover.

  “Kellie, I’m so very sorry,” she said, slipping her arm around the young woman’s shoulders. “I know you and Derek were close.”

  “Oh, Shelby. I loved him so much. Why did this have to happen?” Her river of tears turned into a torrent.

  Callahan, who’d been standing to one side, offered a neatly pressed handkerchief.

  “Thank you, Mr....?” Kellie blinked at him wetly. “Oh, sorry,” Shelby said. “Kellie, this is Lieutenant Mick Callahan. Mick, this is my intern from Northwestern. Kellie Carter.”

  While they shook hands, Shelby couldn’t help but notice a tiny, appreciative glint in Kellie’s soggy eyes, and her immediate reaction was a rather petty Well, so much for poor ol’ Derek. But that wasn’t really fair to Kellie, when every woman in the building had looked at Callahan the exact same way.

  Shelby looked around the crowd, hoping to see her longtime secretary, Sandy, who would undoubtedly be a nervous wreck in the aftermath of Derek’s
death. She should’ve called Sandy, too. It occurred to her that she’d been so wrapped up in her own problems that she’d overlooked some of the things she would’ve automatically done in these circumstances, like reach out to her bereaved colleagues. She’d been pretty wrapped up in Michael Rainbow Callahan, too, for that matter, and she warned herself not to get in worse trouble than she was already in.

  “Kellie, have you seen Sandy Hovis?” she asked. “I don’t see her anywhere.”

  “Sandy quit,” the intern said as casually as if she were saying it’s eleven o’clock.

  “No one told me. When did she quit? Why?”

  The little redhead shrugged, then asked, “Shelby, may I sit with you during the service? Please? I just can’t be alone right now.”

  Shelby forced her concerns about Sandy aside in order to focus on poor Kellie.

  “Well, of course, you may, sweetie. Come on. Let’s go in. It looks like people are beginning to take their seats.”

  While another colleague of Derek McKay’s eulogized the late reporter, Mick recrossed his legs, then picked a fleck of lint from the knee of his trousers. Goddamned suit. This was the third time he’d worn it, and he was considering burning it after today.

  Julie had dragged him into Saks Fifth Avenue after they’d been invited to the wedding of some heart surgeon’s daughter. He’d almost passed out when he saw the price tag on the suit, and then he’d almost puked at the price tag on the tie. When he protested, his wife had given him one of her frosty looks and said, “This is important to me, Mick.”

  “Right,” he’d responded. “Well, I guess if this is how a student of military history dresses, what the hell, huh?”

  The look she gave him after that remark was cold enough to freeze-dry his internal organs.

  The next time he wore the suit—just a few months later—was at Julie’s funeral. He was actually surprised he hadn’t soaked it in Jack Daniel’s Black and dropped a lit match on it that same night.

  Forcing his attention back to the present, Mick reached for Shelby’s hand, the one that wasn’t gripping the hand of the distraught little intern, Kellie. He could only guess, but it seemed pretty obvious that she and the dead reporter had something going on between them. Poor kid.

  Shelby gave his hand a gentle squeeze. There were tears in her eyes, too, and they cut him to the quick. If it were up to him, she’d never cry again, by God. Ever. He’d never wanted to make a woman happier or keep her safer than pretty Ms. Shelby Simon.

  After the service, Mick stood aside while she greeted her colleagues. He felt like a damned Secret Service lunk, watching out for the president, checking entrances and exits, eyeing the hands that reached out to shake Shelby’s, checking for angry expressions, sullen demeanors, anything suspicious. He was wound so tight he was getting a headache.

  “How’s it going, Lieutenant?”

  Mick recognized the managing editor of the paper in whose office he’d met Shelby last week, but he couldn’t recall the guy’s name.

  “Hal Stabler,” the man said, stretching out his meaty hand. “Thanks for watching out for Shelby.”

  “No problem,” Mick said. “Sorry about McKay. He didn’t leave any notes or tapes or anything?”

  Stabler shook his head sadly. “Whatever it was he thought he knew about the letter bomb deal went to the grave with him. Shit. I’ve lost two of my best people in less than a week.”

  “Hey, boss.” Shelby emerged from behind the portly editor. “We’ll all miss Derek, won’t we? I feel so sorry for Kellie.”

  Stabler gave her a quizzical look, and Shelby’s face went a little pale. Apparently she’d let some sort of cat out of the proverbial bag by mentioning the young intern in the same sentence as the dead reporter.

  She covered her error with a quick smile. “Well, I feel so sorry for all of us.”

  “Has Kellie talked to you yet?” Stabler asked.

  Now Shelby looked confused. “Well, we’ve talked this morning. Did you mean something in particular, Hal?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “The column.”

  “What column?”

  “The one she’s going to write while yours is on hold.” That pretty face went even paler now and her finely sculpted jaw loosened a bit. Mick moved closer in order to grasp her arm.

  “Kellie’s going to write a column?” she asked, her voice obviously straining to stay out of the higher registers.

  “Look, Shelby”—Stabler leaned toward her—“Helm and Harris don’t want your readership to melt away just because you’re out of commission for a while. I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but that goddamned Alvin Wexler has suddenly started having Alice answer some pretty kinky questions. Anyway, Kellie wrote a mock-up column. I showed it to them upstairs, and they agreed it was good to go for a couple months.”

  “A couple months.” She sounded like someone with part of a ham sandwich stuck in her throat.

  “Yeah. It’s just temporary. Once you’re back, ‘According to Kellie’ will be history.”

  “ ‘According to Kellie’?” Now the entire ham sandwich, pickle, little frilly toothpicks, and all seemed lodged in her throat.

  It was probably a good thing that someone called to Hal Stabler just then from across the auditorium. He kissed her on the cheek, shook Mick’s hand again, and turned to work his way across the room.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Shelby said, pulling her arm from his grip, wheeling around, then walking faster than anyone ought to in heels that high.

  He sprinted after her, ready to catch her or keep her from strangling somebody. Whichever came first.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  They were in the Mustang, heading back to Mick’s place, and Shelby had just chewed through her last manicure.

  “If there’s nothing else you need to do in the city,” Mick said, “let’s pick up our stuff at my place and get the hell outta Dodge. What do you say?”

  “Fine.”

  She was almost afraid to speak for fear that long tongues of flame would come shooting out of her mouth. She’d never been so angry in her life. “According to Kellie.” Jesus.

  Okay. Sure. She could understand the dynamics of the newspaper business and the decision to run a column in place of hers. It made perfect sense. She agreed completely. It was a great idea. Fabulous. Fucking wonderful. Divinely inspired.

  But “According to Kellie”? Kellie Carter was a twenty-year-old college junior. What was she going to advise people about? Where to get the most money for their used textbooks? Which Windy City bars had the longest happy hours and the best tapas? Which professors had a thing for undergrad females? Which ones had a thing for undergrad males? Which internships could lead to an affair with a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist, not to mention a syndicated column of your very own?

  Little Kellie didn’t even know how to cope with her very own feelings of loss about Derek. She was such a mess at the memorial service that Shelby had quietly offered to take the young woman back to Heart Lake with her, believing that a bit of quiet time up there and a little guidance from Ms. Simon might help her significantly. When the girl didn’t seem to be able to make up her bereaved mind about it, Shelby had sketched her a map on the back of a memorial service program and told Kellie she was welcome at the lake anytime.

  “Just call first,” Shelby had said.

  “Thanks for being so kind to me,” Kellie responded. “You’re the best, Shelby.”

  During all their exchanges this morning, Kellie hadn’t said a single word about the new column. Shelby decided the intern was either too upset or else—and quite properly—she’d considered it a breach of etiquette to mention business during a memorial service. At least that reticence under the circumstances showed some sensitivity.

  But her own column?

  At least now Shelby had a pretty good idea why Sandy had quit. Her secretary had probably gotten wind of the new column and had stormed out in a fit of loyalty. Maybe Hal had even asked poor Sandy
to work for Kellie.

  Okay. Shit. The girl had a leg up on the job with Uncle Hal as managing editor, obviously. And she’s smarter than the average cookie, too. That’s what Shelby liked about her. Kellie saw an opportunity, and she pursued it. You go, girl.

  But... Dammit. If Helm and Harris wanted to run a bogus, temporary column that wouldn’t draw the ire of the letter bomber, why didn’t they just ask Ms. Simon to come up with something? Shelby would’ve said yes in a heartbeat, even if it meant she couldn’t use her own name on the column.

  Just as this thought occurred to her, Mick stepped on the gas in order to pass a westbound bus, and on the vehicle’s side, in the frame where Ms. Simon’s face should’ve been, was an empty space. Pretty soon there would probably be a photo of young Ms. Carter above the caption “According to Kellie... Everyone reads the Daily Mirror.”

  The longer Shelby stared at the empty space, the easier it was to picture Kellie’s face there. If she’d had a Magic Marker or a grease pen in her purse just then, Shelby would’ve rolled down the window and reached out to sketch a big, fat, black mustache on the imaginary redhead’s upper lip and one long, skanky hair on her dimpled chinny-chin-chin just for good measure.

  According to Kellie, her ass.

  She was still fuming and grinding her teeth when Callahan pulled up in front of his apartment building, and she was apparently still so engrossed in her own thoughts that she didn’t realize that he’d opened her door and was patiently holding out his hand to help her out of the car.

  Dear Ms. Simon,

  What’s a girl supposed to do when it seems like everything is falling apart?

  Signed,

  Worried in the Windy City

  Dear Worried,

  When somebody offers a helping hand, reach for it. Hold on tight.

  Ms. Simon says so.

  And that’s just what Shelby did.

  Mick wadded up the trousers and suit coat he’d just taken off and lobbed them into a corner of the bedroom. Good riddance, he thought, but then, suffering immediate recriminations, he picked up the clothes, folded them, and laid them on the mattress. A minute later he added the dress shirt and the purple tie. On the way out of town, he’d drop them off at the Good Shepherd Shelter, and by tonight there would be a wino, clad in Armani, picking through a Dumpster somewhere on West Division. The image brought a twisted smile to his lips as he put on his jeans and flannel shirt.