“Positive.” She brushed a bagel crumb from his face. “I’m fine with a cab.”
“Is there anything I can do? Call your boss? Water the plants?”
“No need. The last one died Tuesday.”
“Your boss or your plant?” He pulled Shelby to him. “Can I at least give you a hug?”
“Sure.” She shrugged, not expecting the warm embrace to feel so good it nearly broke her momentum. “Shoot. I still have to call the office and cancel out on the Cubs game. What do you think I should tell them?”
“I don’t know. I’m generally partial to the truth.”
“Sounds like a plan. But I can’t do that. I never share my personal life at work.”
Or anywhere, David thought as he watched Shelby head down the hall to the elevator. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” He waved. “I hear TB is making a comeback.”
“Such a kidder.” Shelby chuckled before stepping into the elevator.
Not this time, he thought. For David was painfully aware he knew virtually nothing about his new love, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. Even after their most intimate moments he could only get Shelby to reveal small, meaningless nuggets. She wasn’t just playing her story close to the vest, she was playing it under lock and key. Even a private investigator on his law firm’s payroll came up emptier-handed than expected. “Lady’s done a damn good job covering her tracks.” The investigator shrugged when he threw a half-page dossier on David’s desk. “She may be a great reporter, but she’s a lousy source.”
So, David remained in the dark. Precisely where she wanted him. And everyone else.
Chapter Two
Would you look at Shelby? She gets a frantic call to fly home and her only concern is charging through the airport in search of coffee. I was happy with a fresh cup of Maxwell House, but not my daughter. The only blend good enough for her is Viennese-roasted and overpriced. Make that a grande! Such mishegas with the coffee. In my day, no one would dream of spending three dollars for hot water with a spritz of caffeine and a spray of foam.
Not that I didn’t expect the world to change in the thirty years since I’m gone. Still, I barely recognize the place. Day spas on every corner, miniature telephones you carry in your pocketbook, and so many racy television programs. I do happen to love that Sex and the City. I just couldn’t imagine calling my mother, may she rest in peace with me, and saying, “Ma, come over. Let’s watch four young gals on TV discussing multiple orgasms over breakfast.” It’s all so different.
Then again, some things never change. Like stubbornness, pettiness, and families who fight. Like mine. Basically good people at heart, but always bickering and finger pointing. This one said this, and that one did that.
Shelby is the worst. Defiant. Judgmental. Always standing on her little soapbox. So it comes as no surprise that she’s not on speaking terms with her sister, her father, her stepmother, or her stepbrother. I suppose she has her reasons. But on the other hand, she wasn’t any easier to deal with as a child.
I remember one time when four-year-old Lauren was searching frantically for Barbie and Ken. Poor dear had spent all morning setting up the den for the big wedding when she realized the bride and groom were missing from her dollcase. Naturally, she assumed Shelby, the tyrant, had hidden them on purpose. And, naturally, ten-year-old Shelby denied the charges, screaming at the top of her lungs that she didn’t take the stupid dolls, but if she found them first she was going to cut off their heads so they could never get married.
At the time I wondered if she was projecting the angst of my younger sister Roz, who was trying to manage her first trimester morning sickness. Had Shelby figured out that the nausea had less to do with the pregnancy than the fact that her aunt was thirty-one, broke and single?
Regardless, Shelby had to look no further than me for proof that marriage and family could be wonderful. In fact, back in 1969, I was Sandy Lazarus, queen of the good life. Loving wife. Devoted mother. Our home in Manhasset Hills, Long Island, was to die for (although I never expected literally). We had the first built-in swimming pool on the block, a Jaguar in the driveway, membership in a private country club, and shares of stock in some little computer outfit that my husband wouldn’t stop yapping about. “What does IBM make?” I wanted to know. “Money!” he laughed.
And then without warning it was all over. By the end of the year, Larry had wealth but no wife. A limited edition car, but no one for whom he could open the door. Two beautiful little girls, but no mother to pick out their clothes each morning.
Naturally it was a difficult time for the family, but especially for Shelby. Not only did she have to cope with the loss of her mother, but her best friend, Matthew Lieberman.
When we first moved to Majestic Court, I was thrilled to discover a family three doors down with a baby the same age as Shelby. Little did we know that putting two toddlers in a sandbox would be the start of an inseparable, ten-year-long friendship. A friendship that surely would have continued if not for the fact that Matty was uprooted to California, the casualty of a dreamy-eyed father who thought Hollywood needed another agent.
It seems the night before the Liebermans moved, Matty pulled Shelby behind the snow-covered azaleas in our backyard, hugged her tightly, and kissed her on the lips for what felt like an eternity. Then he promised that whatever happened to him, he would love her forever.
Shelby was devastated. If this was true love, and she was certainly feeling something, did it mean she would turn into a sissy like Lauren, who brushed her dolls’ hair for hours and spoke of nothing other than bridesmaids and china patterns? She never found out. After Matty moved, she never heard from him again.
Is abandonment why my darling daughter is thirty-eight and as single as a sock in the dryer? Why her most committed relationships so far have been with Mr. Sushi and the dry cleaner?
Her therapist says it’s because she has many issues to resolve. I say name three people who don’t. He says it’s fine to choose a career over family. I say Golda Meir had one hell of a big job, and she somehow managed to have a husband and kids. He says she still has time to work things out. I say enough is enough. I have to do something.
Yes, I know that meddling with destiny is a big no-no up here. And with good reason. If all of us entry-level souls had the power of divine intervention, the universe would be inextricably altered.
But this is my child we’re talking about. My precious firstborn. And herein lies a universal truth that is even more powerful than the laws of God and eternity. It’s the law of motherhood. Whether dead or alive, our job never ends.
“Excuse me.” Shelby hailed a passing cart the airlines used to transport the elderly. “I’ve just thrown my back out. Could you possibly take me to Gate 21?”
“Hop in, lovely lady.” The gentleman smiled. “I don’t often get the pleasure of escorting a pretty young thing.”
“Thank you.” She tossed her gear in back, wondering how different her life would have been had she been born plain-faced or obese. “No cup holders?” She held on to the paper mug.
The driver raised an eyebrow. “It’s a cart, dear. Not a BMW.”
“I knew that.” Shelby smiled, suddenly concerned he’d recognize her from the paper and typecast her as one of those overpaid media snobs who expected royal treatment. Which she did.
Still, it had been so exciting when the Trib’s advertising department plastered her likeness all over billboards and city buses. Even if she didn’t yet understand the downside of fame. Which translated to having to behave nicely in public. Virtually overnight she’d lost the freedom to blow off windbags, vent on incompetent store clerks, or in today’s case, unload on a sadistic driver who thought he was traversing the Autobahn.
“Gate 21.” Mr. Leadfoot jammed the brakes. “Take care and have a nice day.”
Shelby felt the hot coffee splash under the lid, wincing at how close she’d come to wearing it. “Thanks again.” She winked. Okay, people are watching. Wa
ve bye-bye to the nice man.
She grabbed her gear off the cart, took one look at the packed waiting area, and shuddered. The only empty seat was next to a screaming infant. Good God. The least a parent could do was sedate their whiny kid before subjecting the public to their offending racket.
Little did Shelby know a baby’s cry could be so ear-shattering, it could drown out the sound of her name being called. A second, louder attempt did, however, catch her attention.
“Shelby? Is that you darling?”
Suddenly she was face-to-face with a face she hadn’t faced in ages. Which hadn’t been long enough. Even the baby sensed the storm warning and miraculously piped down. “Ian?”
“You look wonderful. What has it been? Five years?” the tall, dignified-looking man leaned in to peck her cheek.
“Where does the time go?” Shelby gritted.
“Looks like we’re on the same flight, isn’t that peachy? Plenty of time to catch up on the good old days and, in the meanwhile, you’ll watch my bags while I make a pee-pee. You do look wonderful.” He kissed her hand.
Pee-pee? Where were the airsick bags when you needed them most? Shelby watched Ian McNierney, the British import, scurry off to the men’s room, his sixty-year-old Continental swagger still making ladies’ heads turn. He was the only straight man she’d ever worked for who was more proud of his ass than his dick.
Suddenly she felt lower back pain. Not the stress-induced, premenstrual ache she could tame with Advil. Not even the throbbing muscle pain she felt after her personal Nazi trainer forced her into a few too many reps on the hip extension machine. No. In her professional opinion she was experiencing the eye-popping, fist-clenching, flare up of the sciatic nerve.
“Shit!” She tried holding back the tears as she ransacked her pocketbook. Why now? God help her if she hadn’t packed her prescription pain reliever. Otherwise, she’d be spending the flight in the aisle, rocking on all fours. But there they were at the bottom of her bag. She downed two with the last sip of coffee and closed her eyes.
“Serves you right for lying about your back,” Granny Bea Good suddenly interrupted her thoughts. A terrifying phenomenon, given her maternal grandmother was currently residing on Planet Alzheimer’s. Shelby squeezed her temples. Jewish guilt not only traveled fast, it traveled far. How else to explain the ability to receive a message transmitted fifteen hundred miles by a woman who hadn’t had a lucid thought since the Reagan administration?
“I know I shouldn’t have misled the driver,” Shelby relayed back. “But I only had two choices. Tell a small, white lie, or miss the flight.” Oh God. I’m hearing voices and answering them. Could this day possibly get any worse?
Yes, actually. United announced a slight boarding delay just as Ian returned to the gate area. The thought of having to make small talk for more than a minute almost made her bolt.
What would they discuss? His burgeoning portfolio? His Pulitzer prize? Again? Surely he’d mention his latest sexual conquests. She winced. If there was a merciful God, Ian had finally concluded he was too old to chase every underage girl who had two legs and a skirt.
In all her years as a journalist, never had Shelby encountered a colleague as repugnant or loathsome as Ian McNierney. But having been forced to work under him, even figuratively, had made matters worse. In fact he had caused her such intense angst she considered suicide. Or binging. A choice she fortunately never had to make because he fired her. “Here’s a little pink slip for your lingerie drawer,” the Brit bastard sneered over drinks one evening.
In retrospect, he’d done her an enormous favor, unwittingly catapulting Shelby’s career into an income and recognition stratosphere that garnered frequent mentions in her alma mater’s Columbia Journalism Review. Still, there’d be no forgiving or forgetting Ian’s abusive, employees-are-prisoners, management style.
And yet as he approached, he not only appeared haggard, but forlorn. His once piercing gray eyes looked as drab as cardboard. His fashion savvy still said GQ, but gone was the towering model’s body to carry them off. It almost seemed laughable he’d ever represented such a threat to her integrity and dreams.
So why couldn’t she help wonder how he was faring? Last she’d heard Ian had gone to work for fellow countryman Nigel Moore, alienating and harassing unsuspecting colleagues at the New York Informer, a new daily paper so racy, it often made the other tabloids in town look like church bulletins.
“Ah, there you are.” Ian tossed a fellow passenger’s bag onto the floor so he could squeeze in next to Shelby. “Have you thought of me? Have you missed me?” He took her hand in his and gazed into her eyes.
She almost vomited on his Harrods’ engraved cuff links. “Oh yes, darling. In fact all these years I’ve wondered if I’d stayed at the Free Press, would I have been the next Mrs. McNierney?”
“You’ve made my day.” Ian swooned, bringing her hand to his heart. “I feel complete knowing Shelby Lazarus yearned for me. A headline if ever there was one.”
“Really? I prefer this headline: HORSE’S ASS MISSING; BRIT EDITOR CLAIMS RESPONSIBILITY.” Shelby snorted. “Frankly, after the way you treated me back in Detroit, you deserve nothing short of death by castration. In fact, thanks to you, I always carry a knife.”
Ian slowly released the clutch on her hand, then let out a laugh so boisterous it made his paunch jiggle. “My dear Shelby. Did that feel good giving me the what for? Do it again,” he winked. “You know how I like ’em feisty.”
“You are a sick, sick man.”
“No longer. You must believe me. I’ve changed.”
“Oh good. The world needed one less psychopath in heat.”
“That’s over and done with, I assure you.”
“And the narcissism?”
“I think only of others.”
“Ah, but have you remained faithful to your wife?”
“Please, Shelby. I said I was a changed man, not a saint. Matter of fact,” he whispered, “I flew in just yesterday to rendezvous with a lovely new lady friend. God bless Viagra.”
Shelby stood up and grabbed her bag. “You know what, Ian? I’ve had a fairly crappy day so far. Which puts me in the dubious position of asking a large favor of you.”
“For you dear, anything,” he crooned in his mother tongue.
“Good. Here’s the drill. We need to pretend we never met. We’re total strangers. Got it?”
Shelby didn’t await his reply. First-class passengers were boarding, and although she was not among them today, she prayed to the God of Aviation that the gate agent would recognize her and allow her to board early.
Moments after takeoff, Shelby found herself in a surprisingly relaxed state. The narcotics, or whatever was in those little blue pills that kept her sciatic nerve in check, were performing admirably. More importantly, the source of her pain, Ian, was nowhere in sight. Adding to her good fortune, her seatmate, a lady advertising executive from J. Walter Thompson, was cordial without being chatty. Everything was perfect, save for the fact the woman had sprayed her Guerlain fragrance too liberally. Didn’t matter. Soon Shelby would drift off to a serene place where nothing and no one could penetrate her thoughts. Not David, not Lauren, not Granny Bea Good, and mostly not Ian, the scum.
Or so she thought, until her senses were suddenly jolted by whiffs of a strong scent. A male scent she guessed fell into the Polo family. Where was Ms. Guerlain? She opened her eyes and jumped upon discovering Ian in the seat beside her.
“What are you doing here? I told you to stay away from me! Where is my friend?”
“Easy there, lass. The lady is fine. I simply asked if she would be a darling and switch seats for a few minutes. And, bless her soul, she was quite nice about it.”
Shelby closed her eyes and leaned back. “What do you want from me?”
“Actually, I had an epiphany during the cocktail hour,” he announced, raising his plastic wine cup. “I said to myself, ‘Little Shelby is quite the dandy reporter now. She should c
ome back to work for you.’”
“Work for you? I don’t want to be in the same hemisphere as you!”
“Come now. You’ve got to be bored silly at that little hometown paper, diddling every day with that column of yours. I’ve read you on-line and you carry on like a Mike Royko wanna-be.”
“For your information, the Trib is the seventh largest circulation paper in the country, and I am honored to be compared to Royko. The man was a legend.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But I’d think you’d be tickled to be in New York with the big boys.”
“Why, Ian. You of all people should know size doesn’t matter.” She winked.
“Touché, my dear. Jolly good one. But if it’s the high regard of your colleagues you desire, then you know as well as I, you’re just snot in a tissue until you make it in New York.”
“Oh, and like my colleagues would envy me if I joined your little rag? The only reason you have any readership at all is because the front page uses small words and big tits.”
“Quite right, but maybe you’ll be a tad less judgmental when Uncle Ian lets you in on a little secret. Last month I ran into your friend, Irving Davidoff, at the ANPA convention, and he was discussing your work.”
“I’m sure it was all good.” Shelby’s pulse quickened. Hopefully. The Trib’s tyrannical executive editor was better known for shouting obscenities than singing someone’s praises.
“Oh, yes, he’s quite fond of you. Although he did mention possible changes coming.”
Her back stiffened. “Oh, that,” Shelby said. “Every few years they bring in another high-paid consultant to redesign the paper, and no matter what, it still looks like the Trib.”
“Actually, I believe he was referring to personnel changes.” Ian coughed.
“Really?” Shelby pretended to stifle a yawn. “That’s old news, too. Features and Sports let a few stringers go. I hear you get bigger shakes at McDonald’s.”
But, she knew full well what Ian was getting at. The biggest thing circulating at the paper for the past month were rumors of a shakeup. Not that she’d felt threatened. Only once had she received a terse note from Mr. Davidoff, and that was merely to suggest she limit her derogatory remarks about Chicago’s deputy mayor. A woman Shelby subsequently discovered was the mayor’s lover. And Mr. Davidoff’s. Fortunately, that incident was long forgotten. She prayed.
A Little Help from Above Page 2
