A Little Help from Above (15 page)

“Look, I know about the accident and you have my deepest sympathies, but I also heard you’re single and gorgeous, so just lay it on the line. Did he proposition you?”

“No, of course not. Why would you think that?” Of course he did. They always do.

“Because he hasn’t stopped talking about you. It’s Shelby this, and Shelby that. And Stacy said you’re like this big-shot journalist who looks like a Jewish Christie Brinkley and…”

“I’m sorry. I did nothing to encourage your husband.”

“Ah-ha! So he did come on to you.”

“Okay. You want the truth, seeing as how that seems to be my speciality?” Shelby’s voice grew louder. “The truth, Abby, is you’ve made your husband’s life a living hell with your outrageous demands and unending quest for more and better. Frankly, you sound like a castrating bitch who puts his balls in a vise every time you don’t get
your way. And yet I get the sense Scott really loves you and misses you. He needs you. So if you want my advice, here it is. When he comes home tonight, fuck his little brains out, chop up a few of your credit cards, tell him you want to start over, and I guarantee your worries will be a thing of the past.”

Had they been on a radio show, the silence that followed would have been called dead air.

“So, you’re not…” Abby didn’t finish.

“God no. The last thing I want in my life right now is another man who thinks nothing of burping, farting, and picking his nose, then crawling into bed looking for oral gratification!”

Abby laughed.

“Now how about returning the favor and telling me something I want to hear.”

“You want to know about Matthew Lieberman?”

“Exactly. Any clue where he might be?”

“I did ask around.” Abby cleared her throat, still embarrassed by her accusation. “The problem is no one seems to remember him. Didn’t he move away a long time ago?”

“Yes. In December 1969.”

“Wow. How could you remember that far back?”

“Because it was a week after my mother died.”

“Oh. I suppose that’s not a date you would forget.”

“No. So did anyone know anything at all?”

“Well I do have one possible lead,” Abby hesitated.

“Really?” Shelby loved a lead.

“Yes. This morning I was talking to my mother, and she thought her sister’s friend used to play mah-jongg with Matthew’s grandmother’s neighbor.”

“Oh,” Shelby’s heart sunk. “In my business that’s not a lead. That’s a dead end.”

“Maybe not. I took a shot and called my aunt, who called her friend, and the friend called the neighbor, even though they hadn’t spoken in twenty years, but it turns out she’d died last year. But her husband answered and he thought he remembered Matthew’s grandmother. Her name was Ruth, I think.”

Amazing, Shelby thought. With all the sophisticated technology available to hunt people down, nothing compared to the precision of Jewish Geography. “What did he say about her?”

“Unfortunately, not much. He’s close to ninety now and said he was just happy to remember where he left his teeth. But he did seem to recall something about his wife’s friend’s daughter, which would be Matthew’s mother, moving to California, then getting a divorce.”

“Yes. I knew about the move to California, but not about the divorce.”

“It’s probably why you can’t find him.”

“What do you mean?” Shelby loved when someone else had the insights for a change.

“Well if she got a divorce, it’s possible she remarried. And if her kids were still young at the time, and it was a messy divorce, maybe she let the man adopt them and they took his last name.”

It was the most sensible thing Abby had said yet. “You could be right. Thanks, Abby. I really appreciate your trying to help me. In spite of, you know…”

“I’m sorry about accusing you,” Abby said quietly.

“It’s okay. It happens all the time. Women just automatically assume…”

“Do you…this is a little awkward…” Abby stammered.

“It’s okay. What is it?” Shelby asked.

“Have you…Scott would love…By any chance, would you be interested in a threesome?”

Shelby carefully spread out the plush towel, coated her skin with sunscreen, sipped from the frosty glass of water, and slowly eased her lithe body onto the oversize chaise lounge Papa Bear probably ordered from some rich-boy catalog. Was there any better way to ponder her future than to bask in solitude, comfort, and seventy-eight-degree sunshine?

As she saw it, she had two choices. Plan A called for catching the next flight to anywhere that frowned on women who invited other women into their marriage bed for a little ménage à trois pick-me-up. Perhaps that leper colony in Maui she’d once read about was just such a place.

Plan B would be much trickier. It required taking the high road, rather than the heavily traveled low road. It required staying in Manhasset so she could convince Lauren to return to this house and make peace with it, in spite of the deception that occurred here. Plan B also involved visiting her father, preferably while he was in a semiconscious state so he wasn’t fully cognizant of the havoc his eldest had created in the short time she’d been home.

Which would it be? Thankfully she was free to explore her options in seclusion, as all the people she knew in the area were no longer speaking to her. Not even Pucci cared when she’d whistled for him to come over. Apparently word traveled fast in the canine community, too. Shelby Lazarus didn’t just report on bad news, she was bad news.

Yet even with all the turmoil in Shelby’s life, the warmth of the sunlight penetrated her body, filling her with rays of contentedness.
Within minutes her breathing slowed and she was in a dreamlike state, imagining a life where she was not only understood, but revered. Where her beliefs were not viewed as strange, but conventional. Where people came to her for guidance and direction. Where she could remove the top to her bathing suit without fear of exposing herself.

At least she could live out that part of the fantasy, she thought. It was just her and the birds. She quickly untied her straps and tossed her top on the other chair. Or so she thought. It was hard to say how long Shelby had been baking when she was suddenly startled by the feel of ice-cold water dripping down her back. In a dazed state she jumped up so fast, she forgot her cupboard was bare.

“Hi,” said Avi, the culprit, as he gaped at her firm, moist breasts, panting like Pucci.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shelby tried covering up with her hands.

“Sorree, yure highness.” He bowed, without taking his eyes off her. “I thought the fair maiden would like to be cooled off.”

“My God! Are you always such a jackass?” Shelby pushed him out of the way to reach for her silk, man-tailored shirt hanging on the other chair. “You’re a married man for Christ’s sake. Have you not a shred of decency?”

“Of course. Do you see me sitting outside with nothink on?”

Shelby gulped the rest of her water. “You know what I like best about you, Avi?”

“What?” he waited breathlessly.

“Nothing.” She grabbed her towel and took off for the guesthouse.

“No wait.” Avi followed. “I came to see you.”

“And see me you did.” Shelby kept walking.

“Don’t go,” Avi pleaded. “You have to help me. Lauren is getting so crazy I kent even talk to her. She’s a mess.”

“Well no wonder.” Shelby turned around. “She married the world’s biggest buffoon.”

“What ken I say?” He shrugged. “She loves me. But yure the only one she listens to.”

“Fine. I’ll go over to your place and speak to her.”

“Miss Shelly, Miss Shelly.” Maria opened the kitchen sliders and stepped on to the deck.

It’s a simple concept, Shelby winced. Just say Shelly with a B. “Yes?”

“A man is here to see you.”

“You’re kidding?” she looked down at her bare legs and wet shirt. “Who is it?”

“Askin’s not my job, only answerin’,” Maria threw back her head. “Hey, hon.” She waved to Avi. “I didn’t hear you come in. Will you be wantin’ lunch?”

“No time.” He made sad eyes. “You didn’t expect company?” Avi asked Shelby.

“No.” She panicked, assuming it was Scott Rosenthal. God help her if Abby had repeated their phone conversation.

“Greetings and salutations,” a tall, friendly-sounding man ushered himself into the backyard from the side of the house. “Shelby, darling. I hope I’m not interrupting your little soirée.”

The glare from the sunlight made it difficult to make out the face, but she certainly knew the voice. “Ian?”

“The one and only.” He took giant steps to reach her in haste, leaning over for a hug.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

Ian waved his naughty-naughty finger. “In spite of what you think, I do manage to pick up a paper now and again. And when I read that dreadful story about the Lazarus couple getting whacked by a gardener I thought, that’s what must have brought Shelby to New York.”

“Uh-huh,” Shelby eyed him suspiciously. Ian didn’t so much as pee without an agenda.

“Care for a cool drink?” Maria asked the handsome guest.

“That would be lovely, thank you. Do you have iced tea?”

“Raspberry, peach, or ginseng?”

“Oh dear. A choice. Peach sounds peachy, thank you.”

Shelby groaned at Ian’s impersonation of a charming man.

“Avi Streiffler.” Avi vigorously shook Ian’s hand. “We’re femily.” He pointed to Shelby.

“Pleased to meet you, Avi. Ian McNierney here. Sorry to hear about the folks. This must be a difficult time.” He eyed Shelby’s near-barren body and practically smacked his lips.

Shelby looked down to see the outline of her perspired breasts peering through the shirt and was mortified. The two most vile men she knew were getting a free show, and the more she squirmed, the
more they lapped it up. “Your concern is appreciated.” She crossed her arms. “But most people sent cards.”

“And I thought you deserved better. I’ve come to take you to dinner.”

“It’s three o’clock,” Shelby cried.

“Then we shall start with drinks.” He winked, refusing to budge.

After showering and changing, Shelby peeked into the backyard from her bathroom window and cringed. It was like an international bazaar out there with a snippy, Jamaican housekeeper, a morally vacant Israeli, and an egotistical, self-centered, British editor somehow managing to find common ground. Or at least a topic that tickled their funny bones.

Upon edging closer to the conversation, Shelby knew instinctively the source of their mutual interest was her. It was a no-brainer. The party ended the moment she was spotted.

“What’s so amusing?” Shelby eyed each of the suspects.

“Oooh. That dryer buzzes before you know it.” Maria took off.

“Look at the time.” Avi tapped his watch. “I hef to be at JFK for a three-thirty pickup.”

“We were just chatting about this and that.” Ian cleared his throat as he eyed her denim shorts. “You look lovely, of course, but I was hoping you’d dress a bit more formally for dinner.”

“Sorry,” Shelby shrugged. “Dinner’s out. I have to go meet my sister, then we’ll probably run over to the hospital.”

“Oh dear,” Ian pouted. “I made us a reservation at the Garden City Hotel.”

“Take Avi and Maria.” Shelby smirked. “Then you’ll have company and a song.”

“Such a clever girl.” Ian winked. “How I miss your tongue in my cheek.”

“My tongue was never in your cheek, asshole.”

“Pity. I would have made it so worth your while.” He rubbed her arm.

Ian immediately regretted the boorish remark as he nearly had to apologize on bended knee to salvage the remains of the day. Finally, upon assuring Shelby he wanted to discuss an exciting freelance writing assignment he had in mind for her, she agreed to join him for coffee at a diner.

How could she refuse? A freelance assignment would jump-start
her career without having to get all chummy with the kids in the newsroom. Her hours would be her own, as would be her outrageous fee. She would make sure of that. But upon hearing the gory details, Shelby balked.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, wondering if she’d ever be able to drop her trademark line from her personal lexicon. “You want me to do a ‘whatever happened to’ piece on the socialite couples whose wedding announcements appeared in the New York Times on the same weekend ten years ago.”

“Quite right. Aren’t you the quick study?”

“Why the hell would I even want to read that crap, let alone write it? What do you think all the Muffies and Chippers of the world are doing? They’re living in million-dollar homes in Greenwich with their 2.2 kids, their 3.2 dogs and 4.1 cars. They never winter where they summer, oh, and Chipper has new golf clubs and a twenty-two-year-old playmate on the side.”

“Interesting analysis.” Ian sipped his imitation cappuccino. “But let’s not be too hasty pointing a finger at Chipper’s extramarital relations.” He winked. “Muffy has them, too.”

“So what’s your point? That the institution of marriage is dead?”

“That’s totally daft, darling. Of course not. I just want to poke a little fun at the Old Gray Lady by showing the institution of the New York Times wedding section is dead.”

“Uh-huh.” Shelby downed the last of her coffee. “And it’s your contention by dredging up a bunch of preppies whose marriages were more like mergers, you’ll be able to prove their genetically disposed tendency to drink, philander, and squander Daddy’s money made it impossible to keep their vows, forcing the folks from WASPYville to skulk back to their debutante balls in shame?”

“Precisely.” Ian rubbed his hands. “It’s an utterly delicious story, don’t you think?”

“No, it’s moronic,” Shelby replied. “Furthermore, why would I want to personally go after the Times? After a piece like that ran with my byline, they wouldn’t hire me to clean the toilets.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing, darling.”

“Sorry. I have enough problems without committing professional suicide. I pass.”

“Would this change your mind?” Ian scribbled a figure on his napkin and pushed it over.

Shelby’s eyes widened. “Are you crazy? For a lousy freelance job?”

“It means a lot to me.” Ian shrugged. “Think of it as a personal vendetta piece.”

“I see.” Shelby drummed on the table. “And would this vendetta have anything to do with the very rich and famous Alexandra Simonson Wellbourge IV?”

Ian squirmed. “What made you go down that road?”

“Because if memory serves me, after being presented at the Debutante Cotillion Ball, Ms. Simonson was to become the first Mrs. Ian James McNierney until she decided to stand you up at the altar and marry for money. I believe the heir to the Preston Hufstadt banking fortune.”

“Were you also aware the man was nothing more than a depraved, suicidal, bisexual Nazi?”

“Which could explain why she’s on husband number three, and face-lift number two.”

“Bravo, bravo.” Ian clapped. “An excellent summary of the facts.”

“What I don’t get is why the hell you care? You’re a happily married man now.”

“Yes I am. Maureen’s a lovely girl. Lovely. Very lovely…”

“But you never got over the humiliation of being dumped on your wedding day, and now that you’re in a position of power, why not expose the Mayflower sisters for what they really are?”

“If not for the press, who would these self-absorbed parasites be accountable to?”

“Okay, so let’s say we prove unequivocally that after you strip away the pearls and the pedigrees, debutantes make lousy spouses. And that the deal with the Roman numeral guys is, the higher the number after their name, the lousier the sex. You really think publicizing these well-known facts will vindicate you?”

“You are sharper than a beaver quill in the ass,” Ian cried. “How did I ever let you go?”

Shelby signaled the waitress to refill her cup, which pleased Ian. “So what do you think?” He leaned forward. “Have I piqued your interest?”

“Maybe. But only because it occurs to me I may have a counteroffer for you.”

“Excellent.” He rubbed his hands. “I love when you proposition me.”

“I might be willing to write your crappy story, if you approve one I want to write.”

“Go on.”

“The topic is DES.”

“Surely you jest.” Ian groaned. “We’re a newspaper.” He emphasized the word new. “The DES story is so old it predates my Pulitzer.”

“So does the Lindbergh kidnapping, but hear me out. Yes, the FDA finally issued a warning not to dispense it to pregnant women, but it took twenty-five years to act. By then nearly five million women had already taken megadoses of the fake hormone, and the barn door was swinging. Not only did it turn out DES significantly increased their risk of breast cancer, but they unknowingly passed on catastrophic medical and reproductive problems to their children. Now you’ve got millions of daughters and granddaughters walking around feeling deformed because they can’t bear children or even get a clean bill of health. I’m telling you the ramifications are so widespread and injurious to families, DES makes Thalidomide look like a little mix-up at the pharmacy.”

“You sound rather impassioned about this. Are you, by chance, among the victims?”

“Indirectly, yes.” Shelby bowed her head. It was the first time she’d considered herself a victim of circumstances, but the association was valid. “I actually did a story on DES a few years ago, before I was aware there was a family connection. But last week when my sister, Lauren, discovered she was a DES daughter, it suddenly wasn’t old news anymore.”

“Of course you’ve spoken to your mother about this I presume.”

“I can’t. She died from ovarian cancer in 1969.”

“Oh, dear, dear, dear.” Ian actually appeared saddened. “How old was she?”

“My age,” Shelby whispered. “Thirty-eight.”

“I see. I never realized…so this woman in the hospital now? She’s not your mummy?”

“No, my aunt.”

“Your father married his aunt?”

Shelby groaned. Maybe she should just tattoo her forehead with
the phrase, She’s my aunt, not his. “No, a year after my mother died he married my aunt. My mother’s younger sister.”

“Likes to keep it in the family, hey?” Ian winked. “I once dated two sisters at the same time, unbeknownst to them, of course. That was quite a row when they found out…”