7
MERCEDES SPENT THE NEXT two days writing all sorts of steamy fantasies that involved black-haired men, red-haired men, but absolutely no brown-haired men at all. She even dreamed up a guy with a shaved head, just in case Sam was reading.
Green eyes were taboo. She used blue eyes, black eyes, and one with a pirate patch. But no green eyes—or hazel eyes, alternatively—were allowed.
She’d been silly not to see it, but her imagination wasn’t like a high-definition television screen. It was fuzzy, a Vaseline-covered lens that was more like a dream.
Sam had thought she’d written about him on purpose, milking his fame for her own purposes. But it just happened, because Sam filled her head, crowding out all the normal made-up characters that lurked there, and that was what bugged her most of all.
When it came to men, Mercedes didn’t have a brilliant track-record. Hell, it wasn’t even a poor track-record and it traced all the way back to her father. A man she’d never known. A man who stuck around when Andrew and Jeff were kids, but had elected to bolt when Mercedes was born.
Her mother had said he wasn’t a good man, his eyes always searching for some new horizon. However, Mercedes wasn’t sure. It always seemed to her that Mercedes was the problem. When you were a kid, it wasn’t hard to make that leap, and after you got older, the rational brain explained it away, but the kid’s brain still made that leap that somehow you were the reason he was gone. After all, he’d stuck around for Andrew and Jeff, but when Mercedes had been born—boom, out the door, don’t forget to turn out the lights.
Just like all the men she dated.
But she suspected that Sam was different. Deep inside, hidden away from the world, hidden away from her mind, she knew he was different. He was a good man, he was a man that stayed around, and she didn’t date that sort of a man—the kind you could fall for. She didn’t want to fall for him, but that didn’t stop her from writing in her blog, knowing that he was reading her words. It didn’t stop her from wanting him to call.
Distractions came on Thursday, the appointed day for bridesmaid dress-shopping with Jamie, AKA Bridezilla Takes Manhattan.
The Bridal Stop was the go-to spot for all things wedding, although the store was enough to turn anyone off the institution of marriage. The displays were accented with baby’s breath and pearls, and cute ring-bearer pillows. Dresses covered the walls, in colors from pastels to pinks, lilacs to lavender, and the forty-seven shades of pale purple in between. Even the air was scented with Bridal Mist fragrance, that smell of excitement and smug accomplishment at having snared a man for the kill. Whoever said men were the hunters had never watched a bride planning her wedding.
Mercedes didn’t like weddings. They made her nervous. People made promises they wouldn’t keep, promises for forever, or eight and a half years, whichever came first. No, the whole wedding business gave her the willies, but not Jamie. Oh, no, Jamie was in her element, her PDA stylus pushed behind one ear, and the checklist of items in her hand.
“Mercedes, I’ve located three Vera Wangs in a dark maroon, which should go well with your coloring, I think. Sheldon, for you, I got a Lazaro in royal blue, but I had them bring in two other Alvina Valenta designs, in case the blue and maroon clashed.”
Jamie looked up from her checklist, spied the sales associate and pointed. “Do you have those silver shoes, two inch heels, pointed toe, but a little wide across the arch? I need to see those in—” She turned to Mercedes. “Size?”
“Seven and a half,” answered Mercedes.
“Sheldon?”
“Six.”
“Got that?”
The sales girl, used to the various idiosyncrasies of new, possibly hormonally charged brides-to-be, merely nodded.
“So, we do the dresses today, and if we get the shoes out of the way as well, then we’re almost eighty percent to completion. Way to go, ladies.”
Sheldon picked at the row of tiaras, and sat one on her head. On anybody else it would have been over the top, on Sheldon, she looked like a princess. Mercedes sighed wistfully.
Sheldon frowned in the mirror. “I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?” asked Jamie, plucking at the tiara, frowning, and putting it safely away.
“I have this project I’ve been working on.”
“You’re going to rent yourself out as a professional bridesmaid and spare others the indignity?”
Sheldon made a face. “Please. No, this is something serious.”
“Serious sounds serious.”
Sheldon looked around nervously. “I’m starting a foundation. Music for kids in the inner-city. All the politicians are proposing to cut the funding for the arts, and I thought I could make a difference.”
“Wow, that’s so…so, worthy,” said Mercedes.
“Do you think I can do it?”
“Hell, yeah, I think you can do it.” Sheldon, being rich, and gorgeous, naturally had self-image problems. “Do you need help?” asked Mercedes.
“Yeah.”
“I know absolutely nothing about fund-raising, nor am I musically gifted like you—”
“I’m not gifted.”
“You play the violin. In my book, that’s gifted.”
“Fine. You’ll help?”
“Yeah.”
“Jamie?”
“I can spare four hours a week, six when it’s not end of the quarter, but you’d be surprised what you can get done in a few hours.”
“I’m always amazed,” muttered Mercedes.
Right then, Jamie’s PDA rang and she picked it up.
“Hello?”
Her face turned dark.
“No, we’re not having a horse-drawn carriage. A standard town-car is fine…That’s what Andrew said?” Jamie asked, her face turning a shade darker. “Okay, let’s table this until tomorrow. I’ll give you a definitive answer then.”
Jamie hung up and braced herself against the wall. “I’ve created a monster.”
Mercedes tried not to smile, but it was difficult. Jamie didn’t ever get flustered, but Mercedes had lived with Andrew during her formative years and she knew better. “Problem?”
Jamie blew out a breath. “Andrew. He keeps interfering in my wedding plans.”
“Well, he is part of the ceremony,” added Sheldon. “A key part.”
“You don’t understand. We had this discussion, almost a debate.”
“An argument?” asked Mercedes.
“No, not an argument.” Jamie worked her mouth for a moment, putting the words together. “In the beginning, we created a plan and a budget, and everything was wonderful. I was determined to stick to that plan, but then one of Andrew’s golf buddies started bragging about his daughter’s wedding, some big foo-foo thing at St. Patrick’s, and Andrew decided that I should have something bigger, more romantic. It’s completely not like him to do this, but he’s worried that I won’t be satisfied. I won’t be satisfied? He’s going to blow our budget by four hundred percent. Now that will make me unsatisfied.”
“He’s made up his mind about this?” asked Mercedes, because when Andrew made up his mind, well, it wasn’t going to change. Jamie might as well throw in the towel now.
“I don’t want doves or horse-drawn carriages,” Jamie insisted.
“It could be worse,” added Sheldon.
“How?”
“You could rent a Hummer Limo for the getaway car.”
Mercedes laughed, because Jamie had met Andrew when they were forced to share a Hummer Limo ride to Connecticut. Complications ensued when they shared more than a ride.
However, instead of laughing, Jamie’s eyes flashed with an a-ha gleam. “Sheldon, that’s perfect!”
Sheldon looked startled. “Really?”
Jamie nodded, her lips curving up with fond memories. “Yes. But I want it to be a surprise. And no horse-drawn carriages. I will make this budget, I will.”
Mercedes thought Jamie was fighting a losing battle, but Jamie was made of tough stuff. She sat down on the tiny, pearl-encrusted bench and looked at her sister-in-law-to-be. “Are you getting nervous?” she asked curiously.
“Why would I be nervous?”
Actually, Jamie seemed completely unfazed about putting her entire future into the hands of one man. “A lot of people would be nervous about getting married.”
“Maybe so, but they aren’t marrying Andrew.”
Mercedes loved her brother, thought he was the best, but still….
“How’re the book sales coming?” asked Sheldon.
Mercedes made a pickle face. “Eh.”
Jamie looked up. “Your book’s out?”
“Yes.”
Jamie clicked into her PDA and then looked up triumphantly. “Just ordered seven copies from Amazon.”
Mercedes’s jaw dropped, awed at Jamie’s super-caffeinated level of productivity. Mercedes was slightly in awe of her. “Thanks,” Mercedes said. “It’s appreciated.”
“How was San Francisco? The show was pretty good. I TiVoed it, because GE was releasing their earnings after the market closed, and I needed to update a report for a client, but Andrew and I watched it later. I thought you were good.”
The associate returned with the shoes, and Sheldon pulled hers on. “Your segment was too short, though, and Jeff said you kept tapping your fingers on the table. You really should let him give you media training. It’d help.”
“Thanks,” answered Mercedes, sitting in a chair, tugging off her shoes.
“How was Sam?” asked Sheldon, in a sly voice.
“Who?” asked Mercedes, trying not to remember his fingers on the arch of her foot.
“Your host?” asked Jamie, suddenly ganging up on her as well. At that point, Mercedes knew she’d been tag-teamed. Outmaneuvered by her brothers’wenches. It was demeaning, because at one time, nobody had pulled this off better than Mercedes herself. Pooh. She was slipping.
“Oh, that Sam. Yeah, he was good. Nice.”
“What was the look for? The one you gave him right at the end of the show? Jeff said something that I can’t repeat, but I was right there with him.”
Mercedes forced a laugh. “I write sexy stuff, so I want to keep that image for the press. It’s my persona.”
Jamie stood, a shoe tapping in her hand. “Yeah, uh, huh.”
Mercedes buried her face in her hands. “Guys, please don’t tell me that I embarrassed myself on national TV.”
Jamie came over and patted her on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t have noticed it myself until Andrew pointed it out. He said you used to look at—what was that guy’s name?”
“Johnny D’Amato?” offered Sheldon.
“Yup, that’s the one. Andrew said you had it really, really bad for this Johnny dude in high school and you used to flash him the look. Did it work in high school?”
Mercedes lifted her head. “Yeah.”
Sheldon wiggled her brows. “Did it work in San Francisco?”
“I am not saying a word. My lips are sealed. Not saying a word.”
“That’s a yes,” laughed Jamie.
“It’s a no.”
Sheldon shook her head. “No, if it was a no, you would have just said no.”
“It was a no,” insisted Mercedes.
“Sure thing, Mercedes. We believe you.”
“Can we try on dresses now?” asked Mercedes, needing to run away and hide in the dressing room before the evil women pulled more secrets out of her. She grabbed the fluted gown from the hanger, and zoomed into the dressing area.
“How’s Andreas?” asked Sheldon.
Mercedes shrugged into the dress, pulling up the sleeves. “I broke up with him. Not that we were actually in a relationship that could be broken up, but in case he thought that, I broke up with him.”
“Really? Why’d you do that?”
“Just tired of the B.S.”
Sheldon giggled. “Mercedes? Mercedes Brooks? Is it the real Mercedes Brooks? You live and die by the B.S.”
“Maybe in the past.”
“There’s a difference in the Mercedes of the past and the Mercedes of the now? Why?”
“I don’t know,” answered Mercedes, looking at herself in the mirror, and frowning. That was her, but it didn’t feel like her. She felt older, smarter, sadder.
“I’m glad you broke up with him. He treated you like garbage and it’s about time you realized it.”
“He didn’t treat me that bad.”
“Did, too,” added Jamie.
“Fine, judge me, all of you who are both happily involved in stable, healthy relationships.”
“There’s a guy at the office I could fix you up with,” yelled Jamie. “He’s nice, but he’s a bit boring.”
“No,” answered Mercedes.
“What kind of guy do you want?” asked Sheldon.
“I don’t know,” replied Mercedes.
“Don’t give me that. You write erotic fiction for a living. You have to know in explicit detail exactly what sort of man you want.”
“Sex and a relationship are two different things,” she explained patiently. “Sex is easy. Relationships are root canal-esque in their pain.”
“Let’s analyze the painful choice first, shall we? What do you want in a relationship?”
“He’s got to be ripped,” commented Jamie.
“Andrew isn’t ripped,” answered Mercedes, wondering if this tell-tale clue meant that the guy you fantasized about wasn’t meant to be the guy you were meant to be with.
Jamie merely laughed.
“I don’t want to think about my brother that way,” said Mercedes.
Sheldon sighed. “Come on, Mercedes. What do you really want in a guy? I refuse to believe those pretty-boys are it.”
“What’s wrong with pretty-boys?”
“Mercedes, you are not answering the question.”
“I know,” said Mercedes.
“You don’t know, do you?”
“I do,” she protested, because it would be a weak-willed, yellow-bellied female who didn’t know what she wanted in a relationship.
“What?” asked Jamie, completely unfooled.
Finally she thought of something. “I want a man who’s reliable. Who won’t stand me up, and won’t ever leave me.”
“Well, duh,” answered Sheldon.
“And he’s got to be funny. A sense of humor is very important. I want someone who can make me laugh. And he has to like food.”
“What man doesn’t like food?” asked Jamie.
“I dated this one guy who had some very weird eating habits,” Sheldon mentioned. “He ate like a rabbit. Carrots and lettuce, and he’d wash them in a special rinse. It was too strange.”
“Why did you date him?”
“I don’t remember,” Sheldon said. “But, I’m already married, so let’s talk about Mercedes. Her guy has got to be reliable, funny and like food. What color hair?”
Mercedes slipped the dress over her head. “I’m not inclined to judge someone on the basis of hair color,” she told them, dodging this answer.
“What color hair?”
“Bald is very sexy,” muttered Mercedes.
“Eyes?”
“Gray,” snapped Mercedes.
“Icy. Nice.”
“Okay, so we’re looking for a balding, gray-eyed guy, late twenties, single, reliable, funny and must like food. That’s it, Mercedes. He doesn’t exist.”
“I know he doesn’t exist,” agreed Mercedes. “Tell me something I don’t know.” Then she came out from the dressing room and twirled. “What do you think? It’s your wedding. I’m merely the party favor.”
Jamie looked her up and down, eyes taking in every minute detail. “It looks good. Sheldon?”
Sheldon appeared as a chic concoction that made her look more gorgeous than usual. Mercedes exhaled, at least as far as her dress would allow. “Do I have to stand next to her? I look like the ugly step-sister beside her.
Sheldon caught Mercedes in a one-armed hug. “You’re not my step-sister.”
“Very funny.”
“Oh, come on. Be a sport. You look gorgeous.”
“Not as gorgeous as you.”
Jamie looked at them both critically. “No. But I like it.”
“This is it? No more dress fittings?”
“Unless you want more—” started Jamie.
“No!” said Sheldon and Mercedes together.
“Ah, consensus. Ladies, we have a wedding wardrobe portfolio.” She called over the associate. “We’ll take these.”
“I think it’s time to celebrate. Something with chocolate.”
Mercedes picked at the tight fabric at her waist, checking for excess room. “Can we skip the chocolate? If I’m supposed to look good in this dress, I have to lose five pounds.”
Sheldon grinned in the evil manner of a woman who had never dieted in her life. “Starting tomorrow.”
Mercedes laughed again, wondering how good chocolate worked on loneliness because the bubble baths weren’t cutting in anymore.
THERE WAS NOTHING LIKE A woman to confuse a man. Since Sam had fought with Mercedes, he’d read her blog religiously, looking for any hint, any mention, any clue that might represent him. None were to be found.
Now, he was getting pissed off, because she was writing about sexual relations with pretty-boys with flowing black locks that fell in their eyes, and poet-like dimples in their chin. What was that all about? And the posts were coming fast and furious. Ten and eleven times a day the entire weekend. He wanted to believe this was pure fiction, he knew it was pure fiction. But ten or eleven times a day, four days in a row? Man, that put some serious pressure on a guy.
Sam checked his watch and realized he had a meeting with the writers in less than half an hour. He couldn’t sit here in his studio office reading her blog. He minimized her site, then pulled out the first draft of tonight’s script. He’d barely gotten to page three when Charlie came in his office.
“My friend called back,” he said, settling into the chair across from Sam.
“What friend?”
“I told you about him. Harvey. Party Chairman. New Jersey. Election. Campaign. Remember?”
“You mentioned him, but you neglected to mention he was a friend,” said Sam, arching a brow. “You called him my fan. I remember.”
Charlie squinted up at the lights. “Friend. Fan. We play golf together on Sundays.”
“That’s another fact you neglected to mention, Charlie. I like knowing all the facts. Any other facts that might be missing here?”
“Well, hell, Sam, I thought you’d jump at the chance to get into the thick of things, and I’d explain it to you slowly, parcel it out a bit at a time, so you’d figure you came up with this all on your own. So, have you come to any conclusions?” Charlie finished his speech, looking at Sam expectantly.
“I’ve been thinking…”
“Yeah?” drawled Charlie.
Sam gave him a nod. “Yeah. Let me talk to this guy.”
“I knew you’d say that. Meet us over at the Four Seasons Sunday night.”
“This was already set up?”
“Two days ago. You had a restless look in your eye. Figured you were coming round.”
Sam wasn’t about to explain the cause of the restless look to Charlie, better to let him think that politics was the cause of his problems. In truth, he was more interested in pursuing the candidacy than he realized. “You were right. When you’re right, you’re right.”
Charlie smiled. “Martin Darcy is going to be there, too. He’s the best campaign manager on the Atlantic seaboard. Got a dark-horse candidate elected in the West Virginia Senate, and swung a huge upset in California in the 2000 elections. He’s our man, Sam. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right.”
“And here I thought I was the cash cow.”
“Aw, Sam. I’m going to turn seventy-two next year. I’m too old to have cash cows. Now’s the time when I get to be a god-maker, play with history.” He pointed a stubby finger at Sam. “Now there’s where a man makes his mark, not with cash, or television.”
“I knew you were connected, Charlie, but I never knew how much.”
Charlie smiled. “Politics are best left behind closed doors, know what I mean?”
“Unless you make a career out of talking about them.”
“That’s you, not me.”
After Charlie left, Sam went back to the script, making changes and adding notes as he read. When he finished the script, he turned to the computer.
And voila. Another entry. Somebody had been busy.
The pain was becoming harder to bear. The suspicious glances, the questions in his voice, as if he didn’t trust me. What hurt most was that I had done things, but never what he’d accused me of. Each night we slept together, almost strangers in our lovemaking, together, yet alone, and I couldn’t bear it any more. A rubber band pulled tightly will have no choice but to break. It took me two weeks to gather my courage to buy the poison, but eventually I had it in my hands. He came home, and I poured his usual diet soda, unwrapping the tiny packet from the cabinet. I hesitated, shaking fingers trying to decide….
Poison?
Just then, Kristin burst in. “Sam, here’s the bio on the Connecticut mayor who wanted to outlaw Thanksgiving.” Her eyes looked at the monitor behind him. “Red Choo Diaries. Is that…?” Then she looked at him and laughed. “What the heck are you doing?”
“Research,” he said, using his thoughtful, professor look.
“Sure, Sam. You be careful before the IT security goons have you written up for viewing unsuitable materials at work. It doesn’t matter that you’re the star. To security, you’re just another faceless userid.”
Sam held out his hand for the paper. “I’ll take that under advisement. Let me read the bio and get back to you on whether we want him on the show or not.”
“Okay, boss. Isn’t that the Brooks woman’s site?”
“Goodbye, Kristin.”
“Goodbye, Sam. But remember what I said. Don’t get caught,” and then she slammed the door behind her.
Sam reread the part about the poison, looked at his soda and sniffed. No bitter almond smell there. He was safe.
Maybe he had been too hard on her. He’d seen the shell-shocked look in her face when he’d accused her of writing about them on purpose. So she had some fantasies about him, how could a man be mad about that?
On the other hand, she’d put them out there, opened up his bedroom door for all of America to read. Sam hated the idea of people reading about something so intensely personal, even if it was anonymous. He needed his space from the world of television. Unlike Mercedes, Sam didn’t want the public prying into his private life.
Although if anything came out, it could be explained away as an inside joke. She’d been on his show. She thought it’d be funny to write him that way. It almost sounded plausible when he stuck to the facts as the world needed to know them.
Almost.