A Little Help from Above

by Saralee Rosenberg

  “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…”

  “Ian, I’m begging you…”

  “Right. Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Go on. Tell me about your sister. Lauren is it?”

  “She’s thirty-two and desperate to have a baby. So far she’s had two miscarriages, the last of which was an ectopic pregnancy. Now her doctor says she’s damaged goods and has to consider alternatives like surrogacy or adoption. But that’s not all. Because of her DES exposure, she has a slew of medical problems, to say nothing of her emotional state.”

  Ian licked his spoon. “So you might call your story a personal vendetta piece as well.”

  “That’s fair.”

  “I like it actually,” a sobered Ian said. “I do. It’s juicier than I expected. How would you feel about working on both stories at the same time?”

  “It might cut into my suntan hour, but I should be able to manage.”

  “What about the money? It wasn’t in the third quarter budget to do two revenge pieces.”

  “I’d be willing to reduce my normal and customary fee, seeing as how you’re paying so generously on the first one.”

  “Excellent then.” Ian pumped his fist. “Look out high-society debs and makers of DES. The great Shelby Lazarus is back in the saddle again.”

  “So I am.” A nervous Shelby started shredding her napkin. God, I hope I’m not making a big mistake.

  Believe me, Shelby’s not making a mistake. There’s no such thing. There’s also no such thing as a coincidence or an accident. Everything that happens, happens for a reason. We may not understand why at the time. Or ever, because the mysteries of life are only divulged to us on a need-to-know basis. Which explains all the universal head scratching.

  I know. The very notion that some greater force is calling the shots is disturbing. Frankly, if you’d asked me about karma and destiny when I was Sandy Lazarus, I would have blown cigarette smoke in your face and told you to lay off the hard stuff. No way would I have accepted the idea my life had been mapped out with all the precision of a Hadassah dinner dance. Hors d’oeuvres at 7:00 P.M., dinner, dancing at 9:00 P.M….

  Who wants to believe their existence is part of some master plan? Or that the good and bad in life are simply the result of a legal, binding agreement, according to God’s will? To whom you’re born, where and how you live, the people you meet, the work you do, the person you marry, the children you have, the circumstances of your death…But it’s true. Nothing happens in life that isn’t already in the blueprints.

  Take Shelby’s career, for instance. You think her desire to be a reporter was a random choice? That she just woke up one day and said I think I’ll go to the Columbia School of Journalism and shoot for a Pulitzer? No, it was her destiny.

  The first clue was she was born at 12:01 A.M., on January 1, 1960. That’s right. Shelby was not only the first birth of the decade at Mt. Sinai Hospital, but in all five boroughs of New York. What a media frenzy that caused! Reporters and photographers scrambled over to the maternity ward to capture her face, the symbol of the bold, new era.

  As it turned out, the photo of Larry and me holding Shelby in our arms was such a great shot, it made the front pages of dozens of papers. From then on, every New Year’s we’d get calls from papers asking if they could interview Shelby for the morning edition. Apparently, readers associated her beautiful, angelic image with the start of another year and were clamoring to see her transformation from infant to child.

  Every year we were amazed by Shelby’s cooperative spirit. Normally she was so dour and stern, but the instant the newspaper people arr
ived, different child. She’d primp and pose, answering silly questions with a smile, understanding even at four years old the power of the press. Talk about early influences. When she got older she’d be damned if she didn’t somehow find a way to stay on the front page!

  But what, you may ask, was the real purpose of directing Shelby into the field of journalism? I’m thinking she returned to the physical world to learn the meaning of caring and compassion. And what better way to elicit the sympathy vote from someone than to expose them to the underbelly of the human condition?

  Nice concept if you can get it, of course. Shelby’s been working in the paper trade long enough to have had the compassion bug bite her by now. So what’s the holdup? All I know is timing is left to the wisdom of the universe, and I have faith in the system.

  Here’s why. Remember when Shelby bumped into Ian at the airport and thought it was a horrible coincidence he was on the same flight? It was no coincidence. I found out from my great-grandmother Yetta, who has been on this side for what seems like forever, that it was all in the cards. That once Shelby got reacquainted with Ian, she’d end up getting a chance to write two articles that would be the catalyst for major changes in her life.

  Ditto for Roz and Larry getting hit by a truck. You think that was a random accident? Have I taught you nothing?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Shelby wondered what planet she was on when she decided to go ahead with Plan B. If Lauren’s own husband couldn’t convince her to come out of their house, did she really think she’d fare any better? She had neither the patience, experience, nor cunning to know which magic key was going to unlock her sister’s mental health door.

  Irma Weiner would know which key. Several times Shelby picked up the phone to ask for a little assistance, but stubborn pride kept her from dialing. The last thing Shelby wanted was to have Mrs. Know-It-All portraying herself as the hero to Shelby’s villain, simply because Shelby wounded Dr. Weiner, Aunt Roz, and Lauren. Unintentionally, of course.

  Not that Mrs. Weiner’s anger wasn’t justified. All three people on the receiving end of Shelby’s wrath were still reeling. All three were a question mark as to their interest in surviving.