Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You (v1.2) (18 page)

“As my uncle Alfred would say—and does on almost any occasion or with no provocation at all—I’ll drink to that!”

“You’re okay, you know that, Shelley?” Brandy said, looking at her new friend through slightly blurry eyes. “You could have been a real stick, but you’re not. You’re actually pretty cool. Uh-oh, there goes the phone again. This could go on all night.”

“Don’t answer it,” Shelby warned as Brandy made a move toward the phone.

“I won’t,” she promised. “I’m just going to turn up the volume. Ah, here goes…”

“Brandy? Pick up, Brandy. Aw, come on, I know you’re there.”

“Hmmm,” Brandy said, smiling. “He’s sounding a little bit miffed this time, isn’t he? Well, good. About time I stopped this knee-jerk reaction, huh? Let him stew.”

“Brandy? If you don’t pick up I won’t call back. I mean it, babe. I won’t. I can’t keep having these fights, babe, you putting me in the middle between you and Mama. It’s not easy for me, you know. Brandy? Damn it, Brandy, pick up! Aw, the hell with it…”
Click.

“Oh, this is good,” Brandy said, hunting in the bowl for a burned chip, as she liked those best. “Now he’s mad at me for having the nerve to be mad at him because he’s so stupid. Just like a man. I’m so glad you didn’t let me answer the phone, Shelley. This is quite educational, isn’t it? We’re right—women, that is—but that doesn’t mean it isn’t our fault that we’re right” She shook her head. “Does that make sense to you, too, or am I beginning to get very, very drunk?”

“Does it matter?” Shelby asked, still pretty much sunk in her own misery.

“Probably not. Well, I’m turning off the ringer, too. You’re right, Shelley; he should just simmer in his own juices for a while. Maybe being without his foot rubs and his… well, maybe without me being so damn
available
all the time, he’ll smarten up some. Besides, this is old news; we’ve been through it a million times. Right now I think maybe we should be concentrating on you. So spill it, Shelley. What else is bothering you, because I know it’s more than the fact that Quinn kissed you until your toes went numb.”

“Bothering me?
Everything,
Brandy, that’s what’s bothering me. I went to the same schools my mother went to, got the same grades. I joined the same clubs, I work for the same charities. I didn’t get a job after college because Takes don’t get
jobs.
I just kept doing what I was told. Go here, sit there, write this check, get engaged to Parker because…”

“Because you love him?” Brandy supplied helpfully.

Shelby shook her head. “No, I don’t think that’s it I think I got engaged because it was time I was married. Mother was married by the time she was twenty-five. Somerton was born when she was twenty-six. She did what she was told. Married, dutifully gave birth to a male child and major heir. Four years later, in the middle of one of Mother and Daddy’s famous genteelly drunken sprees, I was conceived. Born to grow up just like Mother, the way Somerton was programmed—yes,
programmed
—to grow up just like Daddy. Well, Somerton broke the mold, and maybe I should, too!”

“How did Somerton break the mold?” Brandy asked, glad of the diversion, because she really was weakening, feeling herself ready to pick up the phone if Gary dared to call one last time.

But Shelby wasn’t listening. “So damned obedient. Obedient little Shelby, that’s me. Don’t do this, don’t do that. Listen to everyone, do what they want, what is expected of a Taite. Now I’m getting married because it’s time for me to be married. God, Brandy, I’m
sickening.”

“He broke the mold
how?”
Brandy asked, trying again, because she thought it might be important. She heard the near-silent click of the answering machine, heard the tape begin to whirl. And she ignored it.
Talk yourself blue in the
face, bucko,
she thought.
Maybe you’ll finally figure it out.

Shelby looked at the level of liquid in her third wine cooler, and deftly reduced it by another two inches. Uncle Alfred had a point—a mushy mind was a happy mind, at least until it sobered up in the morning, something Uncle Alfred hadn’t let his mind do in several decades. “He could have found me by now, you know.”

“Who? Your brother?”

“No, Brandy, not Somerton.
Parker.
He could have found me, if he wanted to find me, if he isn’t just glad I’m gone and hoping he can break the engagement. Except he won’t do that. Too much old money merging for him to do that. Because Parker’s practical, that’s what Parker is. Practical Parker.” She actually belched, something she couldn’t remember doing in her entire sheltered life. “The prick. Practical Prick Parker picked a peck of… of…
something
with a P. Alliteration. I’ve always liked alliter… alliter-ashun.”

“Hoo-boy, somebody’s drunkie-poo,” Brandy said, pulling the now empty bottle out of Shelby’s slack grip. “Now, before you pass out, tell me about Somerton, Shelley. How did he break the mold?”

“Somerton?” Shelby questioned, her mind having left the distasteful subject of Parker Westbrook III and gone back to that of Quinn Delaney and the fact that he’d kissed her, then pushed her out of his apartment. Just when she was about to say the hell with everything and go to bed with him. Did he know that? Had he sensed that? Did he kick her out because he didn’t want her… or because he had wanted her too much?

She smiled, rather sloppily, deciding on the latter explanation because it made her happy. She deserved to be happy, damn it. Personal happiness might not have been written down anywhere on the Take Schedule for Life, but she believed she deserved some anyway. So
there.
Because things all seemed much nicer now. Fuzzier. Like Princess, who had climbed onto her lap and was now purring contentedly. Princess knew. It was time for some happiness, damn it. “You love me, Princess, don’t you, honey?”

“Yeah, Princess loves you. Now, about Somerton,” Brandy repeated, trying to keep Shelby from fading before she had some answers. “I mean, this could be important. If he broke the mold somehow, then it might not be so bad if you do, too. So tell me. What did he do?”

Shelby allowed her head to loll back against the couch cushions as her legs slowly slid forward under the coffee table. “He moved Jeremy in, that’s what he did. Thumbed his nose at everybody and moved Jeremy—shazam!— straight into the old family mansion. Daddy’s probably still spinning out in the gardens. The family mausoleum, you unnerstand. Potted right there, with the posies. Proper Papa potted with the posies. Pitiful.”

“Okay,” Brandy said slowly, still confused, although not nearly as drunk as Shelby, who clearly didn’t have a head for alcohol, or much experience with it either, if Brandy had to guess. “Now, who or what is a Jeremy?”

Shelby brought her head forward and blinked a few times, trying to focus her eyes, her mind. “Who is Jeremy? Why, he’s the sweetest, most silly, wonderful little
dear.”

“Oh. Then it’s a dog. What did your stuffy ancestors have against dogs?” The answering machine clicked, and the tape began to whirl. Brandy didn’t even hear it

“Look at that, Brandy,” Shelby said, momentarily diverted by the movie playing on the television screen. “She’s got a gun, she’s backed into a corner by the bad guy, and she’s not shooting him. He’s going to kill her, and she’s not going to shoot him. Does that make any sense, Brandy? Why does everyone think women are so
dumb?
So
afraid
of everything, so afraid that they’ll ruin their own lives rather than stand up for themselves.
Shoot the bastard!”
she yelled at the screen, then sagged against the couch once more as Princess leaped up and ran away. I

“Good for you, sweetcakes. Kill the bastards. Kill them all. Now, back to Jeremy, okay? Try to keep your eye on the ball, or whatever it is you told me tonight at the golf course. Is Jeremy a dog?”

Shelby sat up and tried to concentrate. She really shouldn’t drink. It wasn’t good for her. And she’d probably have a headache in the morning, just like she did the night of the charity ball. Once drunk was a lark; twice drunk was just plain stupid. She silendy vowed never to drink again.

“No, no, no. Jeremy isn’t a
dog.
He’s… he’s Somerton’s soul mate. His lifetime companion. His sig… his significant other. And he’s so
sweet;
Somerton’s so
happy.
I’m
so
proud of Somerton. That’s why I thought he’d understand. Why I left him the note.
He
did it. Why shouldn’t I be able to do it?”

“I think you mean why can’t you have an adventure, right?” Brandy said, laughing. “But you’re right, Shelley. Somerton probably understands very well. If you told him how unhappy you are, that is. Did you tell him?”

“I told him to marry Parker if he thinks he’s so wonderful, but he said Jeremy might object,” Shelby said, remembering me conversation. Then she giggled. “That’s funny, isn’t it? Somerton usually can’t make jokes, it’s just not in him. But that was funny, wasn’t it?”

“Hilarious,” Brandy agreed, biting her thumbnail. “You know something, Shelley? I think you’re really good at telling other people what to do—like me and Gar, Tony, Tabby, and everyone at the restaurant, even that gal in the movie—but you’re afraid to do what
you
want to do.”

“No, I’m not,” Shelby protested, as the arrow hit home. She slumped against the couch. “Yes, I am.”

Brandy felt instantly protective. “Well, no, you’re not, actually. I mean, at least you’ve made a start, haven’t you? You ran away; you came here. You’ve got a job, a place to live… a boyfriend…”

Shelby smiled and hugged herself. “He really is a wonderful kisser,” she said, sighing. Then she looked at Brandy, her eyes wide. “I can’t really call him my boyfriend, can I? I mean, he sent me home.”

“And said he’d see you tomorrow, right? So, yeah, I’d say he’s your boyfriend. If you want him.”

Shelby picked up a pretzel stick that had fallen on her lap, and stuck it in her mouth. “If I want him.” She turned to Brandy. “I think I do. Want him, that is. He’s so… so everything that Parker isn’t. Do you know what would have happened if I’d tipped Parker into that water hazard? No, you don’t, because Parker would never think to
go
miniature golfing in the first place. Well, let me tell you, he wouldn’t have been happy. Not Perfect Parker. But Quinn… he just laughed and said it was all right…”

“What a guy. A real prince of a fellow, and with those bedroom eyes, too,” Brandy agreed, watching as Shelby’s eyelids fluttered, beginning to lose their fight with the wine coolers.

“I know,” Shelby said in satisfaction. “What a guy. It’s like I’ve always known him, you know? I mean, that first day, at Tony’s, he looked so
familiar
to me. Do you think that means he’s the man of my dreams?”

“Could be,” Brandy said, grabbing one of Shelby’s arms and pulling her friend to her feet. “And, speaking of dreams, I think it’s about time you got to bed and had some. All in all, it’s been a long day.”

“Yes, ma’am, whatever you say, ma’am. May Princess sleep with me again tonight? Here Princess, here Princess…” Shelby said, walking with her head bent awkwardly, so that it could rest against the shorter woman’s chestnut curls. “Didn’t we have just the best time tonight, Brandy?”

Older by nearly ten years, and maybe not wiser in all things but certainly more experienced in many of them, Brandy sighed, smiled sadly as she heard the answering machine kick in yet again, and said, “Yeah, sweetcakes, we had us a hell of a time tonight.”

Grady Sullivan bent over the putt, eyeing the empty coffee cup ten feet away on the Oriental carpet. It was the final hole of the PGA and he was tied for the lead. If he missed this putt he and Tiger Woods would go to a sudden-death play-off, but his tee shot had topped Tiger’s by thirty yards, and his second shot had landed him on the green.

Tiger had already missed his thirty-foot lag putt, which showed his disdain for Grady, and how Woods didn’t think he had a chance in hell of sinking his own forty-footer. That meant, if Grady could sink this, get himself a birdie, he’d be the winner. Top dog. King of the world.

The crowd went silent; even the birds in the trees stopped singing, leaning over their branches, watching. Watching.

High above them, in the aerial booth, the ESPN commentators were reminding the home viewers that Sullivan had choked last year at the Masters, on a putt much this same length, and they doubted he’d make this one, or even his second putt, especially as he was just back at the game after a separated shoulder received in a freak home accident In fact, a television crew had already headed out onto the course for the sudden death that would begin at the sixteenth hole.

But Grady couldn’t think about any of that now. He could only think about this putt. This one putt. And the prize money. And the endorsements he’d get. And all the women who’d want to help him celebrate his win. He wasn’t the selfish sort. He only wanted it all.

If he remembered correctly, there was a slight bump in the carpet right about where that vermilion thread stuck up, needing to be snipped. That would mean the putt would break slightly to his right

This was it. King of the world or schmuck of the year. Which would it be?

He drew back the putter, squinted toward the coffee cup one last time, and stroked the ball home.

“And the crowd went wild,” Grady exclaimed, modestly taking bows to the empty room.

“I hate to interrupt the celebration,” his secretary said from the doorway, “but your partner is on the horn. Which was it this time? The Open, or the Desert Classic? Lord knows it couldn’t be the Masters. You always choke on that one. But don’t worry, you don’t look all that great in green anyway.”

“That’s our Ruthie,” Grady said, propping the putter against his desk. “Always my biggest fan. Did you say Quinn is on the phone? Why’s he checking in, anyway? I thought he told me he was on vacation. And how did he know he’d find us here, at the office? It’s Sunday.”

“It’s nearly the end of the fiscal year,” Ruth reminded him, pointing toward the half dozen towers of paper haphazardly piled on Grady’s desk as she walked across the room and confiscated the putter. “And until you’re through at least two of those stacks, there will be no more playtime for Grady, got that?”