Solitaire and Brahms Page 11

  She'd always believed she was close to her friends, but when it came to something like this, she realized she didn't feel it at all. The thought stunned her. She felt a headache cranking up.

  "What's wrong?" Jean asked.

  Shelby forced a smile. "I was suddenly overwhelmed with complexities."

  "Don't worry about it,” Jean said. "Once it's under way it'll have its own momentum. Like a roller coaster."

  "That's what I'm afraid of," Shelby said.

  "Your mother will take care of everything."

  "I'm afraid of that, too."

  Jean grinned, and it struck Shelby once again that, of all her friends, Jean was the only one with whom she could be that frank. Penny would just look at her with those big eyes, and Lisa would be shocked. And Connie...

  "Jean, do you think..." She was reluctant to say it, but needed to try out an idea. “Do you think Connie could be... well... envious of me?"

  “I know she is.”

  "How do you know?"

  Jean just looked at her as if Shelby were simply too naive to be believed.

  "Why would she be envious?"

  "For starters, you both came here around the same time, and you're moving up while she's still doing a job she considers beneath her. And now you're engaged to be engaged to a man she thinks is the crotch... excuse me, catch of the century. Need I go on?"

  Shelby winced. "Does everyone feel that way?”

  "Connie's a law unto herself. Don't worry about it. It's not your fault."

  She hoped it wasn't. She hated the idea that she might have done or said something to make Connie—or anyone—envious. Envious people could be dangerous. And, besides, Shelby really got no pleasure from making someone else feel bad. Maybe she should be nicer to Connie, ask her out to dinner or something. Make her feel important...

  My God, she thought, that is so condescending.

  "What's up, boss?" Jean asked.

  "Connie. I don't know what to do about it."

  “She's having a good time," Jean said. "Don't spoil it."

  “Maybe, but it’s not…”

  There was a throat-clearing noise from the hall. "Excuse me, Miss Camden." Miss Myers stood in the doorway and looked pointedly at her watch. "Mr. Spurl is waiting for your critiques."

  "Oops," Shelby muttered. She got up to go.

  Jean waved the story she'd been working on. "Thanks for your help," she said, covering. "You saved my life."

  Charlotte was out for the day, attending the opening of something-or-other in Boston. Shelby was glad to have the office to herself. Even though Charlotte neither demanded nor expected conversation, it was easier to think when she was alone.

  She returned a call from before lunch from her Senior Editor, who said Spurl was in a state over the missing critiques. Shelby explained that she had personally placed them in Miss Myers' loving hands only a few minutes ago. "Well," Janet said, "I guess you've had your trauma for the day."

  She went through a couple of stories, sent one back to a reader with cogent comments, and put the other aside to reread later.

  Today had started out a beautiful day, with a pastel sky and pastel trees and splashes of unexpected color along the roadsides. The season of dandelions and wild mustard was waning, and the time of violets and woodland geraniums and lilacs had come center stage. Then, mid-morning, the sky had closed down, bringing a gray, damp chill, There would probably be rain by nightfall.

  Sometimes she wished life could be like a short story. Neat, clear, and succinct. Have a problem, in twenty minutes it's solved and everyone has—hopefully—grown a little. But real life was complex, and seldom clear, and certainly not neat. Real life was full of mud, fog, and subtlety.

  What the hell was she going to do about the maid of honor situation? And that was only the beginning. Someone was bound to hate the bridesmaids' dresses, or not fit into the shoes, or be afraid she looked hideous in whatever color Shelby chose. Ray would come up with more ushers than she had bridesmaids, and they'd have to go searching frantically for another, someone she didn't know all that well, who would end up acting out hither-to-unsuspected streaks of depravity. She was going to forget to invite someone who would be offended, and hurt twenty-five feelings along the way. She would probably go for weeks without sleeping and throw up halfway down the aisle. Ray would get drunk the night before and forget to show up. Her jackass second cousin would try to throw them in the Country Club pool. The pictures would turn out to be awful—if they turned out at all—and everyone would get salmonella poisoning from the shrimp cocktail. And somehow it would end up all being Shelby's fault.

  Her stomach was tied in knots just thinking about it. She wanted to run away and change her name and live the rest of her life deep in the woods where nobody would ever find her.

  Marriage is going to be a snap, she thought, if I can make it through the wedding.

  * * *

  There was no getting around it, she had to call her mother. No doubt Libby already knew about the engagement, since she'd obviously engineered much of it. But it would look very strange if Shelby waited more than twenty-four hours to tell Mommy the good news. She hated it. Libby was going to grab this wedding and run with it like a fox raiding a chicken house. And unless she wanted to spend the next twelve months fighting with her mother, all Shelby could do was go along.

  The thought of that gave the final touch to her headache. She pulled out of the traffic and headed down Maple to the A&P. The least she could do to comfort herself was stock up on aspirin.

  As she wandered through the aisles wondering what to pick up for dinner, she remembered Monday night, when her headache sent her scrambling to Fran's apartment. She remembered the feeling of quiet and safety, and the comfort of hearing someone in the next room, and the peace of knowing no one could find her. It seemed a long time ago. Sighing, she plucked a box of hash brown potatoes from the shelf. Maybe, if she survived her mother's phone call, and then Ray's, she'd go give Fran a hand with her unpacking. If it wasn't obscenely late. It wouldn't be late if she didn't get into an argument. But if she didn't get into an argument she'd probably end up agreeing to something she hated.

  She wondered what would happen if she left town.

  “Well,” said Libby, "congratulations, and I must say it's about time."

  Shelby's hand tightened around the phone. "Best wishes," she said casually. “You congratulate the groom and wish the bride best wishes.”

  "I'm well aware of that, Miss Emily Post. In your case, I offer congratulations on seeing the light before that man got fed up and walked out on you."

  "Well, I guess I did," she said, "because he didn't."

  Libby's voice changed from icicle to cocoa. "I'm very, very happy for you, Shelby. Your father's going to be happy, too."

  It was one of the great mysteries of her life that her mother, who had divorced her father five years ago—thereby risking a serious loss of social status—for reasons which had never been made clear to her, continued to be so concerned with what he would think. Granted, he was a frightening kind of person, but once she was out of the house he couldn't nail Libby to the wall with that cold, disapproving stare. Or maybe they just liked one another better now than they had when they were married. They didn't have the same friends any more, and didn't go to one another's family reunions—that little treat was left to Shelby—but they talked on the phone often, and sometimes went out together for dinner. And they always, always saw eye-to-eye where Shelby was concerned.

  Sometimes she wondered if they were kept together by their mutual fear that she was going to do something that wouldn't Look Right. Maybe Get Her Name in the Paper. Or be an Old Maid. Or forget to write a thank-you note.

  "Ray wants an engagement party," Shelby said. "At the country club."

  "Really?" Libby was the only person Shelby knew who could try to sound wide-eyed with innocence over the phone.

  "Yes." She stretched the telephone cord as far as it could go and barely ma
naged to reach the scotch.

  "That's a wonderful idea."

  She noticed that her mother didn't ask her if she wanted it. She looked around for a glass. "So we should probably get together, the three of us, and make plans.”

  "Yes, we should. When were you thinking of having it?"

  “Sometime in June.”

  "Oh, dear, June," Libby said. "The Club's usually booked solid in June. Weddings, you know."

  "Oh," Shelby said, trying to sound wide-eyed herself. "I forgot." She found one, a dirty one from last night. It seemed to have contained water, not milk but she couldn't tell for sure. Well, any port in a storm. She poured herself a drink.

  There was a paper-scratching Libby making notes noise from the other end of the line. "We should plan on one hundred-fifty to two-hundred guests, I suppose."

  "Whoa," Shelby said. "Most of my college friends are pretty far away, and so are Ray's. We probably can't put together a party of fifteen."

  "That's typical," said Libby in an exasperated tone. “What about my friends? What about your father's friends? And you have a few relatives, in case you'd forgotten."

  She hadn't forgotten. She never had a chance to forget her relatives. "It's just an engagement party," she argued. "Not like the wedding reception. We don't have to invite everyone."

  "Well, I wish you'd let me in on your magic secret for cutting the guest list."

  She took a swallow of warm, probably contaminated scotch. "I didn't know there was a guest list already."

  Her mother sighed. "I can see it's going to be like pulling teeth every inch of the way with you." She lowered her voice to indicate urgency and seriousness. "Shelby, this is one of the most important things you'll ever do. Years from now, you'll look back on your wedding day and everything that led up to it as the High Point of your Life. The time will Stick in your Memory Forever. Please, please try to make it a pleasant experience.”

  Her mother was right, in a way. At least it was one of the high points of Libby’s life. No matter how much it annoyed her, she couldn't spoil this for her mother. Not when she'd been planning it practically from the moment Shelby was born. Even her graduation from college wasn't as important. And the masters' degree ceremonies were a definite low point. Libby was certain it had ruined Shelby's marital chances utterly and forever. It was surprising she hadn't hung a black wreath on the door. "You're right, Libby. I'm sorry."

  "Leave everything to me, dear," Libby said happily.

  "OK. Tell me what you need me to do, and I'll do it. The party doesn't have to be on a weekend, you know," Shelby went on. "Maybe the club could fit us in on a Thursday or something."

  "No, this has to be super-special. There's nothing special about Thursdays. Except Thanksgiving, of course. Darling, let me get to work on this—I don't suppose there's anything I can do tonight, but first thing tomorrow morning. I'll phone you at the office."

  "You don't have to do that," Shelby said. "I'll give you a call in the evening.”

  "I'm much too excited to wait," Libby said. "Love you, Sweetie. Kiss-kiss," She hung up.

  She supposed she should call her father while she still had her telephone personality in place. Undoubtedly Libby already had, but she'd be expected to pretend she didn't know that.

  She went to the refrigerator and added a few cubes of ice to her drink. She didn't want to call him. For one thing, she never knew what to call him. As a child she called him "Daddy." Now it struck her as babyish. "Father" sounded snooty and formal. There was no way she could think of him as a "Dad" or "Pop," much less "Papa." Even though Libby liked to be called by her first name—she thought it made her seem “hip”—that kind of familiarity was out where her father was concerned. Most people called him "Thomas." "Thomas Camden." All it lacked was a "Sir" or "Esquire." She ought to call him "Tom." "Tom Camden" had a breezy, slightly debauched sound. "Tom Camden, the town drunk."

  Except that Sir Thomas Camden, Esquire, was far from being the town drunk. Sir Thomas Camden, Esquire, was an attorney. Harvard Law, and currently representing at least three major multi-million dollar corporations from his office in Philadelphia. His specialty was patent and copyright infringement, but when things were slow he would defend the companies in lawsuits brought by consumers who had been injured by products the companies knew perfectly well weren't safe.

  Oh, don't start, she told herself roughly. Miss Righteous Indignation, as Libby would say.

  Maybe he wouldn't even be home. Maybe she'd call three or four times and he wouldn't be there, and she could tell her mother she'd done her duty without having to talk to him.

  "Hello," he said. Most people said "hello" like a question, with a rise of voice at the end. Thomas Camden said "hello" as if it were the last word on the subject.

  "It's Shelby," she said. "I'm glad I caught you in."

  "You won't find me out doing the cha-cha-cha until dawn at my age," he said, and chuckled a little. Which told her that his latest girlfriend was within earshot. "What's on your mind? Need money?"

  "No, I just wanted to tell you... I'm engaged."

  "Is that so?" His voice told her he'd already heard. "Anybody I know?"

  "Ray," she said. "Ray Beeman. I've been going with him for two years."

  He knew that, too, though she hadn't told him. He wasn't terribly interested in her day-to-day life, satisfied with the highlights Libby would pass along whether he wanted to hear them or not. Marriage, or the possibility of marriage, was one of those highlights.

  "He's a doctor," she added.

  "Beeman. Is that a Jewish name?"

  "No." She wished it were. He'd probably change his will.

  "Who are his people?"

  "They live in Seattle. His father's in business of some kind."

  "A company official?"

  Shelby wanted to scream. "He went to Princeton," she said.

  “Good, good."

  "We're going to wait a year for the wedding, but we're having an engagement patty at the club sometime in June."

  "Well," he said heartily. "that's one I won't want to miss. Or weren't you planning to invite your old Dad?"

  She wondered what the new girlfriend was like. In front of the last one, he'd been more formal and less jolly.

  "You know you're invited," she said. She could hear the new girlfriend lighting a cigarette in the background. "Can you send me a list of the relatives you think I should ask? Or you could send it to Mother."

  "You bet," he said even more heartily. This one must like things really upbeat. "Anything else I can do for you? Sure you don't need money?"

  “I don't need money." She wasn't a college student any more, for God's sake. She was a grown woman. With a job. "But thanks for offering. See you soon."

  As she hung up the phone, she felt like throwing things. Whether from frustration or desperation or anger, she couldn't tell. It was just all so... so... something. She drained her glass and carried it to the sink and washed it. She washed the rest of her dishes. She thought about defrosting the refrigerator. She thought about working, she thought about watching television. She swallowed a couple more aspirin. She leaned against the sink and considered taking up smoking.

  The phone rang. It was Ray. His sins had caught up with him, he said, and he had to pay back three different residents by spending the weekend covering their shifts. He hoped she wouldn't mind, but they had a lifetime of weekends ahead of them, didn't they? She didn't mind. They said silly, mushy things to each other and hung up.

  Shelby wondered if another couple of aspirin would make her sick.

  There was a knock at the door. She opened it.

  "Hi," Fran said. "I don't want to interrupt if you're busy, but I wanted to tell you I got a..." She broke off, staring at Shelby. "You look like the wrath of God. What's wrong?"

  Shelby stood back and motioned for her to come in. "My family's driving me crazy."

  "I think they're supposed to do that."

  "I got engaged last night," she said, dr
opping into an armchair. "Engaged to be engaged, I mean. It's brought all the horrors out of the woodwork."

  "Forgive me," Fran said as she settled onto the couch. "But are you sure it's horrors that come out of the woodwork? I always thought it was mice or termites or unpleasant people."

  "It is unpleasant people. I happen to be related to them. Would you like a drink?"

  Fran shook her head. "No, thanks. What are your horrors up to?"

  "Ray and I decided we'd announce our engagement next month. Now my mother's engineering a massive, formal, humiliating party at the country club, and making me feel guilty for not wanting it. My father's impressing his new girlfriend by being relentlessly hearty and Papa-ish. And believe me, that man is no Papa."

  "They sound like professionals," Fran said.

  "And, to top it all off, my obvious choice for maid of honor is someone I'm not even sure I like at the moment."

  “Nightmare,” Fran said.

  "All of which has added up to one big headache—figuratively and literally."

  "Yep. You have that look."

  "I should tell them to take a flying leap. God, parents. How do they manage to make us jump through hoops like this?"

  "They get us when we're small.”

  "Yeah." Shelby ran her hand through her hair. "Enough about my exciting life. What's your news?"

  "I have a job. Physician's assistant."

  "That's great!"

  "Well," Fran said, "it's great and it's not great. It's great to have the job, and it pays well, but it's with the Student Health Service, doing exactly what I've been doing for the last four years."

  "But at least it's security while you look around.”

  "It is that. Shelby, have you eaten?"

  “Sure."

  “What?”

  “Hash brown potatoes.”

  "That's it?"

  She felt herself grow defensive. "I had all those phone calls to deal with, and I didn't feel too well." She shrugged. "Nerves, I guess."