Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You (v1.2) (20 page)

Quinn hefted his key ring, looked at his apartment key, the one he’d use to get his tickets to the super box, and headed after Gary.

It was easier than having lunch at Tony’s. Easier than seeing Shelby again just yet.

The phone began to ring just as he was locking the door to the apartment. It was Ruthie. Had to be Ruthie. She was calling to rake him over the coals, tell him he had to tell Shelby his true identity, and let the chips fall where they may. She sure wasn’t calling to tell him to wait, to see what might happen between them, see if this was love— good God,
love!
—or if Shelby was interested in him only in the way of an adventure and he was only attracted to her because… because… well, damn, he didn’t know why he was attracted to her.

But he was going to find out And he couldn’t find out if he told her the truth right now. Ruthie wouldn’t understand that, but he did.

So he locked the door behind him and let the phone ring.

It was cowardly. He was a louse.

But he’d think about all of that later, when he met Shelby after work…

Keeping Brandy from becoming totally unglued had kept Shelby more than a little busy all of Sunday. Between waiting on patrons at Tony’s, keeping Brandy supplied with tissues as she sat at the table closest to the kitchen watering the silk floral centerpiece with her tears, and trying to come back to life after her second—and definitely last!—bout of trying to find happiness in the bottom of a wine bottle, Shelby was almost too exhausted even to notice that Quinn was nowhere to be found.

Quinn
and
Gary were nowhere to be found.
The rats.

Although Shelby believed Gary’s absence was probably a good thing, because Brandy was ready to cave in, forgive him, and start up that same circle of ridiculousness that had kept her from the altar for twelve long years. Shelby didn’t know why, but she felt it was sort of her mission in life to keep Brandy from making that mistake.

Which meant she’d been babysitting her friend at Tony’s for most of the day, redoubling her efforts when Brandy had actually broken down and called Gary’s house and ended up talking to Mama. “Why, dear, I don’t know where he is,” Mama Mack had told her sweetly. “He did mention something about going somewhere with someone for the day. Perhaps he has a date? But how are you keeping, dear? Still gaining weight? That’s so sad.”

Yes, Shelby had had her hands full, all right And Brandy had had her mouth full. Turkey and all the fixings. Two slices of lemon meringue pie. An eclair for dinner. By the time the restaurant closed, Shelby’s only thought had been how she was going to boost Brandy from her chair and maneuver her up the street to the apartment.

She had at least half expected Quinn to be sitting on the apartment steps, waiting for her. After all, he did say he would see her today, didn’t he? But the Porsche was still missing, and his apartment was dark.

So Shelby and Brandy had climbed the stairs wearily, checked the answering machine to see that there were no messages, and crawled off to bed.

Men. That was what Brandy had said a time or two that long, long day. Just “men.”

And that said it all…

By Monday morning Brandy had rallied. She’d taken the phone off the hook the previous evening, and left it off until she headed out the door for her bus, having skipped breakfast at Tony’s because she was starting a new diet. Her fifth of the year, one that had something to do with eating nothing but protein until she could turn a special testing strip blue with her urine. Shelby hadn’t really listened to more, not after that test-strip business.

She had walked to the door with Brandy, gave her a kiss on the cheek before watching her go down the steps, then glared at the closed door to Quinn’s furnished apartment for a full minute before going back inside, putting the phone on the hook, and taking a long, long shower.

She stepped out of the bathroom half an hour later, a towel turban around her head, a long
bath sheet wrapped around her body, her feet bare. “Hello, Princess, darling,” she said to the shaded silver Persian who had just come out of her bedroom.

And then she saw it.

It.
An itty-bitty, great, gargantuan
it.

The mouse. The mouse clamped tightly in Princess’s jaws—and Princess was heading straight for her, as if ready to give her the still slightly squirming rodent as a present.

Shelby gave out a fairly ladylike “Eeek!” and raced for the telephone. She believed her feet must have touched the ground as she ran down the hallway and into the living room, but she wouldn’t bet on it, especially as she vaulted over the couch and grabbed the phone, pushing the speed-dial for Brandy’s office.

“Brandy!” she shouted a few years later, after having to deal with a lengthy “If you want form eleven A, press one; if you want to set up an appointment, press two,” that nearly reduced her to tears. By the time Brandy finally came on the line (“If you wish to speak to one of our counselors, please stay on the line and someone will be with you shortly.”), she had curled herself into a small ball on the back of the couch, daring to look down the hall every few seconds, just to make sure Princess still had the mouse in her mouth. Having the mouse in her mouth was bad, Shelby knew. But
not
having the mouse in her mouth meant it was somewhere else, and that, Shelby had decided, was worse.

“BrandyPrincesshasamouseinhermouth,” Shelby said breathlessly.

“What?”

Shelby rolled her eyes, then winced as she saw Princess heading toward her. “I said, Princess has a mouse in her mouth. In her
mouth,
Brandy. And it’s
wiggling.
No, wait. Now it’s not wiggling. I think it’s dead, poor thing. Probably died of heart failure; I know I would have. What do I do? Brandy? Brandy, stop laughing. This isn’t funny.”

Brandy stopped laughing long enough to say, “Oh, honey, yes it is,” before going off into another round of giggles. “God, I needed this this morning.”

Shelby took the receiver away from her head, glared at it, then pressed it against her ear once more. “Well, I didn’t! What am I going to do? She won’t… she won’t
eat it,
will she?”

“I don’t think so,” Brandy said, still trying to control herself. “Look, just walk up to her, give the mouse’s tail a little pull, and maybe she’ll let go.”

Shelby suddenly thought of the Tudor mansion on the Main line. Of all the permanent staff who could be relied on to keep even the
thought
of a dead mouse at bay. “You want
me
to touch that mouse? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“You could call Quinn. He’s probably home, right?”

Shelby closed her eyes and did her best to straighten her backbone. “Do you have rubber gloves, Brandy?”

“That’s my girl. Under the sink. Big yellow ones. Put one on, go over to Princess, grab the tail—that’s the mouse, sweetcakes, not the cat—and then tell Princess to let go. I’ll hang on.”

“Okay.” Shelby put down the phone, dangled her bare legs over the back of the couch, and measured the distance between the couch and the kitchen sink. She could do this. She had to do this. It was either that or let Princess eat the mouse.
Ugh!
Or call Quinn and ask for his help after he said he’d see her yesterday and then didn’t see her yesterday.
Double ugh!

She found the glove, put it on, and approached Princess carefully, digging her bare toes into the carpet with each step. “Nice Princess. Pretty Princess. Give Shelby the mou-sie, Princess. That’s a good— Damn it!”

Brandy was laughing hysterically as Shelby picked up the receiver once more. “Let me guess; it didn’t work?”

“She
growled
at me, Brandy. I didn’t know cats
could
growl. Now what do I do?”

Brandy gave the problem another moment’s thought. “Water. Go to the sink, fill
a glass, and pour it over the cat’s head. She’ll have to let go then, and you can quickly pick up the mouse.”

“Brandy,” Shelby said as calmly as she could. “I can do a lot of things quickly. I’m sure I can. But I cannot pick up a mouse
quickly.”

“Shelley, you gotta stop. I’m dyin’ here,” Brandy told her, laughing. “Okay, change of plan. Pour the water over her head, then pick up
Princess
quickly, and throw her in the bedroom and close the door. Then you can pick up the mouse
slowly.”

Doing as she was told, even if she wasn’t happy about it, Shelby filled a glass and poured its entire contents over Princess’s head. The cat let go of the mouse. Shelby reached down—quickly—and picked up the cat “Damn it!”

“Now what?” Brandy asked, having put Shelby on the speakerphone so that all her coworkers could listen in. “Shut up, guys, and quit laughing. I can’t hear her. Go ahead, Shelley. What happened?”

“She let go of the mouse, but when I picked her up she was so wet and slippery that she just fell out of my arms and picked up the mouse again. Growled at me again. Brandy, what am I going to do?”

A male voice came on the phone. “Shelley? This is Stan, one of Brandy’s friends. Listen, what you’ve got to do is just ignore the cat. Sit down on the couch, twiddle your thumbs, look up at the ceiling—you know, ignore her. Then, when she drops the mouse, you sort of stand up slowly, go over to her, still looking at the ceiling, maybe even whistling, and quickly swoop up the mouse. It’ll work, I promise.”

“Sounds like a plan, Shelley. Call me back,” Brandy said, and broke the connection, but not soon enough that Shelby didn’t hear an entire chorus of laughter and the words, “Whistle? Stan, you’re a
scream!”

Shelby looked at Princess, who was just standing there, sopping wet, still growling every once in a while. Still holding the mouse between her jaws. Shelby put down the phone. Smiled at the cat. Sat back on the couch.

“Nonchalant,” she told herself. “Just sit here and be nonchalant.” She smiled at Princess again, then picked up a magazine and pretended to read it. She began to hum. Humming was calming, wasn’t it?

Two minutes later, Princess opened her mouth and dropped the mouse.

Shelby waited until she counted to ten, then slowly put down the magazine. Slowly uncrossed her legs. Stood up. Kept her head high and began walking toward the kitchen. Nonchalant.

She got within two feet of the mouse before Princess picked it up once more, growled, gave a flick of her bushy tail, and walked over to stand in front of the television.

“Damn, damn,
damn!”
Shelby swore. “I’m going to be late for work if this keeps up. And now what?” she asked herself as there was a knock at the door.

With her luck it would be Mrs. Brichta, come to check up on them—that would seem a motherly thing to do, except that Mrs. Brichta was a lot of things, but motherly wasn’t one of them.

“Just a minute,” Shelby said, putting a hand to the towel turban, adjusting the bath sheet where she had knotted it over her breasts.

She opened the door a crack to see Quinn standing there, smiling at her. “Hi. Brandy called and said you needed a knight in shining armor. I’m here to volunteer.”

Shelby’s first instinct was to slam the door in his face. That reaction lasted about two seconds, because she really did need him, and she knew it She stood back and opened the door. “It’s Princess. She’s got a mouse and won’t let it go.”

“I know,” Quinn said, trying to look at the cat, but succeeding only in looking at Shelby. Under one towel she had her beautiful blond hair. Under the other she had… a whole bunch of things he’d better not think about right now. “Where does Brandy keep the cat food?”

“I don’t—under the sink, I think. Why?”

“Because Princess is a well-fed cat. Well-fed cats don’t eat mice. They play with them. That’s what Princess is doing. Playing with the mouse.”

“That’s disgusting,” Shelby said, shivering, and suddenly remembering that she was naked beneath the bath sheet that only covered her from the top of her breasts to just above her knees. “I… I’ll get the cat food.”

Two minutes later Princess was digging into some turkey and giblets, the mouse was running loose in the field behind the apartment building, and Quinn was standing in the hallway, knocking on the door to Brandy’s apartment once more, wondering what the reward for mouse disposal ran these days.

“I thought I’d come back and tell you. Mighty Mouse wasn’t dead, just playing possum. He’ll live to find his way back in here another day.”

Shelby felt a smile curving her lips. “Not dead? Oh, that’s so good to hear. I mean, I don’t want mice in the apartment, but I didn’t want him to be dead, either. Thank you, Quinn. Thank you very much. Well, I’ve got to get dressed now, so…”

She went to close the door, but he’d already put his hand against it, holding it open. “I wanted to apologize for not seeing you yesterday after I said I would.”

Shelby searched her brain for something to say, and setded on something Tabby had once said: “It’s no big deal, Quinn. Don’t worry, um, sweat it. Now, I really—”

“It was Gary. He was a mess yesterday,” Quinn pressed on, still keeping his hand on the door. “I suppose you know he and Brandy had an argument? Anyway, I took him to the Phillies game, just to keep him from making things worse.”

Shelby stepped back a pace and looked at Quinn through narrowed eyelids.
‘You
took him away? I had to deal with Brandy and her eat-everything-in-sight depression all day yesterday because
you
decided Gary shouldn’t see her or talk to her? You shouldn’t have involved yourself, Quinn.”

“Right,” he answered, walking past her into the living room. “And you didn’t involve yourself, Shelley? Gary told me he always calls Brandy after a fight and they always spend the night on the phone, talking through their problems, making up. Except she wouldn’t answer the phone Saturday night. Now why do you suppose she wouldn’t answer the phone Saturday night, when that’s the way they play this game they’ve played for the past twelve years?”

“I have no idea,” Shelby said, avoiding his eyes. “Oh, all right, so I meddled. So did you. But
somebody
had to step in and stop this silliness. They love each other, Quinn; they really love each other. But if each of them keeps reacting the same old way to the same old stimuli, keeps pressing the same buttons on the other, getting the same reaction, well, they’ll be engaged until they’re both eighty-six years old.”