Love By Proxy

Three

Mr. Callahan was around sixty, had a bald head and narrow little eyes, wore glasses and was half Amelia’s size. He could out curse any sailor in port on a spree, and his compassion stopped at the door of his plant. He did not give leaves of absence, he did not like illness, and if there had been another job going anywhere, Amelia would have taken it on the spot. But openings were so hard to find in the raw economic times that she gritted her teeth and did what she was told. The only thing worse than this would be going back to Seagrove, a small town on the coast near Savannah, Georgia, and helping her parents run the print shop. That would take her close to Henry Janrett, who still expected her to come home and marry him when she got big-city living out of her blood. Henry ran the small town’s sole newspaper. He wrote a column about beekeeping, when he wasn’t lazing around local officials’ offices jotting down notes. He was a sweet man, just about Amelia’s own age, and she supposed someday she might even give in and do it. But Henry seemed a desperate last chance, and meanwhile she was still hoping for a crack at an exciting occupation in the big city. She didn’t know why she’d picked Chicago. Perhaps because her Navy veteran mother had been stationed at a naval base near Chicago during World War II and had come to Chicago on leave, and Amelia had heard such fascinating things about the Windy City. Perhaps it was its ancient gangster history. She’d come here a year ago in a last-ditch attempt to find something her life lacked, before she went over the hill completely. She’d been hoping for excitement and adventure. And she’d found Mr. Callahan.

She groaned as she filled out another order form. Then she thought about what she had to do at 7:00 p.m. and groaned again. She called Marla at lunch and asked if she could borrow the belly dancer’s costume.

“Why?” Marla asked.

“I don’t have time for deep questions,” Amelia grumbled. “Can I or can’t I?”

“Well…sure. He went to see you, didn’t he? I had to give him your address, you just can’t say no to him; but I thought he was going to mail you a letter….”

“I can’t tell you what it’s all about, so don’t ask.” Amelia sighed. “But Andy isn’t going to like it.”

“What is he having you do? Oh, Amelia, you can tell me, I’m your friend!”

Mr. Callahan came out of his office, saw her on the phone and glared.

“Yes, sir,” Amelia said calmly, “that’s right, our new manure spreader can handle all your requirements.”

“What?” Marla faltered.

“If you’ll get your order right in the mail…. Oh, you’re just checking on it, you don’t want to place an order at this time? But you are keeping us in mind? How nice of you, sir!”

Marla was giggling. “Mr. Callahan, I presume? See you later, darling.”

“Yes, sir, certainly. Goodbye.” Amelia hung up and gave Mr. Callahan a bright smile.

He nodded approvingly. “Nice public relations work, girl. Very nice.” He walked on by, and Amelia tried not to slide down in her chair with relief.

Of course, Marla was waiting like a big spider when Amelia got to her office late that evening.

“What are you going to do, and where?” Marla asked. “You’ve got to tell me! What has that man put you up to?”

“I can’t tell you,” Amelia groaned, knowing that Marla would rush to tell Andy, and then she’d have a male stripper in her office…arrrgh!

“I’m your friend,” Marla coaxed.

“So far, so good, will you swear out an affidavit to that effect and keep it on hand, I may need it,” she murmured as she drew on the belly dancer’s costume and tugged her trench coat over it. “This is getting to be a real drag, you know?” she muttered.

“Where are you going?” Marla asked.

“Out to eat.”

“Where?”

The phone rang in time to save her. Marla answered it, and Amelia got her purse and started out the door.

“Yes, of course I understand, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Marla was saying. “Yes, I’m sure the weather’s cooler there. It’s too bad she’s sick.”

Amelia waved and left. Rather than walk, she got a cab across town to the French restaurant. She walked in, nervous, fuming, and asked for Carlos.

The hostess gave her a blank stare. “I beg your pardon?”

“I want to speak to Carlos,” Amelia said again. “He’s expecting me.”

“To do what?” the hostess burst out, staring at the trench coat, which showed no blouse or skirt or slacks.

Amelia leaned forward. “I’m stark naked,” she said with a stage leer. “I’m supposed to jump out and scare an old lady in there. Now will you please get Carlos?”

“Yes, ma’am!” the hostess said quickly, backing away.

Amelia blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes. Of all the hangups, why did it have to happen to her? She glared around her, hating the elegant restaurant, hating Wentworth Carson, hating the whole world. Things had been going so well lately….

It seemed to take forever to get Carlos. But minutes later she heard footsteps and turned to see a tall, very somber policeman walking toward her.

“Okay, lady,” the policeman said, and brought out a pair of handcuffs. “Let’s go see the sergeant.”

“No!” Amelia burst out. “No, you can’t! I’m here for a legitimate reason. Let me show you!”

She started to unbutton the trench coat, and the policeman quickly got her hands behind her and whipped on the handcuffs.

“No, you don’t!” the policeman said quickly. “No flashing! Honest to God, you college kids give me a pain. Thanks for calling me, Dolores. I’ll take care of her. Come on, honey.”

“Thanks, Dolores,” Amelia sputtered at the stunned hostess. “I’ll do you a favor someday. What’re your favorite colors, and I’ll send flowers along with the bomb.”

“Terrorist threats and acts,” the policeman muttered as he led her toward the waiting squad car. “Honest to God, you could get ten years.”

Amelia started to speak just as a photographer rushed up and exploded a flashbulb in her face.

“Open the coat, honey, open the coat, let’s get some good pics!” the photographer called, and the policeman put her in the car and went forward to argue with the photographer.

Amelia sank back against the seat and closed her eyes. There are days, she thought pleasantly, when it’s just the very devil to get out of bed at all.

She eventually got everything straightened out. But it took a phone call to a very upset Marla, who had to come downtown and explain everything to the desk sergeant, who looked like a man who’d heard everything once and didn’t have a spare nerve left in his entire body.

“I will die, I will just die,” Amelia moaned when she and Marla were back at the Kennedys’ garage apartment. “Imagine me being arrested! Arrested! And for flashing…. I will kill that man,” she said, wide-eyed. “I will kill him stone-cold dead.”

“I may help you,” Marla said darkly. “Imagine, setting up poor Andy and his mother that way.” She frowned. “But, darling, Andy had gone home to see about his mother. She got sick early this morning.”

Amelia stopped and blinked. “What?”

“Andy went home.”

“But he told me to go to La Pierre tonight,” she gasped. “He told me to ask for Carlos….” She moaned again. “And there was a photographer! He took my picture!”

Marla stared at her. “What if he was a press photographer?”

She buried her head in her hands. “I’ll die.”

“Well, maybe he wasn’t. You get a good night’s sleep, and in the morning it will all seem like a bad dream, you’ll see.” Marla hugged her. “You’ve had an awful night, I know. Just have a nice bath and go to sleep, and in the morning it will be all right.”

“Will it?” Amelia asked pitifully, needing reassurance.

“Really.”

But in the morning, she went to get her newspaper. And when she opened it, there she was, shocked face and all, on the front page, being arrested in a trench coat. And the cutline read, “Who says flashing is passé? This young lady was arrested au naturel at Chez Pierre last night for attempting to flash the exclusive clientele. Tough luck, isn’t she lovely?”

She closed the newspaper just as the phone rang. She didn’t need even one guess.

“Hello, Mr. Callahan,” she said hopefully.

“You’re fired!” he yelled, and hung up.

She sat down with a sigh beside her cooling morning coffee. So much for things getting better.

After she dressed, she phoned Marla. “I want Mr. Wentworth Carson’s address.”

“Darling…” Marla began.

“You call Andy and find out for me where he lives. I am not going to do this at his office, I am going to go to his home and kill him where he stands.”

“But, darling….”

“Do it.” She hung up.

Several harrowing hours later, after she’d exhausted the terrifying possibilities of unemployment and the rent being due, she drove up the long, winding driveway of an estate in Lincoln Park. It was an exclusive neighborhood, and she wasn’t shocked by the very elegant and enormous brick home sitting at the end of that flowery, tree-shaded drive. She parked her elderly but respectable Ford at the front door and got out, glaring at the white Rolls Royce as she passed by on her way up the steps.

She was wearing her gray business suit with a sedate white blouse and white accessories. She looked very prim and proper with her hair in a bun and the minimum of makeup. And she only wished she could drive a tank into the front door. She wanted to make a very good impression on Wentworth Carson. A lasting, physical impression.

She rang the bell. An elderly man opened the door and smiled at her. “Yes, madam, may I help you?”

“I am here to see Wentworth Carson,” she said quietly.

“Mr. Carson is in the study,” he said. “May I announce you?”

“You may not,” she replied, pushing past him. “I will announce myself. Which way is the study, please?”

The elderly man hesitated, but his restraint was unnecessary. Wentworth Carson himself was standing in the doorway of the plushly carpeted room, wearing slacks and a burgundy knit shirt, hands in slacks pockets, staring at her.

“Miss Glenn,” he said politely.

“Mr. Carson,” she replied with equal politeness.

“Why are you here?” he asked curtly. “And how did you get this address?”

“Those questions are hardly relevant.” She produced a folded newspaper from under her arm and handed it to him.

He frowned and then opened the paper. His eyes blinked as he read. His head lifted. “What the hell did you do, woman?”

“I went to La Pierre to surprise Andy.”

He was trying not to laugh. “Well, it was all for nothing, wasn’t it? He didn’t show up.” He glanced at her. “But didn’t you look at the sign?”

Her head moved a little. “What?”

“Didn’t you look at the sign?”

He handed her the paper. She looked. There on the marquis was “Chez Pierre.”

She felt faint. But she was made of sturdy stuff. During the Civil War one of her great-grandmothers had held off a company of Yankees for two days until help arrived to vanquish them. Amelia stood erect.

“Andy was at home with his mother,” she said.

“Yes, I know. I hadn’t expected him to come into the office, and he didn’t call me until last night. I didn’t have time to warn you.”

She was still staring blankly at him. “I got arrested. They took me to jail. They booked me. I was fingerprinted. They thought I was naked. I told them I wasn’t, but they wouldn’t listen. They locked me up!” Her eyes got wilder as she went along. “My father subscribes to this paper.” She held it up. “He likes to know what’s going on in the city where his daughter lives.” She stared down at the newspaper. “What a shock this will be. I’ve never even worn shorts downtown back home.”

He couldn’t help it. He laughed. That only made it worse. She flung the paper on the floor while the elderly butler tried diligently to keep a straight face.

“Mr. Callahan called me this morning. He fired me. Now I’ll have to go back home. The people in the post office will see that paper, and so will the mail carrier, and the mail carrier will tell his wife, and she’ll tell the ladies at church….” Her lower lip trembled as tears threatened. “I hate you. And I made Marla get your address from Andy so that I could come here and tell you how much I hate you. I hope your Rolls Royce rusts!”

She turned around and started out the door, just as a quavering voice asked, “Who is that, Worth?”

The voice was of someone the butler’s age, but feminine. Through tears, Amelia saw a tiny old woman moving into the hall from the room on the other side of the house. She could hardly walk; her gnarled hands were on a padded walker. She stood just inside the hall and looked for all the world like a cuddly toy. She smiled, brightening her blue eyes and her pale, wrinkled complexion.

“Hello,” she said softly.

“H-hello,” Amelia said, and even managed a watery smile.

“I couldn’t help hearing,” the older woman apologized. “Worth hardly ever guffaws like that; it woke me from my nap. Are you the young lady he was bellowing about last night? You don’t look like a belly dancer.”

“Actually, I’m a retired ax murderer,” Amelia said with a cold glare at Wentworth Carson. “Just recently retired.”

“Thank goodness, I’m sure I wouldn’t enjoy being murdered. Do you drink tea, my dear?”

“Grandmother, I’m sure Miss Glenn has packing to do,” the big man said, as if the prospect of having her out of the city delighted him.

Amelia glared at him. “I like tea.”

“Then do come and have a cup with me,” the old woman said. “I’m Jeanette Carson. Worth is my grandson.”

“How lovely for you,” Amelia said. She gave Worth a glance and followed the little old lady into the elegance of rosewood and silk furniture and immaculate white carpeting. “My name is Amelia Glenn.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, my dear. I adore white, as you see. Impractical, but so lovely,” Jeanette Carson said. She eased down on the sofa in front of a long, polished coffee table, and rang a bell. A young woman in uniform appeared and was told to bring tea.

“That was Carolyn,” Jeanette said. “Worth hasn’t run her off yet, but I do believe he’s giving it his best. He prefers to have me surrounded with men here. He’s sure I can get around women, but he believes that men can handle me. Ha!” She laughed. Her wrinkled face drew up indignantly. She sighed. “Anyway, he never brings young ladies home these days. I was simply shocked when he mentioned you. I didn’t know about you, you see.”

“Oh, Worth and I are great friends,” she said, smiling poisonously at the big man who joined them. “Aren’t we?”

He stared at her. “You and I, friends? God forbid!”

“Don’t you worry, we will be. You’ll get used to me, you lucky man,” she added with a cold smile.

“You brought your troubles on yourself, Miss Glenn,” he said. He sat down, hitching up his pants. “You should take some spelling courses.”

She glared at him. “If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have gone to the restaurant in the first place.”

“You started it,” he reminded her. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her challengingly.

“I do seem to have missed something,” Jeanette broke in, glancing from one to the other.

“Lucky you.” Amelia smiled.

“Miss Glenn was arrested in the early hours for—” he paused for effect “—flashing, wasn’t it?”

She glared at him. “I was arrested for wearing a belly dancing costume under a trench coat,” she told the elderly woman, “at Wentworth’s instructions.”

Jeanette gasped as she stared at her grandson. “You sent this young woman to an elegant French restaurant in a belly dancing costume?”

His dark eyes narrowed at Amelia. “She came waltzing into my office wearing it, sang me a birthday song and kissed me.”

Jeanette leaned forward. “Don’t be ridiculous, Worth, it isn’t your birthday.”

“I know that!” he burst out. “It was a practical joke one of my employees played on me. Almost,” he added darkly, “an ex-employee.”

“Now, now, Wentworth, you wouldn’t really fire him?” Amelia taunted.

“Worth,” he said irritably. “No one calls me Wentworth.”

“I can think up some better names,” Amelia said sweetly. “Perhaps you’d like to hear them, at length, some other time?”

“That isn’t likely,” he said firmly. “You’ll be out of town.”

“Out of town?” Jeanette frowned. “Why?”

“She lost her job,” Wentworth Carson said.

“Then, dear, you must give her another one,” Jeanette said. “It’s the least you can do, since it’s your fault she lost it.”

“It is not my fault,” he said. “And I don’t have a job to give her,” he added smugly, “there are no vacancies.”

“In that case, she can work for me,” Jeanette said haughtily. “I need a social secretary. Someone to fetch and carry and help me get around town. God knows, you’re never here in the daytime.”

Worth sat up straight, as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing. “Social secretary?”

“Yes,” Jeanette said. She gave him a dogged glare, and the resemblance between the two of them was so noticeable that Amelia almost smiled.

He glared at Amelia.

“I didn’t come here looking for a job,” she said in all honesty to Jeanette. “I only came to kill your grandson.”

“Too messy on white carpet,” Jeanette said, shrugging it off and smiling as Carolyn brought in the big silver tea service. “Work for me instead. You can even live in, if you like.”

“Hell, no,” Worth said quietly.

“Wentworth!” Jeanette chided.

He got up and walked out of the room, muttering things under his breath as he slammed the door behind him.

“Now that he’s out of the way, let’s talk business,” Jeanette said, smiling at her guest. “I’m seventy-five, I have a temper as bad as my grandson’s, I’m overbearing and pushy and I never ask when I can demand.” She sat back, tea in hand. “I’m recovering from a broken hip and it’s hard for me to get around. Worth practically keeps me in chains. And I want to break out. You can help me.”

“You don’t know me,” Amelia began.

Jeanette stared at her. “In my day,” she said, “I was one of the best investigative reporters in Chicago. I am a dandy judge of character even to this day. I may not know you now, but I will. And so far, you pass with flying colors. Now,” she said. She named a figure twice what Callahan had paid Amelia. “Does that suit you? And would you like to live in?”

“I would, if only to spite your grandson, but I signed a one-year lease where I am, and I like my landlords very much,” she confessed. “Besides,” she added, “I like my privacy. There simply isn’t any when you live with other people.”

“How old are you, dear?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Parents?”

“Both living. They have a print shop back home in Georgia.”

Jeanette stared into her tea. “And is there a man in your life?”

She sighed. “Not unless you count Henry. He runs the paper back home and would marry me on a sunny day if it weren’t too inconvenient and didn’t happen on press day.”

Jeanette laughed softly. “We’re going to get along very well. Yes, we are.”

Amelia thought so, too. But when she came out two hours later, Wentworth Carson was waiting outside in the yard, hands in pockets and glaring holes in her.

“What a snit we’re in,” Amelia chided. “Talk about bad-tempered people…”

“It is not my fault you lost your job,” he told her bluntly. “And I like my life as it is. I want no part of you here. Tell my grandmother you won’t take the job.”

“I like your grandmother,” she said curtly. “She’s just like my mother, crusty and unflappable and impossible to fool. I’ll take care of her.”

He stared harder. “In return for what?” he asked, narrowed eyes telling her everything he wasn’t saying.

“How often is she taken advantage of?” she asked instead.

“Her heart is as big as the world,” he said. “She likes strays.”

“I am not a stray. I have owners.”

“Go home.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d have to marry Henry!” she burst out. “If he’d still have me after he saw a copy of this morning’s paper. My reputation will be in shreds.”

“Why not marry Henry?” He frowned.

“Because the most exciting thing he ever said to me was, ‘Amy, your nose has a crook in it.’”

His eyebrows lifted. “Not a passionate man.”

“No.”

His dark eyes roamed over her neat suit. “Are you a passionate woman?”

“That’s something you’ll never need to know. I am going to work for your grandmother, not get involved with you,” she told him firmly.

One corner of his disciplined mouth turned up. “She likes you. She’ll spend her days throwing you at my head and her nights finding more ways to get us married.”

“You’re safe,” she told him, turning toward her old Ford. “I don’t like older men.”

“Forty is not old,” he said shortly.

“At twenty-eight, it is old,” she returned, facing him squarely. “I want somebody to play with.”

He started laughing, and only then did she realize how he’d interpreted what she said. Her face flamed.

“Baseball!” she burst out. “Tennis and swimming and jogging, not…not…that!”

He laughed harder. She didn’t say another word. She crawled into her car and managed with the greatest of difficulty to get it turned around and headed out of the yard. He was still standing there laughing when she drove away.

Four

Amelia showed up for work the next morning at eight-thirty sharp, wearing a sedate gray ensemble that made her pale blue eyes look slate-gray to match it. The skirt and knit blouse were worn with a trendy little short-sleeved cotton jacket, and she put her hair in a neat bun. She wasn’t giving Wentworth Carson any cause for complaint with the way she dressed.

When she pulled up in front of the house, a short, elderly yardman motioned her to move the car down to the garage. She cranked the engine again, with difficulty. The old yellow Ford had a habit of refusing to turn on again after the engine got hot. It was one of those ghostly problems that several mechanics hadn’t been able to solve, so she lived with it. But today it did crank, eventually, and she pulled it with a clank and a clatter down to the elegant, spacious garage where Wentworth’s Rolls and a Mercedes were parked.

It made her feel odd, parking between two such luxurious vehicles, and she was half afraid that she might accidentally scratch one of them. But it was obvious that Wentworth didn’t want her pitiful old wreck parked in front of his house. And that irritated her no end. Snob, she thought angrily.

She’d worked herself into a fever of resentment by the time she got to the front door. Well, he needn’t think she was going to skulk up the back stairs like a servant. She was as good as he was, any day!