The Red Choo Diaries

Actually, Sheldon hadn’t because the beach was her place and her place alone. But Cami looked all goo-goo about the prospect, so Sheldon put on her best “dreamy-flashback” smile. “It’s great. It’s really hot, and you get all sweaty and sticky, but then, just when you think it’s totally yuck, you can dive into the ocean and cool off, the warm waters wrapping around you. Five stars, Cami. Definitely.”

“Oh, I can’t wait. And I bought a new bikini. With strings.”

“You and Lance will have a great time.”

Playfully, Sheldon kicked some sand in Cami’s direction. Sheldon didn’t have any of Cami’s important things to worry about. Yeah, no muss, no guilt. Until the day she was engaged, she was as free as the bird still perched nearby, waiting patiently for crumbs.

Sheldon fished in her pocket and tossed the bird an Altoid’s mint. Not a piece of bread, but he’d have great breath. He flew down and picked up the mint.

Cami shook her head.

“You know, you and Josh should get married in the Caribbean. Barefoot. Maybe some quiet guitar music in the background. What do you think?”

“Yeah, maybe,” answered Sheldon. “Let’s go inside. After all, don’t want to keep Josh waiting.”

THE FORMAL DINING ROOM SEATED forty when necessary. Tonight the table was set for eight, but Sheldon really wished they’d put in the extra leaves so that conversation would be kept to a minimum.

The four extra seats were occupied by the Conrad family: James Conrad, his wife, Marge; their daughter, Jennifer; and the favored son, Josh, Sheldon’s soon to be fiancé.

She picked at her peas and watched Josh from the corner of her eye. He was handsome, with sun-bleached California hair, earnest blue eyes, a dimple in his chin and a mouth that was a hair too wide, but it fit him. Josh was the eternal optimist. For some reason, every time Sheldon laid eyes on him, she wanted to kill him. Not the best start for a marriage.

“Sheldon, how’s your steak, honey?”

Sheldon smiled at her father. “I think I’m going to become a vegetarian. Do you know how they make steak? Cutting up the cows, all that blood—”

Sheldon’s mother held up a perfectly manicured hand. “Not at the dinner table, Sheldon.”

Sheldon blinked vacantly. “Sure, Mom.”

Her mother, ever the peacemaker, turned to Josh. “So, Josh, what’s new and exciting at Con-Mason?”

He speared a piece of meat with his fork, his mouth curved into an even bigger smile than usual. “Sales for the new line of bathroom cleaners are up seventeen percent, and we’ve put some incentives in place for the sales team. Very exciting stuff. I think third quarter growth will surprise everyone—especially the analysts.” Then he took a bite of his steak and chewed. Still smiling.

“Isn’t that nice?” Sheldon’s mother, Cynthia, looked every bit the Hamptons matron. Golden blonde, tanned and still gorgeous. That would be Sheldon in about twenty years, although Cynthia was missing Sheldon’s vacant expression. Her mother actually cared about things.

Then Cynthia turned to her oldest daughter. “Isn’t that nice, Sheldon?”

“Better than nice, Mom.” She looked in Josh’s direction. “Nuclear.”

He met her eyes, smiled, and then went back to his dinner. Oh, yes, theirs would be a match made in heaven.

The dinner conversation followed a well-established order. Gossip, excluding the Summerville and Conrad families, of course. Next up was the polo season. No one at the table played, including Josh, who was a golfer like Sheldon’s dad. However, lack of participation never stopped a heated discussion about how disappointing last season was.

Over dessert, Marge Conrad and Cynthia would launch into a full critique of the fall fashion season, each woman bemoaning her loss of figure. Both were size four.

Scintillating stuff, and after twenty-six years of it, Sheldon knew it all by heart.

After the last of the plates had been cleared away, her father opened a bottle of wine, pouring everyone a glass. Then he moved to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “I have an announcement to make. I think y’all are going to be seeing a new side of Sheldon. Gave me a big surprise when she came to me and talked about expanding her world. Giving back to the community, trying artistic endeavors, taking an interest in New York’s fine array of sports offerings, turning her personal life into something more meaningful. I was tickled pink. And then, she told me about her favorite idea, sticking up for the ‘little man.’” He raised a glass. “To Sheldon, apple of my eye and owner of my heart.”

Sheldon raised her glass, pasting a smile on her face. So Jeff was that confident of his five-point plan that he’d pitched it to her father like a new advertising slogan?

Rage burned inside her, an oddly unfamiliar emotion. She’d be damned if Jeff was going to treat her like dishwashing powder.

Maybe she had a meaningless existence, maybe she was a black hole of humanity, but this time he had pushed her too far. This was a new and improved Sheldon with extra strength for tackling stubborn PR flacks where they lived.

Little did he know it, but Jeff Brooks had just issued a declaration of war.

MERCEDES BROOKS WAS JEFF’S younger sister and partner in crime, usually against Andrew. Then, when they were done with that, they’d turn on each other in that genuine, loving yet exquisitely painful sibling way that had endured since the dawn of time.

If she’d been homely or fat, Jeff might have cut her some slack, but Mercedes had looks. Not model looks, like Sheldon, but she had a unique I-can-kick-your-ass glint in her eyes that seemed to drive guys wild.

Jeff, having been the recipient of said glint more than once, was immune.

Currently, his pain-in-the-butt sister was curled up in his office, hogging his favorite chair, reading the New York Times—not her usual reading material. She pushed her dark hair out of her eyes and continued to bitch. Another one of Mercedes’ finer qualities.

She pointed to the article she was reading and scowled. “I don’t think sex is cheapening America, do you?”

“What?” asked Jeff, the word sex capturing his interest.

“They’re talking about my blog.”

“Oh,” muttered Jeff, going over his notes. Mercedes had a sex blog that she wrote anonymously. The Red Choo Diaries. Most of his friends’ sisters wrote their secrets in their diaries. Not Mercedes. No, the whole freaking world had to know about her secrets.

“I don’t have time for this, Mercedes,” he said, sending off an e-mail to a reporter at the Daily News, his last reminder before today’s event.

“Why not? Don’t you care about the freedom of the press? You, of all people, who depend on the media in order to do your job? I think you’re a traitor in disguise, Jeff. I can’t believe you’re my brother.

“Oh, calm down, Mercedes. You write a sex blog, not Gone with the Wind.”

“And isn’t it a fact that you lie, cheat and brainwash people for a living?”

“On a good day, yes.”

She humphed and went back to the paper. “The least you could do is help me write an Op-Ed piece. You know, something with a great hook and pizzazz. I need to work on my platform.”

“What platform?” he asked.

“A marketing platform. My agent told me that.”

Jeff frowned. “What agent?”

“Do you pay attention to anything I tell you?”

“No.”

“At least Andrew listens to me.”

“I got him the other day.”

That brought the joy back into Mercedes’s eyes. “Really? How?”

“I told him that Jamie wouldn’t wait forever for him to propose.”

“Oh, what did he do? Pale, pasty complexion, the eye dodge, or the back-brace-posture-pose.”

“All of the above.”

“I bet he proposes next week.”

“Nah, three months. At his heart, Andrew’s too conservative.”

“With Jamie? Hello! They played hide the salami in a limo. On a workday. We have to bet. One thousand dollars says he proposes within the month.”

“You don’t have a thousand dollars to lose, Mercedes. You quit your job as a real journalist, who knows why.”

Mercedes gave a careless shrug. “It was too structured. I felt like the paper limited my creative endeavors. I’m an artist.”

“And as an unemployed artist, you don’t have one thousand dollars to lose.”

“Do too. Got my first advance check the other day.”

“Advance for what?”

“My book deal.”

“You sold a book?”

“I told you,” she started, then noticed the smile on his face. “You’re such a jerk.”

“A thousand dollars? You’re on.”

Mercedes laughed. “Putting your money where your mouth is, big boy?”

“’Course I’m in.”

“Now you have to help me write the essay.”

“Can’t right now. Have to meet Sheldon at the electricians’ strike.”

Her eyes skimmed over him, for the first time taking in the faded blue jeans, the Rolling Stones T-shirt. “A strike? What the heck are you doing on a picket line? They fired you at Columbia-Starr didn’t they, and you’ve got this new secret career and never told us. Andrew is going to love this mess, Jeff. I can hear the lectures already.”

“Nice try. It’s for the job.”

“Columbia-Starr is representing the union?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s not that far-fetched, but no. I’m working on Sheldon Summerville’s image. She’s going to go out on the picket line and walk it for a bit.”

Mercedes began to laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No, it’s part of a new plan to redesign her image.”

“And she’s okay with this?”

“’Course,” he said, although he wasn’t exactly sure she was okay with it. In fact, he suspected that she was not okay with it, but she seemed to be going along with his ideas. So, uh, she must be okay with it.

Mercedes choked on a laugh. “I’ll go with you. Who knows, maybe I’ll come up with some fodder for the blog.” Then she got a faraway look in her eyes. “You know, I should really talk to her, I bet she can give me some great material.”

“Don’t even think about it, Mercy.”

“Alright,” she agreed, but the faraway look never left her eyes.

THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT Times Square that appealed to Jeff. The lights, the gaudiness—it was commercialization gone wild. When he was a kid, Times Square had been a different sort of place, a little seedy, a little trashy, but he’d watched the transformation take place. A butterfly coming out of its cocoon. Some days he’d take the subway to Times Square just to be in the presence of all that energy.

Today, people were wall-to-wall, a combination of the Wednesday business lunch crowd and the summer tourists, along with some street preachers and the Naked Cowboy, and he thought he spotted a guy walking a llama.

Just another day in the city. And on any given day, a union strike was happening. Doormen, sanitation workers, electricians, babysitters, bartenders and Broadway musicians. Today, in the heart of Times Square, the electricians were up at bat.

The picket signs were out, men in blue-collar clothes fighting for fair wages, and naturally, the giant blow-up rat that looked as if it came out of a Tim Burton movie. No strike was complete without the rat.

He and Mercedes stood outside the ESPN Sports-Zone restaurant, waiting for Sheldon.

And waiting.

And waiting.

She was late.

Jeff checked his watch and was considering calling her on his cell when he spied the blond hair blowing in the summer wind. Heads turned as she walked by, they always did, wondering who she was. Some people knew and whispered. Those were the ones who followed the tabloids.

Yeah, Sheldon drew eyes. She always drew Jeff’s eyes. He didn’t understand her, but he liked to look at her, that was for sure.

There was an energy about Sheldon, an electricity, and no matter how empty and unthinking she appeared, she couldn’t hide the energy. Sometimes, like now, she let it shine, and when she did, even Times Square looked dim.

She saw him and waved, and half of the picket line waved back.

“That’s her, right?” asked Mercedes, poking him in the ribs.

“Yeah.”

“Why’s she wearing a suit?”

Hallelujah, Sheldon was wearing a demure blue blazer and matching skirt. Yeah, the skirt was kinda short, but he’d take his victories where he could.

“Because she’s finally starting to listen to me,” answered Jeff.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sheldon said, coming up through the crowd, flushed and out of breath. She looked at Mercedes. “I know you, don’t I? I really suck at names. I’m Sheldon.”

“Mercedes Brooks.”

“Ahh…” she said, and she looked at Jeff, wheels spinning behind expressionless blue eyes. “This is your sister? The Red Choo Diaries?”

“You know?” said Mercedes.

“Hell, yes. I never miss it.”

And that was a disaster waiting to strike. Jeff took Sheldon by the arm, away from Mercedes’s sly maneuverings before his sister could damage Sheldon’s reputation even more. “Right. Sheldon, let’s go over to the picket line. I’ve talked to the union boss, and there’s some press lined up, too. I wrote a few lines for you. You don’t have to say much. Pick up the picket sign, walk with the workers, maybe do some chanting. Smile and wave. Look pretty. That’s pretty much it. Can you handle this?” Jeff handed her the piece of paper with his notes.

She looked over the paper, looked back up at him, blinking fair, soft-looking lashes. “Smile, wave, look pretty? Sure. Not a problem.”

There was something different about her today. Too eager, too cooperative, too peppy. Sheldon was never peppy. Jeff tried to ignore the pit in his stomach that said something was wrong with this picture. He watched her walk toward the line, brisk, businesslike and completely confident.

Yeah, something was definitely wrong.

Cameras started to flash, and she raised a hand and waved to everyone. Tourists stopped in the middle of Times Square, trying to figure out which movie star she was.

Mercedes walked over to where Jeff was standing. “You know, I didn’t give her enough credit. She’s definitely working this, isn’t she?”

Sure enough, Sheldon was shaking hands with the workers, talking to one reporter, and in general, dazzling them all.

The pit in his stomach grew two sizes, and Jeff made his way through the strikers. Just as he arrived at the front lines, Sheldon held up a hand and the buzz of the crowd quieted.

“When I read about the electricians’ union going on strike, I got mad. This city depends on the electricians to keep Times Square lit up, to keep businesses and hospitals going, in fact, electricians keep people alive. The city depends on electricians to handle the millions of dollars that flow in and out of Wall Street every day.”

That was all good, that was all scripted. Jeff began to relax. Then Sheldon turned to the union chief, a grizzled fifty-something with tattooed arms and a blue union cap on his head. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Al.” he answered, blushing.

She put an arm around the man, drawing him into her world. “We’re behind you, Al. The city won’t forget about you.” She pulled a man who was dressed in a suit from the crowd.

“And what’s your name, sir?”

The guy shut off his cell and smiled for the photographers. “Tom.”

“Tom, do you support Al here?”

Tom blinked. “Uh, sure.”

Sheldon smiled. “So do I. In fact…”

She tugged off her jacket, revealing a lacy black bra beneath. Instantly, the men went wild and a million cameras flashed.

“Oh, this is great stuff for the blog!” Mercedes dove into her purse and produced a digital camera.

Sheldon reached around her back and Jeff closed his eyes.

He knew. He just knew.

A huge cheer went up and Jeff opened his eyes.

There was Sheldon, surrounded by two thousand members of New York City’s electricians union, holding the bra triumphantly above her head. Jeff knew their thoughts exactly as they goggled at the golden skin that would never need airbrushing, and the two perfect breasts. Breasts that made his mouth water.

And because of the press he had supplied, invited actually, it was a picture that most of the world would see in tomorrow’s papers.

Sheldon grinned, threw her bra in the direction of the photographers and posed. Then, with a satisfied smile, she put back on the demure blue jacket and walked over to Jeff, confident, brisk. Once again, all business.

She grinned at him. “You know, I gotta say, this was a super-great idea. Score one for the ‘little man,’ right?”

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