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
