“But isn’t all this friction and disappointment part of what makes a relationship?” Lennie mumbled in the dark as he pounded his chest. He wasn't afraid to tackle the highs and lows of courtship, but he didn’t think in his wildest dreams pursuit of a good woman would be this complicated. Lennie hit his thigh with his fist. No! Being tongue-tied and breathless meant he loved her. And nothing would change that.
Once the butterflies calmed inside his stomach, he’d experienced an unimaginable happiness any time she came near. Could he be confused? Lennie shook his head. He didn’t think so. Though he hadn’t known Sherelle a year, she never left his thoughts. He prayed to see her on the train. Wished she’d accept his invitation to dinner, to a movie, or another bike ride through the foothills of Virginia. When her face lit up after he surprised her with a private tour of the White House, he’d wanted to stay in the moment for a lifetime.
No chance of that now.
Lennie got up and sat alongside the bed. He envisioned going to the jewelry store then rushing to her side and asking for her hand in marriage. Lennie's hand washed over his face as his daydream faded. With no hope of a steady courtship, and definitely not a marriage, he had nowhere to turn. He couldn’t jump from airplanes to escape his agony. And he dare not torture himself by riding through the hills of Virginia. Maybe, Lennie thought, he had misinterpreted God’s plan. Perhaps Sherelle’s sole purpose was to save him, not love him.
Tell that to his heart.
###
The day before Thanksgiving Sherelle closed and locked her office door. Then she sat and turned her chair on its wheels and looked out her office window to watch the busy Washington streets. A deep hurt had settled in her chest for almost a week. No matter how many hours she worked or how many documents she read, Lennie consumed her thoughts. If she’d go one moment without thinking about him, she’d consider it a victory. Sherelle longed to feel his hands around her waist and she wanted to caress his face so bad her fingertips burned. She looked at her fingers. Neither red or on fire, her pale and dimpled fingers felt cold.
Sherelle had ten articles needing her immediate attention, all with conflicting deadlines. She had written two, but they did nothing to satisfy Randall Osborne’s thirst for more news. The European assassination plot had the potential to please his hunger for news.
In spite of working her source over the course of several weeks, Sherelle’s contact came up with nothing. She watched the news for any word of a revolt. A skirmish alarming enough to lead to an assassination attempt never surfaced. If she told Randall what she’d found in Lennie’s office, he’d leap at the chance to put his sources on it. Not thrilled with the way she’d obtained the information, she didn’t feel comfortable disclosing it to Randall. Besides, if legitimate, she had no plans to share credit for the story. This might land her a managing editor's position, if not with The Nation’s News then with a competitor.
She often considered Lennie’s reaction if he knew what she’d done. She needn’t worry about ruining their relationship anymore. In her mind, they never had one. Whatever connection they had, it dried up with the arrival of Angela.
Sherelle couldn’t disregard the fact Lennie had saved her life. His heroic sacrifice demoted her zealous ambitions to that of a mindless, selfish child. At twenty-five, Sherelle made strong efforts to convince herself she’d grown up. In actuality, she concluded, she hadn’t acted any better than the squabbling children she had babysat years ago.
Someone tapped on her office door. Sherelle opened it then returned to her chair and stared out the window.
“What is it, Mary?” Sherelle asked.
“The Colorado dam story is ready for print,” Mary said, holding the door halfway open.
A man stuck his head in the doorway. “Sherelle, Randy wants to meet with you this afternoon to go over the Korean crisis. Looks like both sides are at it again.” The man darted away before Sherelle responded.
“Sherelle, you think it’d be okay if I take off Monday?” someone else asked. With Thanksgiving hours away, Sherelle vented a casual “Sure” without bothering to identify the staff making the request.
Another co-worker barged in and brushed past Mary. “Sherelle,” she whispered, “I’ve got a wardrobe malfunction here.” The woman had a firm hand cupped to her breast. “My bra broke. Someone said you keep safety pins. Can I have one? I’m coming undone.”
From her purse, Sherelle retrieved a pin and handed it to the woman, all in silence, without looking at her. Then she gazed out the window once more.
Tourists on the streets reminded her of the White House tour and the walk on Lincoln Memorial. Lennie had kissed her palm and protectively wrapped his arm around her waist. She rubbed her palm and allowed the memory to marinate in regret. She couldn’t decide which she regretted most—spending time with Lennie, or not kissing him again when she had the chance.
“Sherelle, did you hear me? The story is ready for print. You want to check it one last time? Can we print it?” Mary asked again.
“Run it.” After Mary left, Sherelle locked her door then skimmed through the ten documents and marked them for corrections. Her office phone rang a number of times. She unplugged it. When her cell phone sounded, she turned it off. She took another thirty minutes to go over the documents, tweaking the layout, deleting a paragraph here and there before calling her staff together and doling out last minute instructions.
“And when that clock strikes five-thirty, I don’t want to see a soul on the floor. I want you all to go home. It’s Thanksgiving. No one is working late tonight, including me. So, I suggest you guys work as a team and do whatever you have to do to get this done. I’d like to go home and actually cook a meal tonight. Now let’s get to it.”
Her team didn’t finish until six-fifteen, but Sherelle refused to be disgruntled over forty-five minutes.
Exhausted, she opened a turkey sandwich bought from a nearby convenience store and sipped on a can of ginger ale. She listened to three voice mails from her parents, deleted them, and proceeded to prop herself on pillows and thumb through the Look Magazine in hopes of falling asleep. She ignored the large, grainy, black and white photograph of J.F.K. riding in a limousine. Rather, she focused on the inset of Jackie Kennedy Onasis adorned in a single strand of white pearls.
Sherelle admired her, even felt a tad of envy of the former first lady. With every turn of the page, Sherelle thought Jackie O. possessed more than a powerful last name. Dignity, honor, and respect placated the royalty and deep humility she’d exhibited during her lifetime. No need for flamboyancy, indignities over her murdered husband, or dependence on the world’s praise to validate her greatness. Her firm place in history thrived five generations because Jackie O. embodied a lady.
“To mimic her kindness and authenticity . . .” Sherelle allowed the phrase to hang in the air, much like the unfinished business between she and Lennie, much like her unfulfilled life. She looked out her bedroom window and remembered the night she saw Lennie hold Angela in a tight embrace. What would Jackie O. say to Lennie? Would she forgive him?
Sherelle shook her head. Forgiveness didn’t apply. She and Lennie had never been a couple. “I made sure of that, didn’t I?” Sherelle whispered. “If I had returned a drop of his love, none of this would have happened.”
Sherelle flipped through the magazine with enough force to rip its pages. Then she stopped and gave full attention to an Egyptian model promoting a new cosmetic line. Squeezing the magazine did nothing to ease her anxieties for letting Lennie go. It seemed she’d only known him for a minute, but that minute had all the earmarks of a steady courtship.
She pressed her abdomen with her fist, but failed to slow panic rising inside her. Efforts to become a successful journalist exposed her inability to put anyone above herself. All she ever did was live to work and work to live.
She reflected how quick she’d left Vivian Cassius’ funeral and took a taxi to the office to clean out Vivian??
?s desk. She hadn’t taken the time to mourn. No tears for Vivian. No time to shake the family’s hand.
She wouldn't take time to grocery shop, cook a meal, or read a good book. She even halted pursuits to find a decent beautician. Her hair was a matted mess and she’d lose most of it if she didn’t take better care of it. Sherelle ate on the run, took quick showers, and reviewed documents all day. No time to date. No holding hands. No I love you’s. No tenderness exposed, exchanged, or exhausted through endless efforts.
Lennie maneuvered around her work schedule so they’d spend time together. Never at her initiation unless, of course, she needed a meal brought to her doorstep. Even her parents had taken on the persona of strangers anxious to take up more of her time.
Sherelle’s fear of depending on others had a strong hold on her, not to mention that ever-eluding retirement fund her father always talked about.
Sherelle covered her face as it became clear Angela had nothing to do with her determination to turn Lennie away. She’d win Lennie’s heart in spite of Angela. But dare she give up a career in exchange for love? That sounded downright ludicrous. But hadn’t people done crazier things to feel this emotion?
After spending nearly an hour in mental anguish, Sherelle came to terms with the fact her all or nothing approach to life had failed. How she’d change, she didn’t know, and she hadn’t the slightest idea where to start.
She flinched when the cell phone rang then moaned when Randall Osborne’s name scrolled across the screen.
“Sherelle, I just received your e-mail. The layout for the Syrian story looks great. ‘The Death of All Men’ is a great title.”
“Thanks.” Sherelle reached for a wadded napkin off the nightstand and blew her nose.
“You never told me how you got wind of that hate crime in Texas. The pictures are too graphic so we’ll need to choose better ones when you get in on Friday. ‘A Repeat of History’ is a good title. I like it. Good job!”
“Those titles came to me at one o’clock one morning. I probably thought of them during a state of delirium.” Sherelle blew her nose again. “Randall, I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me during the Thanksgiving Holiday.”
“I know, I know, I know. But something’s come up. We need another story for February and I’ve come up with an idea.”
“And this couldn’t wait until Friday? I’ve given you twelve- to fourteen-hour days for nine months straight. I have one day off and you call me about a story that won’t be published until February? Randall, it is November.”
“You’re right, but let me at least tease you with this idea. You can sleep on it and let me know what you think on Friday.”
Sherelle released an audible exaggerated sigh. “What is it?”
“I want to do a story on your rescue from Cairo.”
“Wha— What?"
"We never covered your rescue in Cairo. This would be a fine time to do it. What do you think?"
"No! Absolutely not! That's not gonna happen.”
“Earlier in the year you said you would do this.”
“I said no such thing, Randall. I don’t want to do that story. I’m not ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.”
“Think about it. You can argue with me on Friday. The second anniversary of your rescue is in April so we’ll be ahead of everyone else. It might be a good idea to write it up as a three-part series. This is the kind of stuff that sells papers.”
Sherelle felt as if a hand grenade had exploded in the pit of her stomach. “No. No. No. Nononononono. No! This isn’t happening.” Sherelle snatched the Look Magazine off the bed and released her anger and frustration by twisting, bending, and folding it.
“C’mon, Sherelle. It’d be a great story.”
“That rescue has been spun to death. Let it go, Randall.”
“You don’t have a choice. Sherelle, don’t make this hard. Good stories are hard to find. They come in waves. We need to ride this one. We need this.”
Sherelle massaged her temples then stared into space. She thought of the assassination plot in Europe. Did she have the nerve to do it? “Maybe there’s another way,” Sherelle said as she silenced a nagging voice telling her not to do it.
“You got a better story?”
“I do.”
“Well, let’s hear it.”
“Friday. I’ll let you know first thing Friday.”
“Why not tonight?”
“It’s too complicated. I’ll come in early. We’ll talk then.”
Sherelle tossed the phone on the nightstand then eyed the crumpled pages of the Egyptian model with indignation. She picked up the mangled magazine and threw it hard against the wall. She shuddered at the cold, callous, and ruthless person she had become. For two hours, she walked the floor and tried to build the courage to call Lennie. After tonight, she’d no longer concern herself with him falling in love with her. After tonight, he’d hate the sight of her.
Chapter 15
Sherelle dialed Lennie’s number. After four rings, the call went to voice mail. She paced the full length of her studio apartment and wished for a better way out of this debacle. But she knew being a coward about this had the potential of making the situation catastrophic. She couldn’t allow that to happen.
“I’ve gotten myself into this, now I need to ‘fess up, no matter how embarrassing it is.” Just once Sherelle wished the walls would talk back to her—tell her what a fool she’d been; tell her the many things she hated to admit about herself.
From her bedroom window, silver garland gleamed in a pool of moonlight. Large green and red glittery bells fastened to streetlamps swayed in the wind. Sherelle paced again as she tapped the telephone in her palm. She hoped for peace and understanding, but anticipating such grace only exposed her self-centered heart.
Sherelle wanted to erase the past six months of her life. If she hadn’t met Lennie on the train she’d be content flourishing in her career. But that’s not how things had happened. Lennie had disrupted her life. Hadn’t she also disrupted his? If she’d left Cairo earlier, Lennie might still be rescuing poor souls from danger. However, she’d miss the pleasure of knowing him.
Unafraid to admit it, Lennie made her smile. He was the one bright spot in her day. He gave her what she needed without casting judgment. He never lectured her about not having toured the White House. He simply arranged for the private tour and spent hours walking her through American history.
She never once asked him over for dinner, and she'd only paid for one meal. Yet, he had not only bought dinner on several occasions, but had also cooked. Their ride through the Blue Ridge Parkway afforded her a peace she’d rarely experienced, and no one knew how bad she needed that moment of peace than Lennie.
“And this is how I repay him,” she whispered into the dark. “When have I ever thought about anyone else?” Sherelle didn’t know how this would turn out, but she had to make things right. That meant she had to speak truth.
Her hands shook. She pressed them between her legs before attempting to dial Lennie’s number again. When she felt ready—who was she fooling?—she’d never be ready. She tapped the keypad as if someone had hotwired the nerves in her finger.
“Lennie,” Sherelle said, fear and worry in her voice, “there’s something I need to tell you.”
“I have missed you so much. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve picked up the phone and started to call you,” Lennie replied.
“I’ve got a confession I need to make.”
“I want to see you. I’ve got a thousand things I want to say. Can I come over? I know it’s late, but if I could see you just for a moment.”
“Lennie, after I tell you this, I’m not sure you’ll want to pass me on the street.”
“C’mon, it can’t be that bad. Why don’t you tell me in person? Let me come over.”
“Lennie, it’s hard enough to do this on the phone,” Sherelle snapped.
For a mome
nt, Lennie fell silent. “O-Okay. What is it?”
“Lennie, you remember that night I was at your place for dinner? I believe it was in August.”
“How could I forget?”
“Remember when I fell asleep on the couch . . . You woke me up . . . I went to the bathroom.”
“And?”
“I’d mistaken your spare bedroom for the bathroom. I saw papers on your desk and . . . Lennie, I don’t know how else to say this but to tell you that I acted like the overzealous reporter that I am and—”
“You sound as worried as my housekeeper. Those documents don’t mean a thing to an untrained eye. You saw nothing more than a fictitious exercise from one of the seminars I attended. And not all the materials were there. Sherelle, if you ran a story based on what you saw, it might ruin your career, not mine.”
Sherelle moved her lips, but nothing came out. She tried again. “Lennie, I can’t tell you how embarrassed and ashamed I am. I had no right.”
“No, you didn’t. Don’t you know life is more about people and relationships? I’m trying to build a relationship with you. I don’t care about money and promotions, politics and world affairs. I care about you. Can’t you see that? If you had questions about what you found, why didn’t you tell me sooner? Don’t you remember what I told you?”
“No. What?”
“You can ask me anything.”
Sherelle’s bottom lip quivered. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”
“Let me come over, Sherelle.”
“Are you kidding me? Can you not see what’s happening here? Don’t you see what I almost did to you? Don’t you know who I am? I’m a selfish, self-centered moron. How could you want to be in the same room with me? I’m a terrible person.”
“You’re not a moron. You’re better than that. Believe me. What’s important is that you see what you did then move on. How many times must I say this? I care about you. Not my career. Can’t we discuss this in person?”
“No! I can’t handle seeing you right now. Not after what I’ve done. I’m too ashamed.”