Love By Proxy. Diana Palmer

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