Shelby knew Washington was a crazy town. That's why she
loved it. She could have elegance and history, if that's
what she wanted, or dingy clubs and burlesque. On a trip
from one side of town to the other, she could go from
grace and style to mean streets — there was always a
choice: gleaming white monuments, dignified state
buildings, old brick row houses, steel and glass boxes;
statues that had oxidized too long ago to remember what
they'd oxidized from; cobblestoned streets or Watergate.
But the city hadn't been built around one particular
structure for nothing. The Capitol was the core, and
politics was always the name of the game. Washington
bustled frantically — not with the careless ongoing rush
of New York, but with a wary, look-over-your-shoulder sort
of frenzy. For the bulk of the men and women who worked
there, their jobs were on the line from election to
election. One thing Washington was not, was a blanket of
security. That's why Shelby loved it. Security equaled
complacency and complacency equaled boredom. She'd always
made it her first order of business never to be bored.
Georgetown suited her because it was yet it wasn't D.C. It
had the energy of youth: the University, boutiques, coffee
houses, half-price beer on Wednesday nights. It had the
dignity of age: residential streets, ivied red brick
walls, painted shutters, neat women walking neat dogs.
Because it couldn't be strictly labeled as part of
something else, she was comfortable there. Her shop faced
out on one of the narrow cobblestoned streets with her
living quarters on the second floor. She had a balcony, so
she could sit out on warm summer nights and listen to the
city move. She had bamboo slats at the windows so she
could have privacy if she chose. She rarely did.
Shelby Campbell had been made for people, for
conversations and crowds. Strangers were just as
fascinating to talk to as old friends, and noise was more
appealing than silence. Still, she liked to live at her
own pace, so her roommates weren't of the human sort.
Moshe Dayan was a one-eyed tomcat, and Auntie Em was a
parrot who refused to converse with anyone. They lived
together in relative peace in the cluttered disorder
Shelby called home.
She was a potter by trade and a merchant by whim. The
little shop she had called Calliope had become a popular
success in the three years since she'd opened the doors.
She'd found she enjoyed dealing with customers almost as
much as she enjoyed sitting at her potter's wheel with a
lump of clay and her imagination. The paperwork was a
matter of constant annoyance. But then, to Shelby,
annoyances gave life its bite. So, to her family's
amusement and the surprise of many friends, she'd gone
into trade and made an undeniable success of it.
At six, she locked the shop. From the outset, Shelby had
made a firm policy not to give her evenings to her
business. She might work with clay or glazes until the
early hours of the morning, or go out and mix with the
streetlife, but the merchant in her didn't believe in
overtime. Tonight, however, she faced something she
avoided whenever possible and took completely seriously
when she couldn't: an obligation. Switching off lights as
she went, Shelby climbed the stairs to the second floor.
The cat leapt nimbly from his perch on the windowsill,
stretched and padded toward her. When Shelby came in,
dinner wasn't far behind. The bird fluffed her wings and
began to gnaw on her cuttlebone.
"How's it going?" She gave Moshe an absent scratch behind
the ears where he liked it best. With a sound of approval,
he looked up at her with his one eye, tilting his head so
that the patch he wore looked raffish and right. "Yeah,
I'll feed you." Shelby pressed a hand to her own stomach.
She was starving, and the best she could hope for that
evening would be liver wrapped in bacon and crackers.
"Oh, well," she murmured as she went into the kitchen to
feed the cat. She'd promised her mother she'd make an
appearance at Congressman Write's cocktail party, so she
was stuck. Deborah Campbell was probably the only one
capable of making Shelby feel stuck.
Shelby was fond of her mother, over and above the basic
love of a child for her parent. There were times they were
taken for sisters, despite the twenty-five-year difference
in their ages. The coloring was the same — bright red hair
too fiery for chestnut, too dark for titian. While her
mother wore hers short and sleek, Shelby let hers curl
naturally with a frizz of bangs that always seemed just a
tad too long.
Shelby had inherited her mother's porcelain complexion and
smoky eyes, but whereas the combination made Deborah look
delicately elegant, Shelby somehow came across looking
more like a waif who'd sell flowers on a street corner.
Her face was narrow, with a hint of bone and hollow. She
often exploited her image with a clever hand at makeup and
an affection for antique clothes.
She might have inherited her looks from her mother, but
her personality was hers alone. Shelby never thought about
being freewheeling or eccentric, she simply was. Her
background and upbringing were lodged in Washington, and
overtones of politics had dominated her childhood.
Election-year pressure, the campaign trail that had taken
her father away from home for weeks at a time, lobbying,
bills to pass or block — they were all part of her past.
There'd been careful children's parties that had been as
much a part of the game as a press conference. The
children of Senator Robert Campbell were important to his
image — an image that had been carefully projected as
suitable for the Oval Office. And a great deal of the
image, as Shelby remembered, had been simple fact. He'd
been a good man, fair-minded, affectionate, dedicated,
with a keen sense of the ridiculous. That hadn't saved him
from a madman's bullet fifteen years before.
She'd made up her mind then that politics had killed her
father. Death came to everyone — even at eleven, she'd
understood that. But it had come too soon for Robert
Campbell. And if it could strike him, who she'd imagined
was invulnerable, it could strike anyone, anytime. Shelby
had decided with all the fervor of a young child to enjoy
every moment of her life and to squeeze it for everything
there was to have. Since then, nothing had changed her
analysis. So, she'd go to Write's cocktail party at his
spacious home across the river and find something there to
amuse or interest her. Shelby never doubted she'd succeed.
Shelby was late, but then, she always was. It wasn't from
any conscious carelessness or need to make an entrance.
She was always late because she never finished anything as
quickly as she thought she would. Besides, the white brick
Colonial was crowded, filled with enough people that a
late-comer wasn't noticed.
The room was as wide as Shelby's entire apartment and
twice as long. It was done in whites and ivories and
creams, which added to the sense of uncluttered space. A
few excellent French landscapes hung on the walls in
ornate frames. Shelby approved the ambience, though she
couldn't have lived with it herself. She liked the scent
of the place — tobaccos, mixed perfumes and colognes, the
faintest trace of light sweat. It was the aroma of people
and parties.
Conversations were typical of most cocktail parties —
clothes, other parties, golf scores — but running through
it were murmurs on the price index, the current NATO
talks, and the Secretary of the Treasury's recent
interview on "Face to Face."
Shelby knew most of the people there, dressed in thin
silks or in tailored dark suits. She evaded capture by any
of them with quick smiles and greetings as she worked her
way with practiced skill to the buffet. Food was one thing
she took very seriously. When she spotted finger-sized
quiches, she decided her evening wasn't going to be a
total loss after all.
"Why, Shelby, I didn't even know you were here. How nice
to see you." Carol Write, looking quietly elegant in mauve
linen, had slipped through the crowd without spilling a
drop of her sherry. "I was late," Shelby told her,
returning the brief hug with her mouth full. "You have a
beautiful home, Mrs. Write."
"Why, thank you, Shelby. I'd love to give you a tour a
little later if I can slip away." She gave a quick,
satisfied glance around at the crowd — the banner of a
Washington hostess.
"How are things at your shop?"
"Fine. I hope the congressman's well."
"Oh, yes. He'll want to see you — I can't tell you how
much he loves that urn you made for his office." Though
she had a soft Georgian drawl, Carol could talk as quickly
as a New York shopkeeper making a pitch. "He still says it
was the best birthday present I ever bought him. Now, you
must mingle." Carol had Shelby's elbow before she could
grab another quiche. "No one's better at keeping
conversations moving than you are. Too much shop talk can
simply murder a party. There are several people here you
know of course, but — ah, here's Deborah. I'll just leave
you to her a moment and play hostess."
Released, Shelby eased back toward the buffet. "Hello,
Mama."
"I was beginning to think you'd backed out." Deborah
skimmed a glance over her daughter, marveling that the
rainbow-colored skirt, peasant blouse, and bolero looked
so right on her when it would have been a costume on
anyone else.
"Um-um, I promised." Shelby cast a connoisseur's eye over
the buffet before she made her next choice. "Food's better
than I expected."
"Shelby, get your mind off your stomach." With a half
sigh, Deborah hooked arms with her daughter. "In case you
haven't noticed, there are several nice young men here."
"Still trying to marry me off?" Shelby kissed her lightly
on the cheek. "I'd almost forgiven you for the
pediatrician you tried to foist on me."
"He was a very personable young man."
"Hmmm." Shelby decided not to mention that the personable
young man had had six pairs of hands — all very active.
"Besides, I'm not trying to marry you off; I just want you
to be happy."
"Are you happy?" Shelby countered with a quick gleam in
her eye.
"Why, yes," Absently Deborah tightened the diamond stud in
her left ear. "Of course I am."
"When are you going to get married?"
"I've been married," Deborah reminded her with a little
huff. "I've had two children, and —"
"Who adore you. I've got two tickets for the ballet at the
Kennedy Center next week. Want to come with me?"
The faint frown of annoyance vanished from Deborah's brow.
How many women, she thought, had a daughter who could
exasperate and please so fully at the same time? "A clever
way to change the subject, and I'd love to."
"Can I come to dinner first?" she asked, then beamed a
smile to her left. "Hi, Steve." She tested a solid upper
arm.
"You've been working out."
Deborah watched her offspring spill charm over the
Assistant Press Secretary, then dole out more to the newly
appointed head of the EPA without missing a beat.
Effortless, genuine, Deborah mused. No one enjoyed, or was
enjoyed by a crowd, so much as Shelby. Then, why did she
so scrupulously avoid the one-on-one entanglements? If it
had been simply marriage that Shelby avoided, Deborah
would have accepted it, but for a long time, she'd
suspected it was something else Shelby blocked off.
Deborah would never have wished her daughter unhappiness,
but even that would have relieved her mind. She'd watched
Shelby avoid emotional pain one way or another for fifteen
years. Without pain, Deborah knew, there was never true
fulfillment. Yet...she sighed when Shelby laughed that
smoky careless laugh as she drew out various members of
the group she'd joined. Yet Shelby was so vital, so
bright. Perhaps she was worrying over nothing. Happiness
was a very personal thing.
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