as he finally put his hand to the keyboard, Mike saw a single word take form on his screen. Afraid?
She’d hit him where he lived.
You’re on, he typed, then realized he needed a way
to recognize her when she walked into Bailey’s. How
will I know you?
Her answer was far from satisfying. Instead of a description, she gave him a cryptic reply. I’ll know you.
Miranda liked having the advantage on her side. Maybe it wasn’t polite, but at the moment, with the article still warm on her desk, she wasn’t feeling very polite. And this know-it-all didn’t deserve any cut slack.
Unless the photo on top of your column is an outdated one, she added.
It was a distinct possibility. A great many people in the arts used publicity photographs far more reminiscent of years gone by than of present day.
He answered her in less than a beat. Only by a year.
That meant he was good-looking, Miranda thought. Either that, or the photographer was deeply enamored of Photoshop. In either case, it didn’t matter. Giving the man a piece of her mind in person was most important. If people like him, bent on maintaining a grudge, didn’t exist, her father could receive the honor he richly deserved. He told her that it didn’t matter to him, but she knew better. How could something like that not matter?
Good, she typed. I’ll see you at six, she reiterated.
Maybe six-thirty would be a better time, Mike decided, typing the words the moment he reconsidered.
But it was too late. The woman on the other end of the dueling e-mail exchange was gone. His amended suggestion received no response and the sentence he’d typed sat as a solitary bottom line, lonely and unnoticed. The dialogue, such as it was, was over.
Mike studied the very brief correspondence, beginning with the woman’s opening e-mail to him about today’s column. This “Miranda” had to be old, he decided. His proof was that there were no one-letter shortcuts in any of the messages as had become the custom in quick messaging. It was a way of communication that personally irritated him. As a journalist, he’d always thought of the English language as an art form, something to be utilized rather than pared down. Most of the people he worked and socialized with didn’t feel the same. They were all in their twenties or early thirties.
This led him to the conclusion that the woman he had agreed to meet in person had to be some obsessed middle-aged—or older—harpy. She probably had a shrine in her bedroom devoted to Steven Orin Shaw, complete with a wall of photographs. Most likely she had it surrounded with candles.
Mike leaned back in his chair, knotting his fingers together behind his head as he mulled over the situation.
Maybe he wouldn’t show.
He did have an excuse. It was only Monday, but he did have to start getting ready to fill in for Ryan Wynters this weekend. The senior sportswriter had come down with the worst case of flu according to his editor, Howard Hilliard. Ryan was supposed to be covering the Super Bowl this Sunday. Since he was next in line, that meant that he was now covering the tradition-honored event. By all rights, he should be home, packing, not wasting his time sitting on a bar stool in a sports bar with some incensed female nut-job intent on a duel of words.
Whoever this Miranda was, he wasn’t going to convince her and she wasn’t going to convince him. What was the point of going?
He frowned.
The point of going was that he’d said he would. And he always kept his word.
Mike sighed.
Lance Matthews, the theater critic who sat opposite him, looked up. His gaunt, elongated face was devoid of any sort of telltale emotion or even a clue as to his thoughts.
“A little stronger and that could qualify as a class one hurricane. Did Ryan call in to say he was feeling well enough to cover the Soup Bowl after all?”
“Super Bowl,” Mike automatically corrected, even though he knew that Lance had made the mistake on purpose. Just like everyone knew that Ryan had to practically be on his death bed to miss the event. “No,” he added slowly, “I’m just debating whether or not to meet this fan at a sports bar.”
Something akin to mild interest passed over Lance’s alabaster face. “Fan of what? You?”
Mike heard the incredulous note in the other man’s voice. Lance was the one with an ego, not him. “No, of Steven Shaw.”
The man nodded and Mike expected him to drop the matter. Lance looked down his nose at anything more physical than finding the seat numbers on his theater tickets. But apparently the man did absorb a few things that went on around him. He actually knew who Steven Shaw was.
“They’re a small but steadfast bunch. Loyal to the end, so I hear. I thought they might come out of the woodwork after your little Steven-Shaw-should-rot-in-hell-for-all-eternity piece.” He ended the pronouncement with a smug smirk.
“I didn’t say that,” Mike protested. “I just said that, if we reconsider our stand and put him in the running for the hall of fame, then we’ve surrendered our standards. We’d be setting a terrible precedent and a bad example for the younger fans.”
Lance raised his hand in defense. “Please, spare me. I don’t need to have you quote the entire article for me. I assure you, I get the gist.” Lance paused, then added, “And, as a matter of fact, I quite agree.”
That stunned Mike. He couldn’t remember when he and the other man had agreed on anything.
“What I don’t agree with is your actually meeting with this so-called ‘fan.’ At least, not without taking some pepper spray with you. Did it occur to you that this woman might be deranged? Of course,” he added, “anyone who’s so rabid about sports has to be a little deranged as far as I’m concerned.”
That made up Mike’s mind for him. “Thanks for your concern, but I can take care of myself.”
The smirk on Lance’s lips widened and the theater critic shook his head as if to say, Poor fool. What he did say was, “I take it you never saw Misery.”
That would be the movie about the fanatical fan, Mike thought. “As a matter of fact, I have. If this Miranda comes into the bar carrying a hatchet, I’ll be sure to duck out the back.”
Lance’s eyes narrowed, but there was still evidence of contempt. “It might very well be too late by then.”
Mike shrugged. “I’ll take my chances,” he said, before getting back to his notes for his next day’s column.
And so, approximately five hours later, Mike found himself securely planted on a bar stool, nursing a warm glass of beer and watching the door. But every time it opened, someone other than this so-called Miranda— who called their kid Miranda, anyway?—entered.
His beer was almost gone.
He’d arrived ten minutes before six, preferring to be early so that he had the advantage of observing the woman when she crossed the floor. He wanted to size her up before they met face-to-face. No woman he knew—other than Kate—was ever anything but late.
He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock on the dot. Dollars to donuts, she wasn’t going to show, he thought, taking another sip of his beer. Setting the mug down, he ran a thumb over his lips to eliminate any residue suds. He’d give her fifteen minutes, then leave.
When an older woman walked in alone, Mike was sure he’d found his challenger. She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes traveling over the length of his body as if he were a tall, frosty glass of ice water and she were newly arrived from the desert. And then, after a slight hesitation that appeared to be tinged with regret, she continued walking right past him.
Damn, he didn’t have time for this. After draining his glass, he set