Lady Luck's Map of Vegas

by Barbara Samuel

  He gives her the lopsided grin I love so much, and toasts her in return. “To a beautiful lady.”

  He's in good hands and I go back to the kitchen, half listening as she questions him in the most charming possible way. “Tell me about Ireland, Jack,” she says. “I've never been there. Would I like it?”

  And of course, he's hooked, spinning tales for her of his Galway, which anyone who knows him for more than three minutes knows he misses like an amputated leg. I measure cold water and rice and set them to boil, leaning on the counter, listening.

  Eldora weaves her special magic, with her purring, cigarette- and whiskey-ruined voice, her low, appreciative laughter. Jack leans one elbow on the table and tells a story of the mythical princess, Galvia, who drowned in the River Corrib and gave the city its name. My mother listens intently. Jack responds with wider gestures, a broader accent. That lock of dark hair falls on his forehead, and he gets the glow. The Glow.

  For one tiny second, I'm eight and there is a cocktail party in the living room. My mother is dressed in a green sheath that cuts a daring V in the back, showing her smooth skin and slender shape. Gypsy and I will soon be hustled off to bed by the teenager hired for the chore, but for the moment, we, too, are dressed up in white patent leather sandals and matching floral-print summer dresses—hers yellow, mine blue. There are ribbons in our hair and we have been allowed to have a plate from the goodies my mother is passing around, cocktail wieners and one-inch sandwiches with some meat paste inside and Ritz crackers with tiny folds of ham on them.

  I'm fixated on my mother, who is luminous and shining in a way I can never quite put my finger on. She stops and makes everyone feel good. I see how they smile at her, how she pats an arm, compliments a hairdo, how their eyes follow her—men and women alike—when she carries her tray to the next set. She halts before Gypsy and me, squatting in a ladylike way to offer us a little more. Her perfume wafts over us, and she winks. “How are the prettiest girls in the room?” she whispers. “Have some chocolate, babies. Don't forget to kiss me goodnight before you go to bed.”

  She's off again before we reply. Gypsy waits until she's gone and puts the chocolate-covered cherries on my plate, along with the Ritz cracker. She doesn't eat round food.

  In my dining room, Jack lets go of a burst of laughter over a joke my mother's made. Drawn by the sight of him, by the fertile sound of his laughter, I drift around the breakfast bar and settle on a stool, on the edges of their conversation.

  Eldora looks at me over her shoulder, raises one perfectly arched brow. “Have you ever been to Las Vegas, Jack?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I lived there, you know, back when it was still Sin City. Oh, the stories I could tell you!” She sips her whiskey. “I've been trying to talk India into driving there with me. She doesn't seem to think it would be an adventure.”

  Jack sends a glance my way, sees my set face. “Ah,” he says.

  “Are you a fan of classic cars, Jack?”

  “A bit,” he says.

  “My mother,” I cut in, “has a 1957 Thunderbird, her pride and joy.”

  She is unperturbed by my stealing her punch line. “Do you know the model? This one is turquoise, completely restored, headlights to whitewalls.”

  “A beautiful car for a beautiful lady.”

  “India won't let me drive it, though.”

  “Mother,” I warn. This is an area into which I do not want to venture. She hadn't driven in years—something to do with her eyesight, though I've never been sure exactly what—but after my father died, I took away her keys when I caught her driving drunk.

  “Well,” she says, straightening. “I'm hoping to convince her that a drive to Las Vegas would be just the thing to refresh her. Especially in that beautiful car.”

  The doorbell rings. “That'll be Candace,” Eldora says, and takes a last swig of her whiskey as she stands up. I go to the door to let Candace in, a small, round black woman of indeterminate age. They worked together for years as secretaries for Hewlett-Packard. “Hey baby,” she says to me, and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  “Why don't you go to Las Vegas with her?” I ask.

  She gives me a look. “Not in this lifetime.”

  Chapter Five

  India

  We have our supper in front of the fire, Jack and I, and make love some more in the orange-flecked dark. Afterward, we lie skin-to-skin and talk, as we always do. About an imaginary house on a cliff overlooking the sea in Ireland, where we have border collies for him and a cat for me. It's an old game, never serious, but for the first time, I see myself with that black-ringleted girl on my hip, looking through kitchen windows to the rocky Irish coast.

  Jack tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “You're very quiet.”

  I take a breath, banish the imaginary child. “I was thinking of Gypsy, wondering where she is tonight.”

  “You don't seem to worry about her as much as I think I would,” he says slowly. “How can you not go look for her?”

  He means well—he's only known her when she's relatively healthy—and I roll up on one elbow. “She's done this so many times— the first time was when she was seventeen. She ran away from home and didn't show up again for five months. I was sick the whole time, couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. I ended up graduating from high school late because of it.”

  His eyes are still, his fingers twisting through a lock of my hair. “So it's survival for you. To keep it at a distance.”

  I lift a shoulder. “Pretty much. If I could save her, I would, but when you love someone who is as ill as she is, you have to make peace with some parts of it or you ruin your own life.”

  “Well, then,” he says, rolling up on to his elbow, so we can be face to face. “I'll light a candle for her. St. Joseph of lost things, hmm?” He smiles, but I know he'll do it.

  A lump grows in my belly. That's the other sad angle to all of this pregnancy business. Jack is Catholic. Not wildly, not going to Mass every Sunday or even once a month, but it's a steady thread through his life and world. It intrigues and bewilders me—I've never dated a man with religious leanings. But all I say is, “That would be nice.”

  His eyes crinkle. “Your mother is quite a character.”

  “Yeah, that's one way to put it.”

  “Was she a showgirl?”

  I snort. “She'd love everyone to think so, but I'm pretty sure she was a cocktail waitress at the Sands.”

  “You don't know?”

  “She tells a lot of stories, but her part in them is pretty vague.” I shrug again. “It doesn't hurt anything to let her keep her little fantasies, right? And who knows, maybe she was having some luck getting into shows before she met my dad. Then she got pregnant and married him and they moved here.”

  “I liked her.”

  “Of course you did. You're male.”

  He draws a line down my cheek. “I liked her because there's much of her in you.”

  “That might get you killed, Jack Shea.”

  “She's charming and beautiful and outgoing. Just as you are.”

  I squeeze my eyes tight. “Trust me, the appeal wanes with time.”

  “You should go with her, India. Parents don't live forever.”

  His parents have not been gone long—his father three years ago, his mother a year later. I touch his craggy face. “I know.”

  “Let's go to bed where I can hold you properly.”

  This, too, is one of my favorite parts, lying in the quiet dark with him after our passion has been spent. Lying in my warm bed, with the quilts over us, his skin close against my own, he says, “I wish there would be a blizzard to snow us in together.”

  “Me, too. We could have fires all day and night.”

  His mouth brushes against my temple. “I could sleep with you for days.”

  He falls asleep, lulled by Irish whiskey and the quiet, and I lie there in the glow of the very small lamp, looking at him. His hand rests over my side, and I stroke his hair id
ly, memorizing his face. That strong, straight nose, the stubble that shows some silver, the creases around his eyes, and his black, black lashes.

  Jack, I think, and fall asleep with my hand on his chest.

  His flight leaves at three P.M., taking him on to California for those meetings he talked about yesterday. We laze around through the morning, making love one more time before we get up, amble through a big breakfast, then walk it off in a nearby mountain park, full of hills and valleys. It's rugged and wonderful, and it's one of my treats to myself to walk there, one of the few pleasures of being back in Colorado Springs.

  A golden retriever escapes his leash and bounds up to us joyfully and sloppily greeting us. His master, a woman around my age, is running behind, crying out his name to no avail. Jack catches the dog's collar, chuckling, until she can catch up. “I'm sorry,” she says, breathlessly. “He's a rescue and I haven't managed to get him trained yet.”

  “That's all right,” Jack says, smiling. “He's a good fellow at heart.” He rubs the dog's ears, receives a slobbering, adoring kiss for his effort. “Aren't you, boy?”

  The woman hears the accent and—I've seen it a thousand times— perks up. “You're British, aren't you?”

  “Not quite,” he says with the same patient smile he's given the thousand others I've heard ask the question. Nothing charms Americans like accents. “Irish.”

  “Oh!” She smiles at me, to more or less include me, but then her bright blue eyes are back on his face. “Are you two living around here? I'm in a Celtic band. You should come listen to us.”

  “He's just visiting,” I say. “I live close by.”

  “Oh, good. You should come hear us, at Killian's Pub. Thursday nights, eight o'clock.”

  “I'll look forward to it.”

  “I'm Irish, too,” she says to Jack.

  I swallow a smile, knowing he will ask, “Oh, really? From what town?”

  “Well, we don't really know. We're Kennedys and O'Haras. My mother's done some research, but none of us have managed to get over there.”

  “You should go,” he says politely, and we make a move to go around, but she keeps talking.

  “I really want to.”

  Jack nods. “You should.” He takes my hand and we make our way back up the hill. He gives me a secret smile and squeezes my fingers. “I'm a god,” he says, his nostrils flaring. “Irish Irish.”

  “Indeed.”

  All too soon, it's time to take him back to the airport. We stand in my living room, hugging. Kissing a long good-bye, then hugging some more. “I hate this part,” I whisper.

  “So do I.” He combs his fingers through my hair. “I wish …”

  I pull back. “Wish what?”

  For a long moment, he watches his fingers pulling through my hair, rubbing some between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes are changeable, a very cloudy color just now. He smiles slightly, then shakes his head. “Nothing.” His arms go around me again. “Here we are, saying good-bye.”

  “Here we are.”

  “I'll call you tonight.”

  “I'll look forward to it.”

  “Maybe we don't have to leave so much time between every month, hmmm?”

  I think of my secret. “Let's talk about that.”

  He sighs, kisses my ear. “I'd better go.”

  It's our habit that I should leave him at the departure gates, rather than pay for parking. He pauses for a moment, tossing that lock of dark hair from his forehead. “You should go with your mother to Las Vegas, India. You will never regret it.”

  “Except while I'm doing it.”

  He touches my neck. “I'm serious.”

  I nod. “I'll think about it, okay? I promise.”

  He's still hesitating. A car honks behind us, wanting into my spot, but I ignore it. It occurs to me that I might not see him anymore, not ever, and in case it might be true, I take three seconds to press all the details into my mind—the shine of light over the crown of his black hair, the angle of his tanned cheekbones, the cut of his mouth. He's looking back at me, his hand skimming my hair. There are silent words in the air, their weight heavy with their intent.

  I love you, we say without speaking it. Then he kisses me quickly. “Be careful,” he says, and he's gone.

  This is the worst part of a long-distance affair—the night after he leaves. The rooms are not only just dull now, they're hollow with his absence. I fix a salad for my supper and watch the news with my plate in my lap, since there is no one to share the table with. Beneath the sound of the television is an echoey silence where I can hear a ghostly memory of Jack's laughter.

  It starts to snow, big fat flakes, and the sight makes my heart feel empty with longing. I stand by the glass doors and watch it swirl out of the air, thinking of last night, and the fire, and Jack's broad chest. I wonder where he is now, if he's made it to his hotel yet, if he thinks of me on airplanes, or if I slip out of his thoughts the minute he leaves me. I wonder if there are other women in his life. Because he's going to be in San Francisco, I torture myself with a vision of a sophisticated brunette, a single businesswoman who travels so much she has frequent-flyer miles on all the airlines, Marriott and Hilton honor cards in her wallet.

  I fold my hands over my changed middle. No, he doesn't have other women, any more than I have other men. I don't know how I know it, I just do. He probably does think of me in my red shoes when he's on planes, when he's alone in hotel rooms.

  That's also the beauty of a long-distance relationship. It keeps things electric.

  The phone rings. With hope, I snatch it up, but it's my mother. “Hi, sweetie. Did Jack get on the plane all right?”

  “Yeah, Mom. It's not exactly rocket science.”

  “Meow,” she says. “Missing him, are you?”

  I notice a bit of a headache behind my eyes. “I'm just tired. What's up?”

  “Nothing, really. I just called to chitchat.” There's a liquid purr to her voice, not yet blurred, but going there.

  “I'm just about to take a bath and go to bed, Mom. Let's chat in the morning.”

  “Good God, India, it's not even eight o'clock.” She lets go of an earthy laugh. “But I guess if I had such a sexy man around, I'd be tired, too.”

  “Mother!”

  “Sorry,” she says, but there's no regret in the word. “I did want to tell you that he's terrific, India. Really a nice man. You should hang on to this one.”

  “Mmm.”

  “You're grumpy.”

  “And you've been drinking.”

  “That's true, but I've been sticking to the three drinks rule, and then I'm going to bed.” Ice clinks softly in the background. “D'you think any more about Las Vegas?”

  “I don't have to think about it, Mom. I'm not going.”

  “You haven't even given it any real thought.” She clears her throat. “I'm asking you for a favor.”

  I take a breath. “I know. Look, I really am tired and cranky and this isn't the best time to have this conversation. I'll call you in the morning, okay?”

  “Will you think about it meantime?”

  “Yes. I promise I'll think about it.”

  “All right then, sweetie. Go get some rest.”

  I hang up and carry my plate to the kitchen. I pass the spot where Jack and I stood last night, touching, kissing. My feet cross the place where his were standing.

  I need to tell him that I'm pregnant. Soon. It makes me feel sick to my stomach again. In sudden inspiration, I sign on to the Internet to check some facts.

  By my calculations, I'm seven, maybe eight, weeks pregnant. That gives me three or four to decide what I'm going to do. Jack should be allowed to participate in the decision, but I have a week or so to continue to consider my options on my own first. I feel so conflicted right now that I'm not sure I can stand to have his conflicts on top of mine. Not just yet.

  In my hand, the phone rings. The security screen shows 007, and I grin. “Hello, James,” I say in a silky, th
roaty voice. “Mission accomplished?”

  “I'm here, anyway. It was a miserable flight.” His tongue rolls through the syllables, buttery and soft. “Overbooked, packed, and I couldn't get an upgrade.”

  I smile to myself, thinking it's funny that I can hear a man complaining and still love the sound of it. “Poor dear, flying coach like the rest of us cattle.” I lean a hip on the counter, close my eyes. “How's the room?”

  “Quite nice, really.” His voice drops a little. “I'd like it better if you were here in the bed.”

  “Mmm. And what would I be wearing in that bed?”

  “Red shoes.”

  I close my eyes, see myself as I imagine he must be thinking of me now, naked except for my shoes, and I think of the way his eyes glint at such moments. “And what would you do?”

  “Are you lying down?”

  “Not yet.” I carry the phone with me toward my bedroom. “I'm lighting a candle.”

  “Hold on.” The phone clatters down and I know what he's doing. I do it, too—strip out of my clothes and slide into the bed that still smells of him. The phone clatters and I smile. “Are you there?” he says, low.

  “Yes.”

  “Naked?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Wearing red shoes.”

  “Good. Now would you like to hear what I'm going to do to you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  And he tells me. In great, exact, luscious detail.

  Chapter Six

  India

  My mother is a Gemini, which means her mind lights on things for about three seconds at a time, then moves on to the next. There is no mention of Las Vegas when I call her the next morning. Instead she says, “Darlin', how busy are you this morning?”

  “Why?” I return suspiciously.

  “I broke two nails last night going through my closet, and it's time for a pedicure, anyway. I got out my sandals. Remember the gold ones with the beads around the big toe from last year? I just thought of your dad so much when I put them on. I might want to get a new pair, really. It was pretty sad and—”

  “So you want me to take you to the nail salon?”