Lady Luck's Map of Vegas Read online

  “I see.”

  Something was drawing me under his spell again. The agreeable atmosphere, the shimmer of those gray eyes, the lure of putting my hands in his hair. I wanted to touch him, very badly. I wanted even more to kiss him. He looked at my mouth.

  Bad idea.

  “I think I'm going to have to get going,” I said lightly.

  “So soon?”

  “Early morning,” I lied. I was afraid if I stayed I would end up sleeping with him. A very bad idea, considering how much I wanted the contract to design his Web pages. I stood, held out my hand. “It's been wonderful talking to you, Jack. Really.”

  He dropped some bills on the table. “I'll walk you out.”

  So we put on our coats and went out into the saucer-sized snow-flakes, falling like fake snow to lie in little fluffy piles in corners. I held out my hand to shake his, and he gave me that little half smile as he accepted it.

  Then he drew me forward, closer and closer, just our hands held, and he lifted up his other hand and cupped it on my face.

  And kissed me. His mouth was hot as a bubbling dessert, sweet as blackberries. A voice in the back of my mind said Be cool, be cool, but instead I moved a little into a more comfortable position, and put my arm around his shoulder, and we kissed some more.

  I finally raised my head. “Um … I have to go.”

  He moved his thumb over my lower lip. “I'll see you again, India. Good night.”

  Chapter Three

  India

  The next morning, I'm sitting on my balcony drinking a cup of tea to settle my stomach. It is not my imagination that it's upset and morning sickness-ish, because that was one of the reasons I bought the pregnancy test. Sick every morning the past week, which started to be difficult to ignore.

  It's early April, and there is spring along the edges of the world, a hint of green in the valleys, a certain thinning of the brilliant winter-white of snow on the Peak. I have to wear a jacket and my fuzzy socks, but the air is so clear and light, it's worth it.

  Not that I'm particularly happy about the view.

  I'm absolutely furious this morning. Furious at my body, furious at the breakdown of contraceptives, just plain freaking furious. It's not like I haven't been trying to prevent it—and not without a fairly high cost, I must say. I am unable to tolerate hormones—birth control pills gave me bruises; Depo gave me the endless period from hell, and after that they wouldn't let me try Norplant. I'd had an IUD, quite happily, for some years, but I developed an allergy to copper and they had to take it out. In the meantime, I have been struggling to find something that would work reliably until they let me have a new one. I had even considered getting my tubes tied, but in the end decided not to. A friend had asked me at one point why I didn't just give up sex if I was so worried about it, and she had a point. But that's not fair, either, is it? Not to mention unrealistic.

  The only thing left was a cervical cap, and it seemed to be doing a good job.

  Until now. But that's always the way, isn't it? They're fine until they're not.

  The phone is lying beside me on the table. When it shrills in the quiet morning, it scares twelve years from my life. I check Caller ID. My mother, but I answer it anyway. “Hey, Mom. What's up?”

  “Did you have a good night's sleep, sweetheart?”

  I roll my eyes at the sound of her dulcet tones and settle back to be wheedled and cajoled. “Good enough, I guess. How about you?”

  “Like a baby!”

  “Good.”

  “Did you think any more about my trip idea?”

  “No. I told you last night I'm not going.”

  “Will you at least hear me out? I thought about it some more, and this could be good for you.”

  “Really.”

  “Don't sound so skeptical.”

  I can hear her exhaling into the cold morning, imagine I can see her leatherette cigarette case beside her on the railing. Suddenly, I have no patience. “Mom, what's this about, really? Why can't you gamble in Cripple Creek?”

  “I just want to go. I want to remember. Is that so bad?”

  “No. It's sweet, actually. But why don't you just let me put you on a plane?”

  “I want to go in the Thunderbird. You won't let me drive by myself, and I have to tell you, darlin', that I don't really want to go alone.”

  “I don't have time right now. I'm behind on my work as it is.”

  “Hmm,” she says. Inhales. “I think you might need a break, to tell you the truth. It could be fun, India. You've never been there, have you?”

  Why would I want to? I think, but aloud I say only “I'm not a gambler, Mom.”

  “I could show you around the old Las Vegas—we could go to the Sahara and the Riviera. Just hang out.”

  “Hmph.”

  The rest of her pitch comes out in a rush: “And I really would like to look for Gypsy and I'd like to get away, and I think you need a break, and you're always talking about needing to get new ideas for colors and layouts and designs. Maybe it would be good for you to fill the well.”

  For one long moment I'm tempted, remembering the trip we made together—my mother, Gypsy, and I—in 1973. I think of Gypsy's paintings—tin crosses and plastic flowers, splashes of turquoise and that vivid fuchsia and neon. A pressure in my chest makes it hard to breathe and I say, “No, I don't think so.”

  “You know she always turns up down there.” She pauses, uncharacteristically, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “Maybe, just once, we can find her and bring her home before something terrible happens.”

  A fool's errand. We'll look and look and never find her and break our hearts wondering where she is, if she's warm, if there is anyone taking care of her. But how can I just say no? “I'll think about it. Right now, I have to get off the phone and get ready.”

  “Oh, that's right!” she says, and I know very well she hasn't forgotten. “Jack is coming in this weekend, isn't he? Will you have time to come by and let me meet him this time?”

  “Mom, it's not that serious. I don't want to give him the wrong impression.”

  “Oh, it doesn't have to be anything like that. Good God. I'll just serve cocktails and you can be on your way. He just sounds kind of interesting.” A coquette's laughter rolls through the line. “It's been a while since I had a chance to flirt a little bit.”

  “Yeah, since yesterday.”

  “Oh, but he was old.”

  “Gotta go, Mom.”

  “All right, all right. Think about it, okay?”

  “Yep.”

  Chapter Four

  India

  I love this part of my love affair: getting ready.

  On Friday morning, I begin by cleaning the apartment, putting fresh flowers on the table, scenting the air with incense and making sure all the candles are properly placed for later ambience. I've made chocolate-covered cherries from scratch, something my father and I used to do for Valentine's Day. Jack loves them. There is a fire laid, ready to be lit with a single long match, and I have a bowl of sweet grass to sprinkle over it when the coals are low. We'll have a chicken curry for supper, one of his favorites, and the fridge is stocked with the brown ale he prefers.

  Now I shower, washing my hair and removing every stray hair on my body. My legs are as sleek as wax, my eyebrows elegantly arched. I rub scented lotion from my neck to my toes. On my ordinary body, which is growing a little thicker through the middle than I would like but seems to be a function of encroaching years—or perhaps sitting for hours unending at a computer screen—I wear black lace undergarments. The bra is French, very low cut, the panties as brief as a comma, the slinky chemise as gossamer as a dragonfly's wing.

  Over all that, I wear a simple red sweater and jeans and the red high heels that make me feel tall and lean and spider-legged, like my mother, even if it's a long, long way from the truth.

  And then I'm standing in the airport waiting for him, and every molecule in my body is primed for the first gli
mpse. My heart leaps every time I see a black leather jacket or glimpse a dark head in the crowd.

  The rush never changes. It's been so heady that I've told all my friends they need to find a long-distance lover—it's all the good of a relationship: the romance and flowers and sexual rush, and none of the bad: the power struggles and push for commitment and bouts of flu.

  I've decided not to tell him about the pregnancy test. Not while he's here this time, anyway. I haven't seen him in thirty-two days and we only have twenty-four hours, and I'm not going to waste any of it. It will be less volatile through e-mail, anyway. I won't have to watch his face close, watch a wall rise between us, putting him forever on the other side.

  It makes me want to cry. But the rules between us have been very clear from the beginning: no ties, no commitments, no discussions of our relationship, no probing questions about other lovers. I set it up that way, as I always do, and Jack, who had a terrible divorce five years ago, agreed quite heartily.

  On the concourse in the airport, I spy his figure and it hits me all over again. I don't fall in love, but I am in serious lust with Jack Shea, and judging by the longing looks thrown at him by passing women, I am not alone. And it's funny, but it's not that he's so devastatingly handsome. He's forty-seven, after all, and every minute of that shows on his craggy face. He's not particularly tall, either, only a few inches taller than me, and not even that when I'm wearing the red shoes.

  But there he is, walking up the ramp toward the waiting area, a man with black wavy hair, dressed in slacks and a well-worn black leather jacket, a bag casually thrown over his shoulder. I love the way he moves, the easy glide of his steps, the way he smoothly sees the little girl dashing in front of him and reaches down to touch her shoulder before she falls.

  Then he catches sight of me, and his face brightens. Even from a distance, it seems I can see the ocean-gray of his eyes, the lift of one side of his mouth, the pleasure he finds in looking at me, imperfect as I am. As he comes closer, he makes a play of looking at my feet, and winks at me.

  Then he's there, taking my hand, leaning close to smell my neck, making a long, warm sound in his throat. “God, you look beautiful,” he says, and there's the killer voice, that Irish accent and vibrant tenor. The smell of him, like a morning wind, wraps me close, and my heart is swelling twelve times its size. I kiss his cheek, discreetly. Public shows of affection embarrass him, but what I'd love to do is throw my arms around him.

  I can't wait until we're at the car, and we've settled his bag in the trunk of my Toyota. Then he glances over his shoulder, mischief in his eyes, and says, “Come here, and let me kiss you.”

  And this, too, is a good part of having a long-distance lover. That first kiss after parting—the lingering drink of the longed-for lips, the soft cries of surprise and hunger. His arms around me, mine around him, my discovery, so rich every time, that he fits me exactly right. My hips are soft by the time we're done. He lifts his head, his hands close on the small of my back. There's a twinkle in his eye. “You wore your red shoes.”

  “Just for you.”

  “And what else?” His hand moves upward, under my jacket.

  “You'll have to wait and see.”

  “Is it black?”

  “Maybe.” I chuckle, brush hair from his forehead, liking even the feeling of his brow against my fingers. “You are so predictable.”

  “Mmm,” he says, and takes my hand. “Then you should know what I'm thinking now.”

  I laugh. “Does it have anything to do with piles of pillows?”

  His fingers tighten. “Yes, sweetheart.”

  In the car, he holds my hand, his thumb moving over the heart of my palm. We talk of inconsequential things, his flight, some work details. He asks about my mother and I ask about his secretary, who had pneumonia.

  Inside the door of my apartment, he reaches for me, and we're kissing like sixteen-year-olds, deeply and with great pleasure. One difference: Jack is ever so much more skilled than a sixteen-year-old. I thought I knew all there was to know about sex after twenty years of it. From the very first kiss I felt it in him—a particular passion, intent, something. I have puzzled over it a thousand times and still can't name it.

  And I don't have to. He walks me backward into my bedroom and we leave a trail of clothing—his shirt, my sweater, his belt, my jeans. He halts by the bed to admire and touch the black garments, looks with huge enjoyment at my feet in the red shoes which I've left on for him, and raises his head. “God, I love being with you,” he says, and then shows me how much.

  I put my hands in his thick hair, smelling the scent of him, wondering if this is our last weekend together. If I will have to give him up. Perhaps because of that it's all the sweeter, touching him, being with him. I press details into my memory—the silky length of his back, the whiteness of his lower belly, the look of his face when he lies beside me, his hair a tumble, his eyes closed. He doesn't fling himself away after sex as so many men I've known will do, but always holds on, as if that, too, is part of the pleasure. I've not yet slept a single night with him that I didn't wake up and find his body wrapped around mine.

  Once our initial lusts have been slaked, we shower lazily together, then head for the kitchen to make supper. He's happy with the ale I've stocked. “You don't want one?” he asks in surprise.

  “I've had a little bug or something.” I had decided upon the lie to both hide my reluctance to drink until I make up my mind what I'm going to do, and to cover the possibility that I might be ill in the morning again. “Alcohol is not agreeing with me.”

  He leans close in concern, touching my head. “It was likely a fever for me, sweeping you away.”

  I chuckle. “Ah, that's it.”

  He puts The Corrs on the CD player and cuts the chicken up for me, since cutting meat seems to be one of those things that makes my hands hurt these days. Too much keyboarding, though I'm careful to protect my hands as much as possible. I chop the onions.

  When they're simmering in the curry mix, he opens another ale and spies the card from Gypsy. “Isn't this your sister's work? Do you mind?”

  “Go ahead.” I cross my arms as he studies the painting.

  “Extraordinary how she sees.”

  “It is. I often wonder if it's her illness that makes her vision so unique. And if it is, then—” I lift a shoulder, leaving the thought incomplete.

  His eyes are steady on my face. He nods, then flips the card over. “What language is she writing in? I don't recognize it.”

  “No one does,” I say with a smile, “we made it up when we were little.”

  “No kidding? I've heard of that, but I've never known anyone who'd done it. Can you speak a little to me?”

  “I don't remember it. Wish I could.”

  He puts the card down and brings his body close, his arms on either side of me against the counter. “It isn't your fault, you know.” He kisses me, softly. “Not remembering.”

  “I know.”

  He closes his eyes, kisses me again, murmurs, “I'll be remembering this next week when I'm in all those wretched meetings.”

  “Me, too.” And I will. I'll be in the middle of something next Wednesday and his face, in just this moment, with the pale gray kitchen light falling on his eyelids, his black lashes, his craggy cheekbones, will come to me. I'll think of the taste of his mouth, which never hurries away from mine. I'll think of this slow, lovely, meditative way he has of kissing me, and I'll want him with me, doing it again. Impulsively, I hug him. “You are really something, you know that?”

  “I do,” he says lightly and we part to change the music.

  An hour later, I'm getting ready to make the rice when my doorbell rings. Since I really only know one person in Colorado Springs, I don't have to guess who it is, and I look up at Jack and roll my eyes.

  “What is it?”

  “Not a what. A who.” The bell rings again and I give him a wry smile. “My mother has decided she's going to see you for her
self.”

  “Lovely,” he says, and it's not sarcastic. “I've wanted to meet her.”

  “That's what you think.” I go to the door, and pull it open. She's standing there, looking innocent, every inch of her perfectly groomed. “Hi, Mom. How did you get here?”

  “My friend Candace dropped me off,” she says without a trace of guilt, and she holds up a bottle of Irish whiskey. “I brought a present.”

  It's classic Eldora, and I have to grin. “Come on in,” I say, and wave her into the living room. Jack, standing by the table, drying his hands on a cup towel, blinks, just once. I've seen it a zillion times.

  Men love my mother.

  Eldora smiles her dazzling smile, blinks her Elizabeth Taylor eyes, and in her throaty, rich, sexual voice, says, “Hello! You must be Jack. I brought you a little present. I hope that's all right. Americans always get things wrong, don't they, but I asked what the best Irish whiskey was, and the man seemed to know what he was talking about.”

  He accepts the bottle, tossing that lock of hair from his forehead and says with great approval, “Very nicely done.”

  “Jack, this is my mother, Eldora Redding. Mom, this is Jack Shea.”

  “I've heard so much about you,” Eldora says.

  “All good I hope.” He meets my eyes, and I see his are twinkling. Brightly.

  “Oh, yes,” she says, putting her oversized purse on the table.

  “I need to get the rice on,” I say. “Let me get you some glasses and you two can have a cocktail. We're going to eat in about twenty minutes, Mother. Would you like to stay?”

  She shimmies out of her elegantly cut wool jacket, displaying a green silk blouse that somehow makes the most of her pretty shoulders and long neck. “No, thank you, sweetie. Candace is coming back in a half hour, and we're going to see a movie.”

  From the kitchen cupboard, I fetch two highball glasses. “You want water?” I ask Jack. He waves a hand.

  Eldora pours a generous measure for each of them, and lifts her glass. “Cheers,” she says with a smile, and taps his glass.