Goddess of Light (5 page)

Eddie nodded. “It is I, E. D. Faust.”

“Awesome!”

“I told you it was him.” The tall boy gave his compatriots a victorious look. “We just bought our copies of
Pillars
. It would be, like,
amazing
if you would please sign them for us!”

Pamela couldn't help smiling at the boys. They were cute in a gawky kind of a way, like young colts. Then she noticed that the pudgy boy standing closest to her was trying to look down her blouse. She frowned at him and rearranged her jacket. Men: whether they were fifteen or fifty, some things stayed the same.

“It would be my great privilege to affix my signature to these books for you young lads! Come! Tell me your names.” Eddie gestured magnanimously.

“Taylor!” The pudgy kid forgot about her cleavage as he beat past his two buddies who were shouting, “Jamie!” and “Adam!”

Eddie's laughter boomed good-naturedly, but as the boys surged forward, Pamela noticed that the author shot his assistant a pointed look.

“Miss Gray,” James's voice was hurried as he bent and spoke in her ear. “I'm afraid we don't have much time. Everything you need is in this briefcase,” which he handed to her, “including your room key. I have already checked you in, and Robert had your bags delivered to your room.”

“It
is
E. D. Faust.”

“I thought I recognized that guy from somewhere!”

Pamela looked around in surprise. Several people were pointing at Eddie and shouting.

“It is Eddie's wish that you spend this weekend simply soaking up the ambience of The Forum and Caesars Palace. On Monday morning he will send a car for you, and you will be taken to the home itself. All the details of that are in the briefcase. Until then, think of the next couple days as a pleasant sojourn within the magic of Las Vegas.”

“E. D. Faust! Wow!” said a breathless man who rushed up to Eddie, knocked aside the glaring teenagers and pumped his hand vigorously. “I have all your books.”

“I applaud your taste in literature, sir!”

Eddie's tone was jovial, but there was no mistaking the pained look he gave James.

“There are more instructions in the briefcase, as well as contact numbers if you need to reach us before Monday. Now I must tend to him,” James finished quickly.

Pamela watched as James maneuvered through the growing crowd to Eddie's side and announced that Mr. Faust must be going, he had an important interview for which he could not be late. Eddie lifted his bulk from the bench, winked at Pamela, and began making his way with well-practiced reluctance to the exit. The crowd followed him, still vying for him to sign a T-shirt or even the back of a hand.

Left behind, Pamela shook her head slowly in amazement. She looked at the crowd as it moved away down the pretend street after the fantasy author, and she felt a little like Alice after she'd fallen down the hole. And the crowd kept growing, mostly teenage boys and men with combovers who wore white socks pulled up to their knees. They were mobbing him, and Pamela could see James's tall figure hustling his boss forward while the author's distinctive laughter drifted back to her. Eddie was like a rock star—a dorky rock star, but a rock star nonetheless. It was amazing. She'd had no idea.

Her gaze shifted back to the atrocious fountain that was at the moment, thankfully, silent. She sighed.
One step at a time,
she reminded herself. She'd go to her room, freshen up, check in with Vernelle, then come back down here for dinner and—she thought about what the statue had said—she'd catch the evening show. It couldn't possibly be any worse than what she'd already seen.

 

 

“SAY again, Pammy, I couldn't have heard you right.”

“You heard me right, V. The horrid thing talks. And lights up in honest-to-God neon colors. And he wants one like it in his courtyard.” Sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed in her opulent suite, Pamela pulled off one of her stiletto pumps and rubbed the arch of her foot.

“The courtyard in the gorgeous Italian villa-like home?”

“The very same.”

“Bloody buggering hell.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Pamela said.

“It's worse than Venus rising.” V snorted. “Silly tripod.”

The term made Pamela laugh, as it always did.
Tripod,
Vernelle had explained to her when they had begun working together three years ago, was a lesbian slang word for a man. V was most definitely a lesbian. Not a man-hating, cynical lesbian. Vernelle Wilson liked men. She just didn't like sleeping with them. She had explained it to Pamela like this: “Men bore me. After I've been with one for a little while I think I'd rather blow my brains out than wake up next to him and listen to his inane, manly blather for the rest of my life. Now women . . .” Her hazel eyes had sparkled and her grin had turned her face pixielike. “Women I can listen to forever.”

And that was one of Vernelle's many strengths: listening to women. She never rushed a decision from any female client, and she seemed to innately understand exactly what one meant when she wanted “that purpley-blue shade somewhere between the night sky and a pansy.”

Although not formally educated in interior design, Vernelle was a professional artist and graphic designer—as Ruby Slipper's amazing Web site and unique logo could attest to. She had an eye for color and texture; she was also a sharp businesswoman. Hiring V as her assistant had been the first of many savvy decisions Pamela had made when she began her own business. V liked to say that it showed how highly evolved Pamela was that she had chosen her over the bevy of gay guys who had applied for the job.

Pamela stifled her laughter before it became hysterical. “I don't know, V. This may be the job that I can't turn tasteful. I mean, please. He wants Roman Liberace. Totally tacky.”

“Hey, it's too early to give up. And remember, it's Friday night, and you're in Vegas.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. More importantly, how is the Katherine Graham project coming? You're obviously still breathing, so she must not have driven you to suicide yet.”

“Hey, give me some credit. I like the old broad.”

“Sure,
like
as in you
like
going to the dentist,” Pamela said.

V laughed. “No, really. She's growing on me. I still hate her zillions of cats, and I have no idea how a woman who chain smokes and drinks brandy like it's water can still be alive and kicking at eighty-seven, but her raunchy sense of humor has become almost charming.”

“And her color scheme is . . .”

“I've talked her out of the purples and pinks. We've practically decided on yellow, sage green, and a hint of red. When we get done with the exterior, that gihugic Victorian will look like it's ten years old rather than one hundred and ten.”

“Then we'll get to work on the inside.”

Together, Pamela and Vernelle sighed.

“So, that's going well. How about the Starnes reupholster job?”

“It's fine, Pamela. And so is the flooring for the Bates formal living room and the window treatments for the Thackerys. Would you please not worry about work? You tied up all the loose ends before you left—and I can take care of the ongoing jobs. If I get stuck on anything new, I'll call you.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely. And hey, here's a thought. How about you take some time for yourself.
You're in Las Vegas,
for God's sake! Hang out, have some fun. Hell, you might as well gamble a little.”

“Gamble?”

“Pammy, that is what Vegas is all about,” V said.

“I don't think I'd like gambling. It doesn't make sense to me. I'm supposed to give up my money and I don't get food or wine or clothes or a piece of furniture in return? I can't imagine it being fun.”

“Pammy, I think you're missing the point.”

“Which is?”

“Be a little crazy! Let loose! You might hit the jackpot.”

Considering, Pamela cocked her head to the side. “You might have something there, V. Maybe I'm looking at this project all wrong. Instead of thinking tasteful, I should be thinking whimsical.”

“Yeah,” V said. “The guy's loaded, and even though he sounds a little over the top, you said he seems nice.”

“He is,” Pamela said.

“Well then, look at it like this: E. D. Faust creates fantasies for a living. He is simply asking that you create one for him to live in. Stop stressing about turning it into an
Architectural Digest
layout. And, Pammy, when I said that you should take some time for yourself, I didn't mean it should have anything to do with work.” She paused, and her voice became serious. “How long has it been since you've had a vacation?”

“You and I went—”

“No, I'm not talking about trips to market,” V cut her off. “I'm talking about a
vacation.
”

Pamela sighed. V knew the answer to that question as well as she did. It had been years. The last vacation she'd taken had been with Duane, and it had been a nightmare. Just the two of them, alone at a chic Mexican resort that catered to couples and their privacy. The resort had provided all the booze Duane could swill and lots of alone time for him to obsess over her. He hadn't let her out of his sight for six days. Just thinking about it made her feel short of breath. Since she'd left him, she really hadn't thought about taking a vacation. When had there been time?

“I didn't mean to bring up bad memories, Pammy,” she said softly into the silent phone. “I just want you to think about how long it's been since you've relaxed and really had fun.” V paused, took a deep breath, and continued in the same soothing tone. “You haven't even had a date since you left Duane.”

“I have, too! I went out with . . . uh . . .” Pamela struggled unsuccessfully to recall the name of the textile representative who had taken her to lunch a few months ago.

“A gay guy doesn't count—especially a gay guy whose name you can't remember,” V scoffed.

“What's-his-name wasn't gay.”

“If you're calling him what's-his-name, it doesn't matter whether he's gay or not. Who besides him?”

Pamela chewed on her lip.

“That's what I thought. Pammy, you're in Vegas. It's Friday night. You have plenty of money. You are single and very available. No!” she said before Pamela could begin to ague with her. “Don't start. The sticky booger ex-husfreak hasn't bothered you in six months, and you've been officially divorced now for a year and a half. You are definitely not one of the aged or infirm. Hell, you even have all your teeth. If I'm any judge of women, what you are is ripe and ready—and you know I'm an excellent judge of women.”

“You think I'm going to leap into some kind of tawdry weekend Vegas affair?”

V didn't need to see Pamela to imagine the stern line she'd pressed her lips into. “Hell no! I'm not that hopeful. Seriously, Pammy, all I'm suggesting is that it's time you loosened up and allowed the opposite sex at least a chance with you. You don't have one damn thing to do until Monday morning, so here's an idea—flirt a little.”

“Flirt?”

“Flirt. As in engaging in coy, seductive conversation with a tripod.”

“May I call him a tripod?” Pamela giggled.

“Only if you want to join my team.”

“It might be easier.”

“That's yet another heterosexual myth about homosexual relationships, but we're not talking about my pathetic love life, we're talking about your nonexistent love life. Pammy, it's the right time and the perfect place. You don't have to open your legs—just open your mind. See if you can interact with at least one man in more than a businesslike fashion.”

Pamela heard the undercurrent of worry in her friend's voice. Had she really only interacted with men as business associates since her divorce? She didn't even need to finish formulating the question in her mind. She already knew the answer all too well. As she thought about it, Pamela felt a little spark of anger begin to stir within her. Duane would be thrilled to know that he had turned her into an asexual workaholic. It would mean he could still control her.

“Flirt,” Pamela said.

“Flirt,” V repeated sternly.

“Okay, you're probably right.” Pamela forced cheerfulness into her voice. “I have been working too hard. I'm going to think of this weekend as a little escape from the real world, and this job as an adventure into the fantastic.”

“And maybe you'll even gamble a little?” V coaxed.

“Maybe . . . a little.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“MODERN mortals are odd,” Artemis told her brother as she watched a row of dowdy matrons pulling the arms of machines that twinkled and clacked and blared obnoxious things like “Wheel of Fortune.” “It is as if the shine and the glitter of the boxes casts a spell on them.”

“Slot machines,” Apollo corrected her.

Artemis gave him a quizzical look.

“Remember what Bacchus told us? They are called slot machines.”

“Slot machines or shining boxes, what difference does it make? Leave it to Bacchus to actually listen to mortals.”

A middle-aged woman in an appliquéd sweatshirt and leggings paused to frown at the goddess before she fed her machine more money. Apollo took his sister's elbow and guided her out of earshot of the row of machines.

“You shouldn't let them hear you speak that way. And don't be so hard on Bacchus. You know Zeus commanded him to explain the customs of modern mortals to us so that we could blend more easily with them.” Apollo paused as he watched a man in a gaudy white jumpsuit encrusted with rhinestones cause a group of women to squeal in delight as he gyrated his hips and sang something about being “all shook up.”