Ella grabbed one arm; I grabbed the other. “Safety in numbers,” I said. “It’s a beautiful evening. Feel like a stroll?”
The Mirage wasn’t far, but we enjoyed the intervening stretch of the Strip—perhaps me more than the other two. Wandering with the revelers recharged my personal stores of magic. Ten minutes of walking with them, and I’d learned to say “give me a kiss” in several languages, where to buy the strongest drink for the best price, and how to get to the second floor of Margaritaville before it opened in order to watch the fountains at the Bellagio. Several young men decided I ought to join them later, which I found charming. Teddie disagreed, and I enjoyed that, too.
Lured outside by the air that held a hint of fall—as refreshing as a cold beer on a hot day—other couples... or trios... hiked up the driveway with us to the entrance of the Mirage. We ambled, matching our pace to the flow of humanity. As we rounded the volcano in front, we slowed further, waiting for it to belch fire. At the first rumble, we stopped at the railing to watch. Fire and steam belched and flowed. The crowd ohhhed and ahhhed—me included. I loved the magic, all that was Vegas. The faces of the people reflected all that I felt. Even if only for a weekend, Las Vegas could lighten the burden of reality. It was a special kind of magic.
Steve Wynn and his building of the Mirage had started the mega-resort boom on the Las Vegas Strip. Still the visionary, Mr. Wynn remained the single most influential man in the city. He shaped the town, built its skyline, and gave us all Siegfried & Roy by luring them into the spotlight. They rose to the occasion and became icons revered the world over. Although they no longer performed, Siegfried & Roy still drew the crowds to see their Secret Garden and its population of wonderful white cats.
Like the city itself, the Secret Garden was best at night. The canopy of trees hung ripe with twinkling lights, obscuring the high netting designed to provide separation between felines and their prey. The cats lazed and played, in expansive holds lush with grass and waterfalls cascading into refreshing pools. A huge white Siberian tiger padded to the edge of one pool, then lay half-submerged. If he could’ve smiled, I’m sure he would’ve—or at least groaned with pleasure. In another enclosure, two huge, magnificently maned white lions sat like statues, watching us but pretending not to care. While men trolling the Strip could make a woman feel like a piece of meat, the lions made me feel like dinner. I wasn’t sure which was more unnerving.
A magical place. The Secret Garden hid a secret of its own.
We pushed through the crowd already gathering for the taping, looking for a set of guarded gates. Taking the lead, I pulled Teddie by the hand. Ella clung to his trailing arm. As we arrived at the gates, the guard nodded and opened them wide enough for us to squeeze through into another world.
Animal lovers from childhood, Siegfried and Roy—especially Roy—were forced through circumstance to give up their show, but they never abandoned their animals. In a huge aluminum building behind the Secret Garden, the famous magicians nurtured a menagerie of snowy felines and other beloved creatures—a conservation effort designed to perpetuate the breeds and eventually to reintroduce them to the wild. Tonight, the animals stalked the length of their cages, nervous at the increase in human activity.
At the call from a group of friends huddled by a white lion’s cage, Ella veered off, leaving Teddie and me alone in the crowd. I pulled him along the wide path through the center of the building. Cages lined each side. The cages were clean, the animals luminescent. And the place smelled like... hamburgers.
“I’ve got to go meet the other judges,” Teddie whispered in my ear. “Some sort of logistics thing. I’ll meet you back here when they start choosing the animals. Okay?”
“Choosing the animals?”
“The final test.” Over my shoulder, he eyed the crowd behind me. “Each couple has to choose the animal they think most represents the traits of their partner.”
“Good thing there’s no reptiles in here,” I muttered.
That brought his focus back. “What?” His baby blues focused on mine.
“Never mind.” Secrets were meant to be kept. “You were saying?”
“They each choose the animal—it’s done in secret, like a blind ballot. Then they reveal their choices on live tv.”
“Interesting.”
“Fairly benign, I should think.”
He hadn’t a clue.
Bending to give me a distracted kiss, he segued into his in-front-of-the-crowd mode. “I gotta go. But I’ll be back. Don’t wander off with any strange men.”
“All men are strange.”
I watched him as he walked away. He had a nice ass. It was perhaps his best feature. Although, all his features were pretty yummy—from his dancing eyes and full lips, to his broad shoulders that squeezed into taut abs and a teenage waist. I flushed at the assault of a memory—that whole visual thing could so get me into trouble. The crowd finally swallowed him, saving me from doing something spontaneous and potentially embarrassing.
“There you are.” Mona’s voice carried over the crowd and jerked me back from my musings. She and my father wormed their way toward me. I loved seeing them together. Whatever strident notes they hit separately, as a couple they melded into a pitch-perfect melody, a symphony of synchronicity.
Mother wore slacks in a browned butter shade with a matching cashmere sweater set, rich with a hint of gold. The gold flats still sparkled on her feet. She wore her hair in soft curls that brushed her shoulders. Her face, barely highlighted with makeup, shone with love as she clutched her man’s arm. Tall and thin, she ducked her head toward her man to minimize the difference in their heights. Clearly, he had no issues with being the shortest in the family. Besides, he was larger than life; everyone said so.
Spit-and-polished as usual, my father sported a gunmetal grey suit, a starched white shirt with a diamond-encrusted collar bar, a bright pink tie—which made me grin, no doubt it was my mother’s influence—and a huge smile. “My two women. I am a lucky man.”
“So have you picked your animals?” I asked when they stopped in front of me. “I think we all should play, don’t you?” At their puzzled expressions, I quickly explained the game.
Mother’s face immediately lit. “Oh, that would be so fun. Come, Albert, let’s pick.”
He shot me an amused look, then let her pull him toward the row of cages. With my responsibilities completed, I found myself in the unusual position of having nothing to do and no one to do it with, so I followed along. It felt good just to be part of the crowd and not in charge of anything.
Mother stopped in front of a small sign. “Look, Albert. It says a bull symbolizes masculine strength and vitality.” She clutched his arm and giggled as she whispered in his ear. He ducked his head and grinned.
“Look, Mother.” I pointed to the sign, drawing her attention. “This one says a badger denotes a person with a nagging personality—usually someone who interferes in someone else’s life. I’m thinking . . .”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mona snapped as she stuck her nose in the air. “And you’re lucky to have me.”
“True.” I gave her a quick squeeze. “But admitting that is not part of the game.”
With one hand, Mona flipped her hair and gave me a wicked grin as she pulled her reading glasses from the top of her head and put them on. “Now it’s my turn.”
Silence fell between the three of us as we meandered, reading the signs describing the symbolism of various animals. The big cats padded silently as they watched us—whether they were looking for morsels or looking at morsels was anybody’s guess.
“Here it is,” Mona announced, triumph in her voice. “If there is an animal reflective of all that is my daughter, this one is it.”
I bent down and looked. “An owl.” Hands on hips, I turned to my mother. “You think I’m an owl?”
“Read it,” she urged, as she pulled off her glasses and chewed on the end of one of the earpieces, a superior look on her face.
I read aloud: “A symbol of knowledge and heightened observational skills. It can also mean to use more judgment in a life situation.” When I finished, I looked at my mother with a raised eyebrow.
She shot me a look of pure innocence, which for her was an Oscar-worthy effort. “Romance is a ‘life situation.’”
“I get it. I know you’re proud of yourself, but an owl is also an evil omen, a harbinger of misfortune,” I added.
Mona slapped her glasses back on and bent to read. “Where does it say that?”
“It doesn’t,” I admitted. “It’s part of Chinese animal symbolism. When you deal with Asian clients you become sensitized to that sort of thing.”
“Well, I’ll handle that the same way I handle organized religion.”
My father glanced at me and gave me a shrug. Mother’s logic always traveled a circuitous path.
“From animal symbolism to organized religion—not too far a leap. I know I shouldn’t ask,” I said, completely unable to prevent myself from charging in where most angels would fear to tread. “But how exactly do you handle religion?”
“I pick the parts I like and ignore the rest.”
“Interesting approach.”
“Spirituality connects us as humans.” Mona’s smile morphed into a serious expression. Her voice was hushed, yet vibrating with conviction. “Religion, on the other hand, is a power struggle. In the wrong hands it tears us apart. I don’t think the powers that be would like that.”
The little pearls of wisdom Mother was trotting out surprised the heck out of me. I don’t know why. She’d preached from the her Gospel of Simplicity so often throughout my life I could probably quote it from memory. “As you know, Mother, I’m a Golden Rule gal, myself. Everybody else can fill in as they see fit.”
“A good place to start, honey,” Mona said, taking my hand and threading it through the crook of her arm. “As you get older, you begin to see more of the connections.”
“I can wait. I’m having enough trouble with the connections I already have.”
She gave me a knowing smile.
Never enjoying third-wheel status, I gave my parents a group hug then ambled off by myself. I spied three of the couples—acting couple-like—as they strolled the hall. The kids from New Jersey were awol as far as I could tell. Each of the other contestants scribbled notes on individual pads of paper as they read the animal symbol signs, careful to keep their choices hidden.
After walking the full length of the building then retracing my steps, I knew one thing: Couple Number One was definitely late to the party. Not really my problem, but I never met a problem I could resist trying to solve, mine or not.
Following my nose back outside and through the gates into the Secret Garden, I chased the scent of hamburgers through the gathering throng to a small, open-sided building near the exit—I’d missed it on the way in. Stepping inside, I had to grin. Jean-Charles in his chef’s whites and toque flipped burgers on a huge grill, mirrored by two similarly attired, equally focused chefs-in-waiting, spatulas at the ready: Couple Number One. They didn’t play by the rules, but at least they were consistent.
“I’d like a Whopper Junior, hold the mayo.”
All three glanced up and smiled. Jean-Charles whispered something to his charges and stepped back, relinquishing his spatula. “Lucky!” He reached out a hand as he rounded the counter between us. “Come. I have something for you.”
I let him take my hand, I don’t know why, and I felt that tingle again, a lightness in his presence. Why did I need enemies when I had me as a friend? But flirting, it’s a good thing, right? The French certainly have elevated it to an art. And what’s wrong with it—as long as everyone knows the rules. Jean-Charles knew the rules, didn’t he?
We stopped under the twinkling lights. He lifted my hand, turning it palm up. With a smile, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and set it in my open hand.
“What’s this for?” The coin had an animal on one side. A horse, I thought, as I looked at it more closely.
“It is an old French coin,” Jean-Charles said, suddenly looking a bit ill at ease. “I know we are not playing the game, but when I thought of you, this is what I thought.”
“A horse?”
“Ahhh, a very special horse.”
“French, of course.”
“Oui. This breed, my parents raised on their farm.” He looked at me, his eyes dark and deep. “It is a spirited animal, but sensitive and beautiful... like you. The perfect blend of . . .” He suddenly blushed.
Words and thoughts tangled with emotions. “I don’t know what to say.”
He closed my hand over the coin, holding my hand with both of his. “Keep it. Perhaps it will remind you of me.”
“I can’t.”
When he smiled, I knew he understood. “It is my gift. It is bad manners to reject a gift.”
I was about to disagree when the lights dimmed three times—the signal to gather at the Dolphin Pool. The taping was about to begin.
“It’s a beautiful gift. Thank you.”
He nodded. “Now, you must go. The show is to begin. And we must cook—there will be many mouths to feed when the show is over.”
“You will send Rocco and Gail?”
“They were voted off the show last night. Did you not know?”
“I’ve been chasing my tail all day.” At the look of confusion on his face, I explained. “Busy doesn’t begin to describe my day. I haven’t kept up.”
Understanding dawned, turning his eyes a lighter blue. “They are in love. They will be happy. They will cook together. It’s as it should be. Life has a rhythm.”
“Life, nothing but a timing issue,” I concurred. And mine seemed to be a bit out of synch.
“Timing issue? What is this?”
“Don’t mind me.” I finally found the energy to pull my hand from his. “Gifts make me uncomfortable. Not the giving, but the receiving.” I opened my hand and looked at the coin. “And thank you. You’ve brightened my day.”
“Then mine is complete as well.” He gave me a smile and a slight bow, then hastened back to his grill, barking orders at his two acolytes.
Chapter Six
The final test in the Forever Game was an invitation-only kind of thing. The hand-selected audience circled the largest of the dolphin pools—not technically a part of the Secret Garden, but adjoining. Gray torpedoes circled under water, breaking the surface occasionally, or leaping onto an angled concrete slab and sliding in circles before slipping into the water again. So playful. Dolphins were always good for a smile. Tonight, two of the aquatic mammals were shadowed by little ones—the results of the breeding program. Handlers in wet suits stalked the side of the pool. The dolphins circled, awaiting a signal. When they got it from their human, they performed the requested tricks—jumping through hoops, tossing balls, leaping then falling broadsided into the water, splashing the crowd.
From his chair in the front row, Teddie waved to me, motioning me to join him. Fighting through the crowd, I finally eased into the seat next to him just as Trey Gold took the stage. He blew into the mike in his hand. “Testing. Testing, one, two, three.” He looked toward the mixing console behind the crowd. “Good?” he asked.
A guy gave him a thumbs-up. Trey turned to the crowd. “Okay. Are you guys ready to crown a winner?”
The crowd hooted and hollered.
His orange color had grown on me, as had the dark, immovable hair—overdone for an overblown personality. Hollywood expectations. While Trey stalked the stage—working the crowd, distracting them—the contestants filed on, each taking a stool next to their supposed future mate.
Teddie leaned in next to me. “If you were an animal, you’d be an ox.”
I leaned back and turned to look at him. “A farm animal?”
“Would you stop? It’s a good thing, I swear.” He adopted that listen-to-me-I-went-to-Harvard look. “An ox symbolizes a hard worker, someone who pulls more than
her own weight.”
“I’m underwhelmed,” I murmured, but he’d stopped listening. Part of the Curse of the Y Chromosome was an unerring ability to retreat from the conflict they’d created.
An ox. No matter how I spun it, I didn’t like it. I tried to muster a smile as I fingered the French coin, the one with the majestic horse, tossing its head in defiance, its mane flowing, its nostrils flaring. Passion. Adventure. I could live with that. But work? Please, I’d rather not.
Once comfortable in a relationship, why did a man go from the “we” mode back to the “me” mode? Romance—yet another casualty to time and complacency.
“Okay, contestants,” Trey Gold emoted into the mike. “We’re going to start taping. You know how it goes. We’ll start, and then at set times, I’ll cut for a commercial. After that, we’ll pick up again. You guys just be yourselves and have some fun.” In front of the cameras, he preened like a peacock, his plumage on display. If the situation at Miss Minnie’s had ruffled any of his feathers, he hid it well.
People cheered and clapped—a few whistles pierced the night air, which was cooling rather rapidly, making me glad for my sweater. Then the audience quieted as Trey went into his introductory spiel. Scanning, I only half listened. To be honest, I would have rather been eating a juicy hamburger than sitting here watching this circus.
Trey had buried Vera and Guy’s “arrangement,” but exactly how the whole thing was going to pan out was anybody’s guess. John and Melina had a warm congeniality, the shared spark of common interests and goals—a sort of love-the-mind-can’t-love-the-person kind of thing. No vibrancy. And Walker and Buffy? No comment needed. Sexual and superficial—buying the perfect accessory. None of them had that spark of true love I was looking for. The spark I saw between my parents. The one that lit the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock’s eyes when he looked at Miss P. And, as Nora Ephron said, marriage is hard enough without such low expectations. The whole show was demoralizing.
Ella materialized at my side and squeezed in next to me. “This whole thing is a farce.”
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