“I say surprise her. She’s been an awful brat.”
“True. I’ll think that over. A yappy dog, you say?”
“The babies would love it…eventually.”
“It’s not going to be a palace.”
“We’ll be fine. What about you, Rev, will you be fine?”
“I’ve got some work to do. We’ll see. I have some ideas.”
“Speaking of ideas, I think Sarah’s got some ideas where you are concerned, in case you didn’t notice.”
“I sort of noticed, but I’ve been awfully busy with the chapel and Paris and all. I was hoping it would fade away in the face of reality.”
Millie shook a fry at Turner. “It don’t just go away. I’d say she’s thinking she’ll step in when you need her the worst.”
“I’m in love with Paris, Millie.”
“Isn’t love just a stinker? You would fall for some ornery gal with a big chip on her shoulder. But what’s to do? I’ve been there. I always seemed to fall for those good-looking slick talkers that played a good game…high rollers. They’re fun for a while, but when their luck runs out they are just plain mean.”
“I’m glad I’ve got you now, Millie. Are you up for a couple of rugrats?”
“You bet. We’ll have to clean up our act a little, though.” She popped a fry in her mouth. “I’ll stick to selling fancy lightbulbs over the phone, and you better stop gambling.”
“I don’t gamble, Millie.” Turner let Millie have the last fry.
“I know, I just couldn’t think of anything else. You’re just an all-around clean machine, Turner.”
“How about next time a girl from high school I had a crush on shows up I won’t marry her within four hours?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Turner got up and gathered the French fry mess. “I guess I get to sleep in the land of precious tonight, formerly my own room. I hope those bears let me have a corner of the bed.”
“Holler if they give you any trouble. And Rev, make it clear to our little nurse-in-training, Sarah, that you’re not interested. Up front is best.”
He gave Millie a peck on the cheek. “I will. Good night, dear.”
“Nag, nag.” Millie smiled. “Good night.”
The bed was occupied by six large lady bears with hats. He moved them onto the floor. He was beat. Tomorrow was the beginning of many things. He thought about Paris, in her lovely hotel bed. He wondered if she’d be angry because he left.
Hell, she’d be angry if he left or if he didn’t. He was better off out of pitching-a-fit range.
Paris threw the covers off her and got out of bed. She walked from one end of the suite to the other, noting the empty bathroom with the door partly open.
Well, well, well. Turner Pruitt had taken a powder on her. She sat on the side of the bed and looked down at her toes while she still could. The red paint from Millie’s pedicure day was chipped and faded.
That man. He’d done it to her again. Why was it she couldn’t keep her panties on around him? Where were her panties? If he thought for a minute that this little momentary lapse on her part changed anything, he was delusional. She looked around the room in a daze and pushed her completely insane hair out of her face.
She was just going to have to be stronger where he was concerned. Paris got up and looked in the dresser mirror. That was a mistake. She rubbed at her face…dry skin. This desert sure hadn’t done anything for her complexion. She was a mess.
Marla would be shocked to see her up this early, but she’d set up a massage, a facial, a manicure and pedicure, and a hair treatment, and that was going to take all day.
She smoothed her hands over her neck and suddenly remembered Turner’s mouth, hot against her skin, making her crazy. That man was one amazing lover.
Paris decided not to think about last night. Fiddle-dee-dee, as Scarlet would say. She decided not to even think about it tomorrow. She was just going to indulge herself.
The phone was right next to the bed, and clearly marked buttons gave her room service in moments. She felt the urge to eat a New York kind of breakfast.
“Hi, can you bring up breakfast to 3901? Toasted plain bagel, smoked salmon, cream cheese, capers, no onions, fresh squeezed orange juice, two pots of tea, one peppermint, one English breakfast. I’ll be here. How long for that? Fine.”
She was going to have a great day. She wasn’t going to think about Turner, or Millie, or that Sarah person, or anything else. After all, she deserved it.
“It was mighty nice of them to let you girls hang out with me.”
“Um, Anton, I think it was the other way around.” Marla’s muffled voice came from the underside of the maternity massage table. “This is just heaven, Paris. You’ll love it.”
“I’m next.” Paris’s masseuse was an older woman, but her hands were strong and she was making Paris’s legs feel so much better while she waited for the special maternity table. They had just been aching something terrible lately. Probably the extra weight.
“I see naked women all day long in New York. Turn them upside down and they all look the same.”
“So you told the staff. Now pipe down, Anton, we are trying to relax. If you don’t have any good gossip, we don’t want to hear from you.”
“Well, let’s see. Rita’s been dating a prince.”
“You mean like, a prince of a guy?” Marla asked. “What else is new?”
“No, I mean an actual prince of some obscure sort of Danish Copenhagenish province or something. He has an accent like a slab of budda on a brioche.” Anton waved his hand downward, since he was on his back.
“Cut it out, you’re gonna make me hungry, and I have many miles to go before I eat,” Paris grumbled.
“Your turn, Mrs. Pruitt.” The masseuse helped Marla up, and she and Paris switched tables.
“Mrs. Pruitt.” Anton giggled.
“Paris Pruitt.” Marla giggled too.
“You two are like…high school. And since you are so childish, you might as well know, my real name is Patricia. Patricia Pruitt. Now how in the hell did I end up being Patricia Pruitt?”
“I think it had something to do with a magnum of Rhoederer Brut champagne,” Marla said.
“More like that magnum hunk of burnin’ love, Turner. I have never seen a guy have so much sex appeal and not know it. It’s positively alarming what happens to women when he walks into a room. Isn’t it, Patricia?” Anton had another fit of giggles.
“I have to say, Anton is right. He reminds me of Elvis, Antonio Banderas, and Mel Gibson all rolled into a new package.” Marla made a little growly sound.
“Geez, Meyers, did I lust after Rigley like that?” Paris grumbled from the underside of the table.
“Yes, you did. And it’s Riley. I am Mrs. Riley.”
“I am Mrs. Pruitt,” Paris laughed. “In name only.”
“Well I am Mrs. Nesbit, as Buzz Lightyear would say, and Mrs. P, I think it’s a little more than name only from the looks of things last night. And this morning you have that been done smirk all over your face. Are we back in the saddle again?”
“It was a momentary diversion. Nothing has changed.” Paris squirmed a little. She wanted to stop talking about Turner and get her pamper time. “So shut up, will you?”
“Oh, I think he’s gonna think you’re gonna do that again, and that you’re gonna put on an apron and play nice. That’s what I think.” Anton’s voice faded off funny.
Paris was hoping they slimed him with mud and that it would harden soon and make his mouth immobile. She would peek up and see, but this back massage was just heaven. Her back ached more than usual. Must be the high heels.
“I think he’s right, Paris,” Marla said. She sounded like she was mellowing into melted chocolate herself. “Would it be so bad? He’s heaven.”
“He’s delusional. I’m…I’m…I have to leave this place and never come back. He better just get that through his head, no matter what happens. So I needed some sex. So w
hat?”
“Well, when we’re done here, you better go tell him,” Marla said gently.
“I damn well will go tell him. But first, I want you two to shut up and only talk about toenail polish and jewelry. I’m having a pamper day, and I don’t want to think about all that shit!” Paris’s voice went up very high at the end. Then she slumped back into the indentation of her special pregnant lady table and took a deep breath.
“Ladies, ladies, we don’t shout in ze spa. Zis is ze quiet place. Now all of you take a nice deep cleansing breath and relax. We bring you ze nice glass of fresh mango juice to sip through ze straw while our avocado mud packs percolate.” The senior attendant started out sharply with her Swiss accent, then went into a very soothing voice. Somehow it just made you want to obey her, Paris thought. And that was something she didn’t feel too often…the urge to obey anyone.
Marla was right, though, and she better get herself over to the chapel and have a chat with Reverend Pruitt later today. Way later, after her seaweed layers and her fresh mango juice and her avocado whatever. Now she was getting hungry again.
14
Crying in the Chapel
It was quite a walk from the Four Seasons to Graceland Chapel, but Paris was feeling so relaxed from her spa day that she practically floated along the sidewalks. She’d gotten a map from the concierge, and since the thing was a landmark, it wouldn’t be hard to find—a little white church in the middle of a sea of tall hotels.
And hey, she was a New Yorker. She walked everywhere, and sometimes in high heels. But today, at least, she’d picked comfortable sandals. Her ankles were not at their cutest, that was for sure. She’d picked these shoes because at least she could get her feet into them.
She’d forgotten what the heat in Vegas could be like. Like an oven. A five-hundred-degree oven. Her wide black hat shielded her from the sun anyway, and her dress was billowy enough to keep a breeze going. She better switch to white though, black really sucked heat.
She’d gotten so mellowed out from the day of treatments that it was hard to work up to a pissy mood to confront preacher boy. Besides, he’d been really delish last night.
But he had left her there. That was sort of…low. She shrugged as she trudged. More like predictable, and she probably even knew why. He hadn’t wanted to have a fight with her in the morning. He hadn’t want to break the mood.
She looked down at her newly polished, bright orange toenails gleaming in the Vegas sun. Then she flicked her hand up to admire the matching manicure. She straightened up and walked tall. A few men on the street craned their heads around to take her in. That made her smile. The ol’ redhead still had it. She sashayed a little.
Damn, it was hot. And this ten blocks was really feeling far. She should have brought a water bottle. Paris scanned the blocks for a mini-mart or something. Maybe she should stop into one of the casinos and have a cold drink.
No, she wanted to get this mission done with. It would ease her mind, and besides, she was going to go back to her fancy hotel room, take a shower and a nap, then have a lovely light dinner with Marla and Anton.
Maybe she’d look into getting her own apartment. She could use a different name, and Turner could just get his big “be there for you” and “watch the pregnancy” kicks by visiting and coming to all the doctor’s appointments. Somehow she knew that wouldn’t go over too well, but big damn deal. She was sick of that place.
Paris paused a minute and hung on to an iron railing bordering a line of shops. She felt sort of dizzy. She took a tissue out of her purse and wiped off her face. My, it was hot. Well, there wasn’t much farther to go, and besides, she was curious about the chapel. She’d only been there once. On her wedding day. She’d have a drink of water when she got there.
She rounded a corner and saw the spire of the small white church in the distance. Only four more blocks. She could do it. She took the tourist map out of her slouch bag and fanned herself with it. This town had sure changed in all these years.
Her memories of being a young kid were all about her own neighborhood near Boulder City. If her parents had been more normal, it would have been a great place to grow up in. It had a small-town feeling. She remembered a playmate who’d lived on the same street. Carla something. Carla. She hadn’t thought of her in years. They’d been inseparable. Carla with her great collection of Barbies. Until it had all happened, then Carla’s parents had forbidden her to play with Paris.
A stab of emotion hit Paris in the gut. Man, why did she have to remember this stuff, anyway? Just being in this town was bringing it all up. It just made her sick! She needed to get out of here when this was all over. She’d go to Switzerland and check in to a spa and lose weight and buy herself a new wardrobe in Milan afterwards.
She adjusted her black sunglasses and kept marching up a small incline.
Why didn’t my parents have more children sooner after me? she wondered. She searched through the conversations she’d had with her father, late at night, while he’d worked. He’d talked to her like an adult even though she’d only been a child. She seemed to remember her mother had lost one and then it had taken them a long time to conceive. So the gap between her birth and the birth of her sister was wide. That was it.
Her sister. Somewhere out there, she had a sister, raised by strangers. Maybe that was better than ending up in the Catholic orphanage like she had. Or maybe it wasn’t better.
Another wave of pain hit Paris. She felt tears trail down the side of her cheek. What the hell was all this? She…she needed to think about other things. She needed to get mad at Turner.
She climbed the ramp up to the small chapel and pulled on the double doors. How had she ended up in this chapel that night? It was certainly off the beaten path. Well, closer to the Paris Hotel than the Four Seasons, but still, what an odd coincidence that she should have ended up in Turner Pruitt’s chapel.
She swung the doors open and stood at the back of the sanctuary. Light streamed in on Turner through the stained glass windows. He wasn’t in his Elvis duds, just a pale gray suit, a white shirt, and his reverend’s collar. It was so amazing how handsome he was.
A couple stood in front of him, and a small group of people sat in the pews. They all turned to see who had opened the doors. Paris saw that the man at the altar had very white hair, and his bride was not some young thing but an older woman wearing a pale blue dress and a little hat with a short veil that perched on her short salt-and-pepper hair. She had a small bouquet of white roses in her hand, and white gloves. White gloves. Paris hadn’t seen white gloves for ages. They almost glowed in a strange way. She rubbed her eyes to make that stop.
They all smiled at her. She saw a flash of light surround them all. How extremely odd. Then the light went out completely and a fuzzy darkness started like a frame around the picture of Turner and the couple. The frame faded and moved in on itself until the entire room was engulfed in darkness. “Turner?” Paris heard her voice echo through the dark room, then the room turned upside down, and the red velvet carpet was pressed against her cheek. That was the last sensation Paris remembered before everything went completely blank.
“She’s going to be fine. She’ll be fine,” Marla repeated. Turner wasn’t so sure. Paris looked very pale. The doctor had been doing that thing that made Turner nervous. Hovering and not saying a word.
“I’d like you all to leave the room now, please. I have to do some examinations. Mr. Pruitt, I’ll be out to talk to you soon,” Dr. Shapiro said.
A cart full of computer equipment came through the door, and Turner and Marla had to stand aside to let it pass.
“I like him, Turner, he’s very intelligent.” Marla held on to Turner’s arm while they stepped out into the hallway.
Turner just shook his head and watched another nurse rush into Paris’s room.
“Look, everyone is over here. Come on, we’ll have Anton fetch you some coffee.” Marla gestured for Turner to come.
He looked down the hall a
nd saw a small waiting area straight ahead. There were palm trees in big pots and a painting of the desert on the wall in purples and oranges.
Millie, Sarah, and Anton were all sitting in orange armchairs, looking expectant. He wished he had something to tell them. He followed Marla to the group of friends. It was nice to see that Paris had friends.
Millie stood up and gave him a hug. “Sarah came and got me. Listen, buddy, she’s just not used to this heat. She just fainted, that’s all.” Millie patted Turner’s arm.
For some reason Turner just couldn’t get himself to believe what everyone was saying. Part of that was the contradiction between the optimistic words and the rush of medical personnel. Also, when he’d run to her in the chapel and looked her over, he’d seen a spot on her dress that had turned out to be blood.
The truth was that Paris might lose their babies. He didn’t have any words for anyone right now.
“Excuse me for a few minutes, will you? I’ll be in the hospital chapel if they need me.”
“Sure. I’ll come and get you.” Sarah stood beside Millie.
“Thanks,” was all Turner could get out. He’d been in this hospital before, visiting some of his evening service-goers. He’d brought old Aldo Newsome here one night because he hadn’t wanted him out on the street for his last day on earth. He knew where the chapel was. He’d prayed here before.
More orange chairs lined up in rows made two sections on either side of the small room. A large wooden cross was on the wall at the front of the chapel. The wood was carved so smoothly that it shone in the low light. He was grateful there was no one there but him.
“Where am I, what is this?” Paris watched the blur around her turn into people—in white coats. She felt very, very not okay, and scared.
Marla put her hand on Paris’s forehead. “It’s just us, honey. You fainted.”
Dr. Shapiro leaned over Paris and smiled. “Hey. Don’t try and get up. We’ve got you wired for sound.”
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