Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

He’s a smart one, my John.

  “I’ll see you again soon,” he says.

  “I’m going home this weekend,” I almost forget to tell him. “To Tennessee. I visit my mother the first weekend of each month.”

  He doesn’t answer at first, and my thoughts suspend. He’s unhappy with this news. I can feel it.

  “Very well,” he says. “Have a wonderful time with your mother, and we’ll reconvene when you return.”

  I listen as his footsteps grow distant, and I hear the click of the front door.

  By the time I’ve redressed and freshened up, I glance out the window to make sure the cab is still waiting. It is. Padding down the hall on my way out, I stop by the kitchen when I spot a pile of mail shoved into a wooden tray on the counter.

  I’m not sure how I didn’t see that there before, but sure enough, it’s sitting in plain sight.

  It’s not like I’m snooping . . .

  And no one’s here to see me look . . .

  Without further deliberation, I trek toward the stack of mail and rifle through. It’s all junk. Not a single bill or questionable letter. All of it is addressed to the same person, or company, rather: Vivacorp.

  Never heard of them.

  I pull out my phone and snap a picture. I’ll have to Google them later.

  My stomach somersaults at the thought of the possibility of this leading me to John’s identity. But then again, do I really want to know?

  And what happens when I find out?

  TWELVE

  “John”

  My father grills breakfast on the promenade outside the White House’s “Sky Parlor.” That’s right, grills. It’s a Montgomery family tradition: bacon, sausage links, and breakfast potatoes, fresh off a gas grill with a buffet of fresh fruit and fine pastries made from scratch in the White House kitchen. One Saturday each month, when my father is stateside, we meet in the solarium for breakfast.

  This morning, Vice President Darlington and her husband join us, as well as a few of my father’s closest confidants. This is more than just a family affair.

  “What’s going on, Mother?” I ask as she pours coffee from a porcelain carafe.

  Her polished nails click against her mug as her eyebrows angle. “We’re celebrating the unofficial start of your father and Nanette’s re-election campaign. I thought we could enjoy a nice breakfast together in the solarium and talk shop after a while.”

  Mother brings her mug to her lips, her eyes leaving mine and landing on the doorway behind me. With hands in my pockets, I turn to see who’s joining us now. And I wish I hadn’t.

  “Why is she here?” I keep my voice low.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” My mother swats her hand at me, clucking her tongue. “She’s a Darlington. You’ll be seeing a lot of her during this campaign. It’ll be just like old times.”

  “Wouldn’t you love that.”

  “You know that I would.” Her nails trace the crystal eagle brooch on the lapel of her tweed Chanel jacket. “It never hurts to give destiny a good shove in the right direction.”

  My mother, First Lady Busy Montgomery, has the entire world fooled by her charm and grace. The benign smile she wears at all times is only ever for the camera, and that helmet head hairstyle of hers pays homage to First Ladies of yesteryear, back when America was truly beloved and its citizens placed blind trust in the families who lead it. Her wardrobe consists of mostly pastels, a nod to holidays like Easter, which is synonymous with family values and gatherings.

  Beneath that carefully crafted façade lies one of the greatest masterminds of this generation. What Busy wants, Busy gets. How else could the eighth daughter of a destitute coal miner from rural Kentucky grow up to marry the son of President JL Montgomery?

  “Be polite and say hello. Don’t make this awkward for both families.” Mother says, her voice audible only to me. “And that’s an order, not a request. You do not have a choice.”

  “Everyone has a choice.”

  “Not when you’re a Montgomery, dear.” She taps me twice on my shoulder before pasting a smile on her face. Before I can protest, she walks away to offer Vice President Darlington an absolutely divine blueberry muffin.

  The solarium is small enough that I couldn’t avoid Lydia if I tried. My father stands outside at the grill, stirring potatoes in a grill basket and wearing a canvas apron with the Presidential Seal logoed across the front.

  If my brother were here I could shoot the breeze with him until the inevitable, but alas, he’s late as usual.

  “Good morning.” The sing-song voice that once set my soul at ease sends an unwelcome jolt down my spine.

  I don’t have to see or hear Lydia to know she’s standing directly behind me. I feel it—that heavy energy, that sick thud in my chest, like a pesky houseguest who refuses to leave.

  I pull my shoulders tight and turn to face her, staring down at the same shiny emerald eyes I used to love. They’re not as bright anymore. Years of being an evil human being have left them tarnished.

  “Hi.” I don’t disguise my disdain as she studies my face.

  “You look good.” The second thing out of her mouth is typical Lydia: flattery as an icebreaker. “How have you been?”

  The third thing out of her mouth is a tactic to place the ball in my court, to get me to open up to her under the guise of a benign, quintessentially American conversation starter.

  “Small talk, Lydia? Really? After all these years.” I huff, pouring myself a coffee simply because it allows me to turn away from her for a moment. She steps closer, cornering me.

  “Is it too much to ask that we’re cordial to each another?” Her voice holds an innocent quality, but I know better.

  “We threw cordial out the window a long time ago.” I pour two creamers and a sugar into my mug and stir until the liquid swirls. I’m not going to drink it. I just want her to know that right here, in this moment, this stupid little cup of coffee is more important to me than she is. It’s more deserving of my time and attention than anyone else in this room.

  “I made a mistake. A big one.”

  I’ve heard that line several times before. She’s famous for it as far as our history is concerned. You don’t spend twelve years on and off with a woman and not figure out her patterns and strategies after a while.

  “Let me guess: you still love me, you realized you’re only ever going to love me, you were young and foolish, you were scared, and you know now that we’re meant to spend the rest of our lives together.” I repeat her old lines before she has the chance. It’s more efficient that way. “Oh, wait. I forgot the one about being each other’s first loves, and that there was a reason we keep coming back to each other.”

  Her jaw falls, and her arms fold across her wrinkle-free linen dress. A tiny American flag pin is attached below her collarbone, and it sparkles in the sunlight.

  “What’s wrong, Lydia? Take the words right out of your mouth?” I smirk.

  A friend of my father’s stands within earshot of us, and I spot him whipping his head in our direction. This isn’t the time nor the place, and the last thing I need is for his comrade over there to inform him of potential interpersonal issues on the campaign trail. He has a job to do, and he should focus on that and not my personal life.

  But she started it, and I’m sure as hell going to finish it.

  “I hopped off the Lydia Darlington train two years ago,” I say. “I’m never getting back on, and there isn’t a single thing you can say to make me change my mind. Understand?”

  I lift my mug as if I’ve just made a brilliant toast and offer her a counterfeit smile before taking a sip.

  “We’re going to be seeing an awful lot of each other here soon,” she says. “You’re going to have to be nice to me. You’re going to have to spend time with me. A lot of late nights.”

  Quite the contrary. I’ll personally see to it that every working minute on this campaign trail is spent as far away as possible from this demon spawn, and as for my la
te nights . . . well, those will be spent with Camille. I’m taking her with me.

  “Whatever you say, Lydia.” I chuckle and walk away just in time for my brother to make his appearance. I can’t count on him for much, but he always did have a knack for perfect timing.

  THIRTEEN

  Camille

  I pull out several filled journals from my carry-on bag Saturday morning and transfer them into a locked suitcase beneath my childhood bed. I’ve been transporting the older ones, a handful at a time, with each visit lately. Call me paranoid, but I don’t want them all in one place.

  My mother knocks on the door, and I shove the unzipped bag out of sight. She doesn’t know about it. Linda Buchanan would be sick if she knew what her daughter was really doing in Washington, DC, and I don’t want to involve her in any of this anyway.

  “Come in,” I call out.

  “I was going to see if you were coming down for breakfast,” she says. “I made Mickey waffles.”

  My sweet mother lives for the first weekend of every month. For two whole days she gets to step into her old skin, the only one that ever truly gave her purpose and meaning. And for two whole days, I get to forget about politics and sex and the hustle that’s become my life—I get to simply be someone’s daughter.

  “Thanks, Mom. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  She lingers in my door, her warm smile drowning me in an innocent sweetness before she trots back downstairs.

  I pull the suitcase back out and count the journals.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  My stomach drops when I realize I left one at the apartment. My most recent one is arguably the most important of them all.

  Two deep breaths and I’m halfway to pulling myself together. If I fixate on this all weekend, I’ll never enjoy my time away. The good thing is that Araminta knows nothing about it. Someone would have to go rifling through my things to find it, and the odds of that are slim.

  “Okay.” I breathe out. It’s out of my control, and I’ll be back home tomorrow night.

  A minute later, I take my seat at the breakfast table, listening to my mother hum A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes as she whisks waffle batter and fires up the Mickey waffle iron she bought fifteen years ago during our first and only trip to Disney World. She saved up for years for that trip and it rained the entire time, but it was the most fun I’d ever had in my young, brief life.

  Not even torrential downpours could wash away the magic of that place.

  Even as a child, I couldn’t get over how absolutely perfect everything was. The streets were clean, swept daily. The bushes were shaped like Goofy and Donald Duck. Nightly fireworks made my whole body tickle with each pop and tingle with each crackle. Mickey-shaped pretzels, pineapple soft serve floats, and enchanted rides topped it all off.

  Nobody cares about anything at Disney World, and everyone is smiling.

  “Do you remember when you used to tell me you wanted to work at Disney World when you grew up?” Mom stops humming to ask me a question. Her lips spread wide and she laughs. “It was the cutest thing, Camille. You said you wanted to operate the Tea Cups.”

  I laugh. “It was my favorite ride. And you were so wonderful to let me ride it five times in a row. I don’t think I could do that much spinning right now if I wanted to.”

  She pours a cupful of batter onto the iron and shuts the lid before flashing me a wistful glance. “And I’d do it all over again, sweetheart. Even if it made me sick to my stomach the rest of the day, all I wanted to do was see that beautiful smile of yours. All those parents at Disney World? They’ll empty their life savings to see that smile on their kids’ faces. And let me tell you, it was worth every clipped coupon and Kraft dinner.”

  “Maybe we can go back someday?” I propose. “I could really use some magic in my life. I kind of miss it.”

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “Magic goes away the second you become an adult, and unfortunately it never comes back.”

  I sink back in my chair. “But we could go back anyway. You know, for old times’ sake.”

  “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to,” she says. “I’d love it. But I just don’t have any extra money right now.”

  “I’ll pay for it.”

  Her head whips toward me then shakes back and forth. “You don’t have any money either. A young lady living in DC on a waitress’s wages cannot afford a two-person trip to Disney World.”

  My mother still thinks I’m a waitress, and it’s a sore topic of discussion I’m generally keen on avoiding. But not today.

  “The holiday season is coming up. I usually get huge tips. I’ll save them up and we can go after the first of the year,” I say. “Please? Let’s go. Just us. I want to do this.”

  She clucks her tongue and fights a smile.

  “Please. You’re retired. You should be doing fun things.” A retired schoolteacher’s pension doesn’t exactly allow for Hawaiian vacations or Alaskan cruises. “You never travel. You never leave Oakdale. You’ve always been there for me, Mom. You’ve taken care of me. Let me take care of you for once.”

  I always told myself that someday, when I become famous and my bank account is fat enough, I’m bankrolling my mother. She’s the sweetest, hardest-working woman I’ve ever known, and she sacrificed to give me everything I could ever need. She even took a second job so we could move out of the rat-infested, low-income apartments in the seedy part of town. For years, she worked two jobs and attended school part-time to earn her teaching degree.

  Best of all, her summers were for me.

  And when everyone else was traveling the country with their families, we read to escape. My mother always said books could take us anywhere we wanted to go.

  “Let’s get away,” I urge.

  She smiles, rarely able to say no to her pride and joy. It’s a quality I took advantage of far too many times as a child. In all my life, there was really only one question to which she ever told me no. And still to this day, she refuses to answer it.

  “All right, Camille. You’ve twisted my arm. We’ll go,” she says, forking the waffle and dropping it on a plate.

  If only it were that easy to get her to tell me who my father is.

  There are two facts I know about him. The first? He works in politics. The second? They met in Washington, DC.

  I’ve always wondered if my pull in that direction was because a missing piece of me might still be there.

  FOURTEEN

  “John”

  “Did I not make myself abundantly clear yesterday?” The tension in my jaw is painful as Lydia Darlington stands outside my apartment door Sunday afternoon, a cardboard box in her arms. “Why are you here?”

  “Things were a little rough yesterday morning. We couldn’t really talk.” She bites her lip, staring up at me with puppy dog eyes. It may have worked in the past, when I was a lovesick moron, but not anymore. “Can I come in? I promise I won’t take much of your time.”

  “No.”

  She takes a step forward and freezes. “I wanted to give you some things.”

  I take the box from her arm, and her hands smooth the front of her blouse. She’s dressed to the nines, with full hair and makeup, her outfit strategically coordinated to show off her best assets: long legs, perky tits, and an hourglass shape. If she weren’t so busy being a blue blood, she could easily slap on angel wings and walk a runway in a lace bustier.

  “Bye, Lydia.”

  I attempt to shut the door in her face, but she slaps her palm across the wood and presses against it.

  “Wait,” she says.

  “No.”

  Upon first glance, the box in my arms appears to contain an assortment of mementos. An old tie she gifted me that once belonged to an actor from the 1930s. A leather-strapped watch I thought I lost years ago. Movie ticket stubs. A postcard I sent to her from Sudan when I accompanied my father to Africa for the first time. Framed pictures of the two of us throughout the years, starting from the summer we first met at seve
nteen. A stack of love letters bound together with a red rubber band.

  I chuckle. This is all comical to me. To think, I once wrote love letters. Me.

  I know Lydia, and this is nothing but another manipulative stall tactic of hers.

  “What am I supposed to do with all of this?” I shove the box back toward her.

  “These are all the things that remind me of you. Things I was keeping around for our future children and grandchildren.” Her voice floats higher, gentler, as if she’s trying to be sweet. “If you don’t want to be with me again, then I don’t want this clutter taking up space in my closet.”

  “Right. We wouldn’t want your Birkin bag feeling displaced.”

  “Come on.” She pouts, her brows narrowing. “I’m trying to be sincere.”

  “No, you’re trying to manipulate me. And I’m telling you right now, it’s not working.”

  “Let me be real with you for a moment,” she says.

  “First time for everything.”

  “What do you see when you look at me?” Her green eyes soften, examining mine. “Do you see a desperate woman who’s trying everything she can to get back in the good graces of her lost love? Because that’s what I am. It’s all that I am.”

  “I see a girl who was given the keys to a very exclusive kingdom and threw them away, and she now has the audacity to demand another set.”

  “You were my first love.” She sighs, reaching out to place her hand on my chest. “Like it or not, I’m always going to be pulled to you. And deny it all you want, you’re always going to be pulled to me. Why don’t we stop playing around and make it real this time? Get married. Settle down. Stop playing games.”

  “I’d sooner spend my life alone than live it with you as my wife.” I glance down at her shoes, which are crossing the threshold to my apartment. “Now, if you’ll please step back. I know how you are about scuffs on calfskin.”

  Her expression reddens, contrasting against her ice blonde mane. “You don’t want to be with me? Fine. I’ll promise you one thing. I’m going to destroy every bit of happiness you find. I’ll personally see to it.”