Getting Off On Frank Sinatra. Megan Edwards
going to lose him to someplace with more prestige.”
“This is where it happens,” Mr. Rice said. “To be able to work with young talent is a privilege beyond anything else I’ve ever done.” He looked at Marilyn. “Even Ooey.”
“We’re so lucky,” Marilyn said, putting her arm around Mr. Rice’s shoulders. “So, so lucky.”
I looked at both of them, wishing I had a camera. The two of them looked so sincere, so dedicated. I hoped I could stage such a shot in the future, when a photographer would be with me. It would be the perfect complement to the story I was already outlining in my mind.
“Thanks so much for visiting, Copper,” Marilyn said before she headed out to catch her plane. “I’m so glad our paths crossed last night. I have a feeling this is the beginning of an exciting relationship.” I watched her as she said good-bye to Ms. Carpenter and move toward the door. When she opened it, intense afternoon sunlight instantly turned her into a black silhouette.
“She’s amazing,” Mr. Rice said, looking after her. “And that’s an understatement.”
Soon I had made plans to meet Mr. Rice, Kelly, and Chanel the following Tuesday afternoon. All three seemed eager to talk and to be included in my story, and Chanel even promised to talk to another senior named Margot Tanner.
“She’s a writer,” Chanel told me. “And she’s published. Two poems in Southwest Magazine, and her screenplay came in third in the Nevada Film Office’s screenwriting contest.”
It put my high school to shame, I couldn’t help thinking. At New Canaan High, all we worried about was whether we’d look good to the admissions officers at Ivy League schools. These kids were out testing their mettle in the real world—and they were obviously succeeding. While it made me feel a little inadequate, it also made me feel as though I’d struck gold. This was going to be a great story.
After Mr. Rice showed me the rest of Beeman Hall, I steeled myself for the hot trek back to my car. I figured I’d go home, peel off my clothes, pour myself a—
“I meant it about the absinthe,” a voice behind me said. I turned to find Sean smiling at me. “Ever tried it?”
“Doesn’t it make you crazy?”
“Maybe the kind van Gogh drank,” Sean said, “but the new stuff’s okay. Can I prove it? Like right now?”
Was he actually asking me out? God. The universe was throwing guys at me.
“I’m sorry, but—”
“How about a quick beer?”
“Well—” I said, intending to decline.
“I can tell you all the school’s dirty secrets.”
Damn! How could I resist an offer like that?
“Okay,” I said, mopping my brow.
“Let’s go to the V. It’s the closest place, and you’re in dire need of refrigeration.”
Chapter 6
The V Resort’s most distinctive feature is a blue glass tower rising near the corner of St. Rose Parkway and Las Vegas Boulevard. The only high-rise for miles around, it’s a major landmark, but I’d never been inside.
Sean glanced at his watch. “The bar on the eighteenth floor opens in five minutes. How about we meet there? Fabulous view and great martinis.”
Hmmm. A bit of a shift from a quick beer.
“I’ve got to swing by my office,” Sean said, “but I’ll be right behind you.”
We exchanged telephone numbers just in case, and I headed out the Parks Academy gate.
After finding a parking space in the V’s garage and getting lost in the casino, I finally discovered the elevator to the bar in the tower. At the top, a friendly hostess pointed me in the right direction, toward a long narrow room with huge glass windows overlooking the city. Sean hadn’t been exaggerating when he called the view fabulous.
I looked for him at the tables next to the windows, and when I didn’t see him, I moved to the other side of the bar, where a long shelf of wine bottles behind glass covered one wall.
“Welcome to Tempo,” the bartender called. “Is this your first time here?”
“Yes,” I said, glancing around for Sean.
“Do you know about our Enomatic system?”
I shook my head, and he smiled. Moving from behind the bar, he explained how, with a “wine card,” I could serve myself a “one-ounce, three-ounce, or five-ounce pour” from any of the thirty or so bottles lined up behind the glass. While he was talking, a guy in a loud Hawaiian shirt walked up, stuck a plastic card in a slot, pressed a button, and filled a glass half full with something clear.
“Sake,” the bartender said. “We’ve got several kinds.”
I looked around again, but Sean still hadn’t shown up.
“Would you like your own wine card?” the bartender asked.
“Sounds like fun.” A few moments later, I was the proud owner of a slick white card configured to allow me to serve myself twenty dollars’ worth of whatever I liked from the Enomatic’s lineup.
I started with a “one-ounce pour” of a Napa Valley gewürztraminer. Sean still hadn’t shown up by the time I finished it, so I headed back to the wine wall. I had just settled on a New Zealand sauvignon blanc when he materialized at my side.
“Want to try some wine?” I asked.
“Thanks, but I’d rather sit down and enjoy the view,” he said, dropping his eyes to my chest.
I blushed, damn it, but I managed to wave a hand toward the windows and say, “Me, too.”
“I’m still new in town,” Sean said as we took chairs across from each other at one of the bird’s-eye-view tables. “Don’t know all the bars yet. My mother and stepfather brought me here my first night in Las Vegas.”
New in town. Interesting. So was stepfather. For that matter, so was the Manhattan area code I’d noticed in front of his telephone number. Where had he gone to college? I wondered. Since I’d moved to Las Vegas, I hadn’t met many people my age from the East Coast. David was an exception, and his apparent departure from my life made Sean all the more interesting.
“So, what’s with the 212 phone number?” I said. “You just visiting?”
“Ooh, straight to the interrogation,” he said. “Mind if I rustle up some drinks first?”
Conveniently, a waitress had just arrived at our table. Sean ordered a martini, and I opted for the white wine I had been about to serve myself.
“I moved here from New York six months ago,” Sean said when the waitress had left. “I could get a new number, but I’m not sure I’m really a 702 kind of guy.”
“You might leave?”
“Oh, probably not. I’ve gotten kind of used to being a Vegas big shot. Between the two of them, my mother and Curtis have plenty of juice, and it all seems to transfer to me. I get invited to all the clubs and openings—way better than any treatment I ever got in New York. And my mother’s pretty good at encouraging me to stay in other ways, too—like employing me.”
“Your mom’s really something,” I said. “I’ve been reading up on her.”
“How far into her past have you dug?”
“Well, I know she’s lived in Las Vegas for eighteen years.”
“Sounds believable,” Sean said.
His response caught me by surprise.
“Don’t