Full Service Blonde. Megan Edwards
“Yes, I’m married, honey. Twenty-three years.” Victoria patted my hand, and I looked at those talons again. So perfect, and even though her hand had a few ropy veins poking up, it was unblemished and soft.
“You had to know you’d stir up controversy,” David was saying, “as soon as they found out.”
“If I’d told them at the get-go, they would have barred me from competing while they could still get away with it,” Victoria said. “So I kept quiet until I won the first contest. Once the media knew about me, they couldn’t ban me without stirring up more controversy.” She shrugged. “So they harassed me in every other way they could think of. Followed me whenever I wasn’t at the Beavertail, dug into my past, dug into my husband’s past—”
“And your motive in all this was—?”
Victoria laughed. “You won’t believe this, but at first, it was one lousy case of Forever Young.”
“Forever Young?”
“American Beauty’s new antiwrinkle face-firming lotion. Any distributor who entered the contest and wrote a 300-word essay about how great Forever Young is would get a whole case. Twenty-four jars. Four hundred dollars retail. Richard figured there was no downside, so he sent off an entry in my name. I didn’t even know about it until his essay qualified me for the local pageant.”
“What made you go for it?” David said.
“I decided it was my chance to improve the status of working ladies. Get us some respect.”
Victoria had a lot to say on the topic of “sex workers’ rights,” and David let her ramble. At first, I wondered why he was allowing her to run the conversation, but gradually I realized that even though it seemed inefficient, it was a fabulous way to get answers to questions you’d never think to ask. As Victoria regaled us with her grand plan to elevate legal prostitutes to the level of other “personal therapists,” she also revealed that her husband had been a mechanic for Nate’s Crane until his left elbow was crushed in a construction accident. Their fifteen-year-old son, Jason, also had health problems, and their medical bills had added up to over $76,000 so far this year. There was so much more on David’s cassette when he finally clicked off his recorder that I was jealous. He had probably captured a Pulitzer-worthy story on that tape.
The whole time Victoria was talking, my mind kept traveling back to my last semester in college, when I wrote my senior thesis. What I would have given to talk to Victoria back then, while I was struggling to make my case about the motives and fates of women heroines like Cleopatra and Joan of Arc. Victoria McKimber wasn’t a real queen or a national hero, but she had all the qualities of a genuine crusader.
My heart beat faster as I wondered whether I could meet her again and interview her myself. Maybe I could give Victoria what she needed—a respectful ear—and get what I wanted, too—a brilliant article that might get picked up by a big-name magazine. I didn’t feel right about barging in on David’s interview and asking for her phone number, but maybe he would share it with me later.
My mind was still buzzing with hopes and fantasies as David wound things up. He was about to say good-bye when Victoria surprised me.
“Copper, I’m so glad I got to meet you. And I’m wondering—” She paused and shot me a look that almost qualified as shy. “Well, here’s the deal. I’m going to the New Moon Ceremony at the Sekhmet Temple tomorrow night. I’d love it if you’d join me.”
Shocked by the unexpected invitation, I was still trying to formulate an answer as Victoria went on.
“I’d invite David, too, but men aren’t allowed. They can come to the Full Moon Ceremony, but the New Moon is goddesses only.”
“I’d love to go,” I replied immediately. David shot me a disapproving look, but damn! This was way more than I’d hoped for. I had no idea what a New Moon Ceremony involved, but I wasn’t going to let a chance to spend time with Victoria slip by.
“That’s great!” Victoria said with a wide smile. “If you meet me here at six tomorrow, I’m happy to drive.”
David let me have it on the way back to The Light.
“Do you know what you’ve gotten yourself into?” he asked. “Do you even know where the Sekhmet Temple is?”
I shook my head. “I don’t even know what it is.”
“Then why did you say you’d go?”
“I’m kind of fascinated by her. She’s nothing like I expected. And I would really like to know more—”
“Take your own car,” David interrupted. “Rule number one is: Stay in control. Don’t become part of the story.”
I wasn’t sure I liked David bossing me around, but I let it slide.
“So where’s the temple?” I asked.
“Indian Springs. About forty miles north on Highway 95. You go by the prison, then take a left just past Creech Air Force Base, where the Predator squadron lives.”
Chapter 3
When word got out later that day that I was planning to head into the desert with Victoria McKimber, everyone immediately began treating me like a third-grade Girl Scout. It was bad enough that David started spouting safety rules, but at least he had some experience as a journalist. It was Daniel’s response that really irked me. Daniel, a botanist studying how the distribution of mistletoe supports the theory of continental drift, knew nothing about journalism, and he had never set foot in Nevada. But that didn’t stop him from feeling perfectly entitled to micromanage me by e-mail:
Copper, it can’t be a good idea to go places with someone like her, and especially not to some weird cult site out in the desert. You worry me, babe. Please don’t go.
Sierra wasn’t nearly that polite at dinner.
“You’re insane,” she said. “Michael, talk some sense into her.”
“Sierra’s right,” he said. “This isn’t Disneyland, baby sister, and Ms. McKimber isn’t a storybook character.”
Damn, he annoys me when he puts on his big brother act. He’s only twelve years older than I am, but he’s worse than my dad. It doesn’t help that he’s also an Episcopal priest. He still had his clergyman clothes on.
“I often work with streetwalkers every day at St. Andrew’s,” he went on. “If you want to know what their lives are like, just spend some time with me there. You’re more than welcome.”
“Victoria’s not a streetwalker,” I said. “She’s an activist. She wants to improve the status of sex workers.”
It didn’t help. Sierra was still upset, and Michael kept right on expressing concern in a patronizing sort of way. Not that it mattered. I was going to the New Moon Ceremony at the Sekhmet Temple the next night, and to hell with all of them.
:: :: ::
Tuesday, December 13
Michael tried to talk me out of going to the temple again before I left for work.
“Sierra’s genuinely worried,” he said, “and so am I. You’re not in New Canaan anymore, Copper.”
“I’m not twelve, either.”
When I got to The Light, it was obvious David had been talking. Everyone in the place seemed to know my plans for the evening. It made things especially tough when I tried to eat in the lunchroom at noon.
“You don’t need pointers from an over-the-hill pro, sweetie,” Ed Bramlett said. “You should be giving her lessons. And I can’t believe you’re going out to howl at the moon with a bunch of ball-busting dykes.”
How did he keep getting away with that vulgar sexist crap? At least Norton Katz was there. He’s a dapper older guy who writes a column about celebrity sightings,