Sammy Keyes and the Showdown in Sin City (25 page)

“All of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you been inside it? It’s awfully small.” But I’m also thinking that I
want
it to be too small for them, ’cause it would actually be perfect for
me
.

We’re both quiet a minute, and then she says, “Isn’t it funny?”

“What?”

“I used to be rich and have the picture-book family, and now I’m broke and my family’s a disaster.”

“What’s so funny about that?”

“Because you used to be broke with no family, and now?”

“I still don’t have a family.”

“Sure you do. From what you said, I can tell—it’ll all come together.”

“But I don’t
want
to live with them! Not either of them! I want to live with Grams.”

“On a couch. In a run-down old folks’ home.”

“Yes!”

“You’ve outgrown that, Sammy. It’s time to move on.”

“You don’t move on from someone you love! I
love
Grams. She is the strongest, nicest, most caring person I’ve ever known!”

“Sammy, she’ll always love you, whether you live with her or not.”

“She’s furious with me!”

She laughs. “That’s temporary. Just keep trying. You’ll patch things up with her.” She sighs. “Tell Hudson we miss him big-time!”

So I get off the phone, and right away I dial Grams’ room and leave another pathetic message, then call Hudson’s room. And when he doesn’t answer, either, I’m forced to call my mother, but she informs me that Grams is now getting her nails done.

“She’s getting a
manicure
?”

“A mani-pedi. It’ll take a while.”

“But … Grams doesn’t get her
nails
done.”

“All I can tell you is what she told me. She’s still miffed at the way I handled things, so I’m just letting her cool off.”

“So we’re not going home today?”

“Definitely not going home today.” Then she asks, “Are you up for seeing your dad?”

“No! I’m up for taking a nap.”

“A nap? You’ve only been awake for a couple of hours!”

“Yeah, well, I had a really intense day yesterday, and I’m still wiped out.”

“You’re probably starving. Why don’t we take you out for lunch?”

“We? As in you and Darren?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get my own food.”

“Samantha, no. I’ll bring you something. What do you like?”

A question she has to ask because of course she has no idea. So I tell her, “Mac ’n’ cheese and salsa. Or chicken salad with grapes. Or a tuna wrap with kalamata olives and cucumbers.” And before she can say anything about my food choices, I ask, “How come you can get in touch with Hudson and Grams and I can’t?”

“They call me. And where am I supposed to get a tuna wrap with kalamata olives and cucumbers?”

“Well, could you
please
tell them to call
me
next time they call you?”

“Sure. But what about the wrap?”

I sigh. “I don’t care about the wrap. I really just want a nap.”

So I get off the phone, try Hudson’s again, hang up, and since I really do feel totally wiped out, I actually do take a nap.

What wakes me up is not Grams calling.

What wakes me up is my mother coming through the door.

“Nooooo,” I moan, ’cause she’s got Darren with her. “I’m in a horrible mood,” I tell him. “You probably don’t want to be here.”

He gives me a hopeful look and hoists some plastic bags. “We brought lunch?”

And that’s when I realize I’m starving.

I sit up and rake back my hair. “What about Grams?”

My mom starts laying out the food on the coffee table. “She’s getting her hair done.”

“Getting her
hair
done? Doesn’t she know I’m dying to talk to her?”

“I told her, Samantha, but you know how she can be.”

“How
she
can be? She’s the way she is because you’re the way
you
are!”

“Hmm,” she says, like a fully coronated diva. “Have you ever thought that maybe I’m the way I am because she’s the way
she
is?”

“Grams is nothing like you!”

She raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow at me.

That’s all.

Just an eyebrow.

Then she says, “Let’s eat, shall we?” which is one of her ninety-six ways of changing the subject.

There’s nothing resembling mac ’n’ cheese and salsa. Or chicken salad with grapes. Or a tuna wrap with kalamata olives and cucumbers. Or even PB&J. But there is an egg salad sandwich, so I take that and an apple juice.

“Thanks,” I tell Darren in a very grumbly way.

My mother reaches into her vast catalog of disapproving looks and shoots one at me, but Darren doesn’t seem fazed. He just shoves a bag of salt and vinegar chips over and says, “Goes great with egg salad.”

Which for some reason takes the edge off the way I’m feeling.

Then he adds, “So does Frank’s, but we don’t have any, so …”

“Frank’s?”

“Hot sauce,” he says, and when he can tell I’ve never heard of it, he explains. “It’s like Tabasco but infinitely better.” He gives my mom a little grin. “Some of us can’t take the heat, but I slather. Great on carrots, too.”

“Hot sauce is?” I ask him.

“That’s right.” He takes a bite of some kind of cold-cut sandwich, and after a few chews he says, “We could definitely use some Frank’s here.”

So okay. Now I’m actually smiling ’cause this guy is … well, let’s just say he’s
way
easier to be around than my mother. So I dig into my sandwich, too, and the vinegar chips give it some kick. “That
is
good,” I tell him, then shake the chip bag at him.

“Thanks,” he says with a grin.

So Darren and I eat bad sandwiches with good chips while my mother takes dainty bites from some fruity-looking yogurt cup. And I’ve just polished off the first half of my sandwich when I notice that Darren’s trying to figure out how to say something.

“What?” I ask him.

He eyes my mom, then focuses on me. “Lana and I were bouncing around ideas about ways I could get to know you better.” His eyebrows twitch up and he gives me a little look. “Unless you’re not ready for that.”

Maybe it was the vinegar chips talking, but I said, “Sounds good.”

He and my mom exchange another look, and then he says, “Cool.” He takes a deep breath. “We have some options, but the one that sounds like it might be the most fun for you would be joining me on a cruise where the band’s been hired to play—”

“A
cruise
?” I look at him, horrified. “The guy who wrote ‘Waiting for Rain to Fall’ and ‘Dead Weather’ and ‘Heal This Heart’ is playing a
cruise
?”

“Wow,” he says, studying me. “As if that decision wasn’t hard enough.”

It takes me a second, but I finally look away. “Sorry.”

And we’re all quiet a minute, but then he turns it around. “So,” he says with half a grin, “you know my music?”

“You have no idea,” I mutter.

“And you
like
it?”

“My boyfriend introduced me to you.” I eye my mother, and she looks away quick. “So yeah,” I tell him. “I like your music.” I shake my head. “Which is totally awkward.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I can see that.”

And then my mother’s phone rings.

I jump and cry, “Grams!” Only it comes out more like “Mmoums!” because I’d just taken a bite of sandwich.

“Lana Keyes,” my mom answers, sounding stupidly official. And then she makes little noises for, like, two minutes while I sit there wiggling my hand for the phone. And finally,
finally
she says, “That’s all fine and understandable, and I support all of that, but Samantha is right here and desperate to talk to you.”

And then she’s quiet for another thirty seconds before she says, “Mother? Mother, please …” Then she sighs and clicks off.

“Seriously?” I gasp. “She wouldn’t talk to me?”

My mother looks away. “I’m sorry.”

“Where is she?” I ask, ’cause I’m ready to track her down and
make
her talk to me.

“Shopping.”

“
Shopping?
For what?”

My mother shrugs. “It’s Las Vegas. The possibilities are endless.”

“But Grams doesn’t shop! And how can she be
shopping
when she knows I’m miserable?”

My mother sighs again. “She needs a little
her
time.”

“
Her
time?” I throw my hands up in the air because for the first time ever Grams is acting like my
mother
. And let me tell you, this makes my head turn back into one weird, muddled mess. I mean, not being able to reach Grams is one thing. Having her shut me down cold when she knows I’m desperate to talk to her and am
right there
is something else. Because I don’t care what my mother says, Grams is
not
like her. She’s caring and supportive and giving and self
less
.

But … how could she know I’m totally miserable and
still go to the spa, get a mani-pedi, get her hair done, and go
shopping
?

How?

And that’s when something Pete had said goes jailhouse-rocking through my brain. “Ohmygod!” I cry, jumping up.

Lady Lana recoils like she’s just spotted blood. “What?”

“She’s getting married!”

“What?” she says again. “Who?”

“Grams!” I dash from here to there across the room, until I wind up back where I started. “Come on! We have to go!”

“Go where?”

“To the chapel!”

“What chapel? Samantha, calm down. Why do you think she’s getting married?”

“Come on.” I yank her out of her seat. “There’s no way I’m missing this wedding!”

The MGM’s chapel was open, and there was a woman at the reception desk. The place was all marbly and fancy, but I marched my high-tops right in anyway.

“What time is the wedding for Hudson Graham and Rita Keyes?” I asked.

Mom was behind me and started making little cooing noises to the woman about excusing the intrusion.

Darren was smart enough to stay outside.

“Seven-thirty,” the woman said, and,
ka-thunk
, my mom’s jaw hit the ground.

“Told you,” I snarled at my mom as I dragged her back outside.

“She was right,” my mom gasps to Darren. Then she looks at me and says, “How could she do this without telling us?”

I laugh. “I’m sure she’s
planning
to tell us.
Some
day.” Then I switch gears. “But forget about that—we’ve got work to do!”

“Work to do? What do you mean?”

I spread my arms out. “I need a dress! And shoes!
And we need to get cans! And a
JUST MARRIED
sign for Jester!”

“Who’s Jester?” Darren asks.

“Hudson’s car! It’s a 1960 sienna rose Cadillac with whitewall tires and tons of chrome.”

“That’s what he drove to get here? A vintage Cadillac?”

“Yup.” And then I get a great idea. I put my hand out to my mother. “Hand me your phone.”

So she does and I dial and pretty soon I’m hearing, “You’ve reached the King!”

“Pete! It’s Sammy! How would you like to cruise the Strip tonight in a 1960 pink Cadillac? It’s pristine.”

He hesitates. “What’s the hitch?”

“It’s more who’s getting hitched. I’m happy to pay you.”

“You found her? I thought you
didn’t
want her to get married!”

“I found her, but it’s actually my grandmother who’s getting hitched.”

“Whoa, little mama, you’ve had one complicated weekend.”

“No kidding! But you’ll do it?”

“Sure!”

“Okay! The ceremony’s at seven-thirty at the MGM wedding chapel.”

“Small service, I take it?”

“Oh yeah.”

“So it’ll take about half an hour tops. I’ll be there before eight.”

“Thanks! And, uh, Pete?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t bring the Army. I think one Elvis is all my grandmother can handle.”

He laughs. “Right. See you soon, little mama!”

I hand the phone back to my mother, who asks me, “You’re hiring an Elvis, and you
flew
here. Where are you getting all this money?”

“Uh … it’s reward money.”

“Reward money.”

“Yeah.”

“For what?”

“Well … it’s a long story involving a guy named Justice Jack, a pink trailer, some junkyard dogs, and a dairy farm, but basically, someone stole the softball statue out of the foyer of City Hall, and I helped get it returned. So I got a cut of the reward money.” And since she and Darren are just
staring
at me, I go, “Are we getting ready for a wedding, or what?”

Darren says, “I’ll help with the cans,” but my mom cuts in with “Nobody does that anymore.”

We both look at her. “On a vintage pink Cadillac?” Darren says. “It’s perfect!”

I laugh. “Exactly!” And I can’t help it; I give him a big ol’ smile.

Lady Lana shakes her head. “What have I done?”

So for the next hour we race around buying stuff and decorating Hudson’s car—which was pretty easy to find, even in the massive parking structure. And by the time
seven-thirty rolled around, I was wearing a dress and, as Grams would say, a pair of “real” shoes. The dress wasn’t fancy—just a simple blue thing with little flowers on the collar—but I knew Grams would love it. I also found her a bracelet with blue stones. They were fake, but they looked good, and come on! You don’t get
that
much for returning an ugly bronze statue!

Darren bought chocolates and flowers, and Lady Lana managed to get a set of hankies embroidered on the spot: H
UDSON
+ R
ITA
in a heart.

They were awesome.

Then we raced downstairs and waited outside the chapel.

And waited.

And waited.

And finally I ask, “What time is it?”

“Seven-forty,” Darren tells me.

I put out my hand to Lady Lana. “Phone.”

So she hands it over, and pretty soon Hudson is answering his room phone.

I don’t even bother to say hello. “Did she get cold feet?”

“Sammy?”

“Yes. Is she there all dressed and ready to go?”

“How did you—” He chuckles. “Of course you figured it out.”

“Well, we’re down at the chapel waiting.”