The One Who Got Away: A Novel (21 page)

“Yes.”  

“There’s certainly time for that
this weekend, Olivine. I think it’s more important that we get you ready for your
stay. To get you a proper dress, proper shoes. A nightgown. A toothbrush. Those
kinds of things.”

She nodded and hopped up, then
slid into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She flipped on the lights,
and watched as the room blinked from utter darkness to blinding radiance,
creating a glittering effect on the white marble countertops and walls.
Floor-to-ceiling glass encased an enormous shower, complete with marble benches
and six different shower heads at various heights. She imagined herself, just
then, lying on the cold tile floor, and she imagined that Paul would come in
and make love to her. That he wouldn’t be able to resist her. And then they would
step into the shower, where they would make love again. But this was not to be.

“Let’s get you something to
wear,” Paul said from the other side of the door, his voice taking on a deeper
timbre. “Where would you like to shop?”

She regarded her reflection for a
moment. Had she even brushed her hair this morning? No wonder Paul was finding
it so easy to resist her. She flipped her head upside down and finger-combed
her long tresses from beneath. Then she stood upright, and smoothed it into
tousled waves. Better.  

“Any ideas?” he prompted.

“Jimmy Choo,” she said, yanking
open the door and meeting his eyes. “Yarrow said if I ever went to Vegas, I had
to at least try on some Jimmy Choo shoes.”

He grinned and nodded. “Okay, Caesar’s
Palace, then. Let’s go.” And they marched together to the elevator and back
into the lobby, where they pushed through the doors of their hotel and into the
blinding light of the Vegas afternoon. Paul was walking fast, and she gave a
little hop to catch up.

“Try not to skip,” he reprimanded.
“You’re acting a bit like a child, Olivine. I rather wish you had packed a
bag.”

She took a deep breath and made
an effort to stand straighter as she walked. As much as she wanted to be the
playful person she was with Henry, it felt put on, suddenly. Not right. But
that was okay. Things were bound to take some adjusting.

“Casinos are like malls these
days,” he was saying. “More and more, every time I come. High end stores and art
galleries. You can purchase anything you want here.” He paused, picking his way
artfully through the crowds, along the blaring white concrete. “You certainly
don’t need to enjoy gambling to enjoy Vegas,” he continued. “I’ve been trying
to tell you that for years.”

She wanted to remind him that not
only did she not enjoy gambling, she also did not enjoy shopping. But she
thought better of it just now.

As they walked along the strip,
she considered grabbing for Paul’s hand because this is what she would have
done with Henry. But Paul’s hands were shoved inside his pockets, and so she continued
holding on to the crook of his arm, the way he liked her to.

They stepped out of the
glittering sun and into Caesar’s Palace, and everything was dark for a moment. Olivine
blinked hard to help her eyes adjust, and, she was drawn instantly to a spot of
brightness along the wall. A piece of art in the window of a gallery.

An oil painting in an ornate gold
frame, as tall as she, it portrayed a single candle, long and deep coral in
color. At its tip was a yellow flame of the most brilliant light. The light splayed
in all directions, illuminating the entire canvas, but for the background. Behind
the candlelight was nothing but black. The deepest darkness. As Olivine moved closer
to the piece, she saw that the wick of the candle had been painted in the shape
of a tiny woman. A silhouette of a woman’s form, her arms held up and crossed
at the wrists; her ankles melding to form the base of the wick. This tiny
woman, responsible for all of this light.

Something about the painting made
her stomach pull. She stopped to take it in. To breathe with it. And she forgot
for a moment that Paul was standing next to her. “This painting…” Paul finally said,
“This painting should be called ‘Olivine.’” 

Olivine had read somewhere that
casinos were known to pump in particular aromas…aromas that might subliminally
prompt a patron to spend money, to feel as though he were a high roller who
couldn’t lose. And she wondered just then if there was a similar process in
place to help you say just the right words to the woman who was standing beside
you, because it was the perfect thing for him to say. So unlike him. So like…someone
else.

It would have been more
characteristic of the man she left behind. The man who would have, say, walked
over to the Roulette wheel immediately upon entering the casino and who would
have put a one hundred dollar bill on red, seventeen, because red is hot and
seventeen was her birth date. And as the ball bounced and the wheel turned, he
would have whispered something to her about the fact that he was about to get
lucky, either way.

Olivine shook her head. It was
strange imagining what one man would do when she was here with another, and an icy
feeling rippled through her. A feeling that she would be spending the rest of
her life doing this very thing.  

She stood for a moment, again,
looking at the painting. And then her focus shifted to her own reflection, staring
back at her in the glass set just before the painting. And so consumed was she,
seeing into her own eyes, that she startled when Paul said, “Jimmy Choo is just
over here.” And she nodded and he offered his elbow, and he led her there,
where he bought her a strappy silver shoe, a modest design by Jimmy Choo
standards, and one she felt she would actually wear from time to time.

“Good thing we don’t have
children,” Paul whispered to her after they swiped his credit card, “because
that would have put a dent in their college fund.” And then he made a similar
comment as he purchased two gauzy sundresses, a glittery pocketbook, and a
selection of French lingerie from the boutique next door.

They exited Caesar’s Palace and
walked back up the strip to their own hotel. Just before the bank of elevators
was a bar with velvet booths set inside what looked like blooming flowers, the
seats cradled by the open petals.

“You go freshen up,” Paul said,
thrusting the shopping bags toward her. “And I’ll meet you here. At this very
spot.”

She turned, and he grabbed for
her hand, giving it a squeeze. “And put your hair up in that way that I like.
Show some neck,” he said.  

The elevator soared upward, and
her stomach lurched. She could do this, she reassured herself. She took her
time in the room. In the shower, she set the water as hot as it would go, and
she stood under the sprays until she felt dizzy and dreamlike. And then she
stood in the bathroom and looked at her reflection until nearly all the steam
had cleared. She twisted her hair in just the way Paul liked. She wriggled into
the gauzy emerald dress, the exact color of her eyes. And she slipped on her
new silver shoes, which clicked across the marble as she crossed the room to stare
out the window for a time. Then she transferred her credit cards, cash, and
cell phone into her new pocketbook and threw open the door.

He was downstairs, just where he
said he would be, perched in a crimson velvet booth, formed in the shape of a
blooming peony. And there were other flowers of varying sizes and heights, each
reached through cascading flights of stairs. She looked around at the other
couples in other booths, each occupying their own flower, their own tiny stage,
overlooking the Blackjack tables.

She climbed the seven steps into
Paul’s booth. The seat rose high in the back but afforded a good view of the
gambling tables below. There, on the casino floor, a cocktail waitress teetered
on five-inch heels. Her hosiery caught the light. It was heavy and reflective,
like support hose, and this made Olivine think suddenly of her great grandmother
who would sit on an oak rocking chair all day in front of her home in Nebraska.
Each morning she would stuff her legs into the thick pantyhose, like sausage
casings, and she would rock in that chair. When Olivine had visited her as a
little girl, she would sit at her feet sometimes to play board games with
Yarrow, wishing and wishing for the time to go faster, so she could leave this
place and go home again. And she would look up sometimes at her great
grandmother and she could see the wiry white hair inside her nostrils and then
she would look down again and she would see those legs, thick with veins, broad
and blue.

Only a few decades would separate
these two women, Olivine thought. The woman below in her panty hose and her tiny
skirt, sashaying across the casino floor, looking for rich men. And a woman who
was too old to go and get her own Pepsi Cola. Olivine felt a weightiness deep
in the center of her chest.

The drink that Paul ordered for
her arrived. The glass was tall and skinny, with two raspberries bobbing among
clear bubbles and topped with a tiny red paper flower, a perfect replica of the
booth in which they were sitting. “This drink cost more than seventeen dollars,”
Paul said, and he laughed. “Since you have been upstairs, I have actually
consumed fifty-two dollars worth of drinks. I don’t think I’ve been able to say
that before. Ever.”

She smiled at him and tried to
laugh. The bodice of her dress felt too tight, suddenly.

Paul’s eyes were glassy. He
didn’t often drink. Olivine wriggled in her seat.

He took her hand and held it
loosely on the tabletop. Then he turned and looked into her eyes. “Olivine,” he
took a deep breath. “I want you to know that I forgive you. And that I trust
you. I will give you a good life. And I want to start right now.”

She pulled her hand from under
his. “Wonderful,” she said, and she took a sip of her drink through its tiny
red straw.

“So, did you mean it when you
said you would do anything I wanted here in Vegas?” he asked. A flash of the
two of them on the white marble in the hotel room flashed through Olivine’s
mind.

“I did,” she assured him. She
smiled and pulled another sip through the straw. The bubbles filled her mouth
and popped against the inside of her cheek

“Good.”

“Good.” She sucked in her
stomach. The lace on her new lingerie wasn’t quite right under this dress. She shifted
and reached her hand out to scoop up a handful of the Cajun-spice Chex Mix that
lay on the table. What an odd thing to offer as an appetizer, she thought,
crunching on the snack, trying to keep her mind off Henry and the things he
would say if he were here next to her. 

“Good. Because I booked the
chapel,” Paul said. “While you were upstairs. I booked the chapel.” He laughed
now, showing all of his teeth. “It was full until two in the morning, but hey, we’re
in Vegas!” He held up two fingers to a cocktail waitress with fish-net
stockings who nodded and minced to the bar. 

Olivine swallowed. The air went
cold and her face prickled and, just then, she heard the soft mew of a child,
who was nearing the bank of elevators just below and to the left of her,
skirting the casino floor. The child was about four years of age with blonde bouncing
curls. Her mother wore a pencil skirt, cut too narrow, and she leaned over to
speak directly into the girl’s face. Her hand clutched the child’s wrist. A
tall man in a business suit walked two steps behind them, speaking into a cell
phone. The man nudged the mother with his elbow and rolled his eyes, and the
woman pulled on the little girl’s wrist.

“Did you hear what I said?” Paul
asked.

Olivine listened to her
breathing, in and out.  

“Did you hear what I said?” he
repeated.

“I guess not,” she lied. She
found that her mind couldn’t conjure a response. “Sorry, it’s noisy in here.”

“I said I was able to get the
chapel.”

“The chapel?”

“I want to marry you, Olivine.
Today. Well, tonight. At two.”

Should she bring up
practicalities? Marriage license. The certain disappointment of her mother and
father if they were to elope? But she knew Paul would have an answer for each
of these things.

And so she said simply, “No.” The
word was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

“You
said
you were ready,
Olivine,” he slurred. “No more dragging this out. No more back and forth. No
more wishy-washy insecurities. If you want me, you’ll marry me here.” His voice
softened. “We can have a ceremony at home, too. Don’t worry.”  

She swallowed hard and shook her
head.

“I thought this was what you
wanted.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. “If it isn’t, why are we here?”

“I…I guess I don’t know.”  She
took off her ring, and she slid it to him.

He stared at it. Looked up at
her. Opened his mouth. Closed it. “Alright,” he said, finally, his eyes glossy.
“We can do it however you like. It doesn’t have to be here, of course. It
doesn’t have to be now. I just thought this was a good way for you to prove to
me what you want. That you want me.”

Olivine’s eyes drifted to the
casino floor. The little girl had been wrangled into the elevator. The waitress
in support hose had swaggered out of view.