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“I can always become a showgirl if UCLA doesn’t offer a scholarship,” I’d said a few weeks ago as we went over the deli’s finances. I didn’t like the furrow marring her face while we looked at the numbers. The joke succeeded. Mom chuckled and looked me up and down before retorting, “Start stretching those hairy legs, Ciaran. Maybe Bally’s Jubilee! will reopen just for you.”
Instead, Mom worked a high-end catering job on the side to make ends meet. Truth was, she was a natural party planner. Everyone—including very wealthy clients—gravitated toward her.
Men loved her legs. They loved her shapely arms, her long, graceful neck, her golden-blond hair and her healthy glow. When she walked, talked, even danced—which she did sometimes in her spare time at a small dance studio off of Fremont Street—it was like the air moved out of her way. She was that effortless.
On top of all that, she was funny, smart, and kind.
Mom said I took after her, which was clearly a lie—I’d never taken a ballet class in my life—but I knew it was said with love. She didn’t mind all the attention, and me, well, I’d rather have my head stuck between the pages of a book.
She’d had all sorts of monetary offers thrown her way, but she wasn’t one to date someone based on the balance of their bank account. Mom was a hard worker, just like Grandpa Tommy. Her mantra was, If I want to sleep with a man, I’ll do it because I like him, not because he might give me money. When I told her the same thing, she hugged me tight, booped my nose, and said, “You date whoever you want, sweetie, girls or boys. Don’t matter to me as long as they make you happy and treat you well.”
At the time, it was on the tip of my tongue to repeat those same words to her, but Mom wasn’t the type to be misled. She had a brilliant mind and could easily discern someone worthy of her time and attention.
Now, however, as the deli took on a lull, Mom pulled me aside, her expression purposefully unreadable. I wondered if our finances had taken a turn for the worse.
When Mom asked, “Ciaran, can you close up the deli tonight?” I knew something was different. She’d asked me this multiple times in the last year and each time she’d never worn such a blank expression.
No, that wasn’t quite right…her expression wasn’t blank, it was hidden.
She was withholding information from me.
In general, this wasn’t a problem, but I’d already agreed to meet Mr. Jones tonight for tutoring. I mentally calculated how much time it would take me to get to his high-rise apartment, study for my World History AP test, and get back. My mind slumped. I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it work. I could already hear Mr. Jones’s disappointed voice in my head.
Reluctantly, I answered, “Yeah, sure, Mom. I can close the deli. Is everything all right?”
“I have a date,” she blurted.
I was near speechless. Not one, but both of my eyebrows rose.
“With Bruce?” I scoffed. “He’s just going to name-drop all the famous athletes he’s interviewed in an effort to impress you.”
“Good God, no.” She laughed as she smoothed back her stringy blond locks. I could see her split ends from a mile away. Eight hours grilling meat and dishing up sandwiches would wreck havoc on anyone’s hair. “His name is Stefon Vaulteneau. We met at an event I catered a few weeks ago. He’s tall, dark, and?—”
“Handsome?” My lips twitched into a lopsided grin.
The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. That said, there was something new in her expression, something I hadn’t seen since before Grandpa died.
Hope.
Excitement.
Nervousness.
And my cool-as-a-cucumber mother was never nervous. That meant Stefon Vaulteneau was different.
A sense of unease wormed its way into the pit of my stomach.
“Handsome?” She shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. “Not particularly, if I’m being honest, but there’s a certain energy Stefon emits, like a beacon of some sort.” She paused then, clearly hoping to find the right words. “When I met him, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. I liked how I felt about myself when I was in his company. That probably sounds stupid.”
She studied my face for a reaction.
“Not stupid at all,” I said quickly. “He sounds amazing.”
Appeased, she ruffled my hair. “Stefon called this morning. He lives in Malibu, but has business in town and asked to see me tonight.”
“Malibu?” I whistled. “Is he a celebrity?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” She looked away briefly and I had a suspicion maybe he was a celebrity or Hollywood royalty. It wouldn’t surprise me. Mom was something of a local celebrity herself, having been a celebrated Bally’s Las Vegas Showgirl. People still asked for her picture and her autograph.
