Page 33 of Endless Summer: Stories
Frank stiffens. Maybe. Or maybe Shooter is imagining it. Shooter is pretty sure Benji talked to Frank at length about his impending wedding and about Celeste’s job. But does Frank remember? Does he retain stuff like that? Wouldn’t it be virtually impossible with so many guests in and out of the hotel on a daily basis?
If Frank does put two and two together, what will he think of Shooter? It’s cringe-worthy.
Frank says, “We actually have a wonderful zoo here in Palm Springs called the Living Desert Zoo and Gardens.”
“You do?” Celeste says. She turns to Shooter. “Can we go?”
“Of course,” Shooter says. He puts his hand on her back to usher her down the hall. “Good to see you, Frank.”
“And you,” Frank says. “Nice to meet you, Miss Otis.”
When they are out of earshot, Celeste whispers, “Everyone knows you.”
“Yes,” Shooter says. He supposes that’s why he brought Celeste here. Benji has money; Shooter has relationships. He should feel good about this, but instead he feels like a common thief.
Shooter and Celeste are perfectly compatible—better than compatible; they are greater than the sum of their parts. They give off heat and light. Shooter is relieved. He’s aware that he could have been disappointed once the drama of their escape had passed. But he can’t get enough of her. When she goes for a run the next morning, his heart aches with missing her. He falls back to sleep clutching her pillow.
When she returns, she calls her parents from the room, tells them she’s safe. Her parents have made it home to Pennsylvania.
“Don’t tell me anything else yet,” Celeste says. “Please.”
“Good for you,” Shooter says when she hangs up. “What do you want to do today? Lunch by the pool? Massage? Hike in Joshua Tree?”
“Can we go to the zoo?” she asks.
It has been a long time since Shooter has been to a zoo. There was a field trip to the Franklin Park Zoo while he was a student at Fessenden, and he dated a girl who dragged him to the National Zoo in DC to see the pandas. The Living Desert Zoo and Gardens are small and manageable. Celeste studies the map; she’s as eager as a little kid.
“They’ve obviously been well funded,” she says. “Look how immaculate this place is. And they’ve stuck to what they know—animals from hot and dry climates.”
Shooter and Celeste see the addax, the striped hyenas, and the serval. At the meerkat habitat, there’s a silver-haired gentleman in suit pants and a tie holding a clipboard, and Celeste goes right up to introduce herself. Shooter hangs back, watching her in action. She and the gentleman—Jack, Shooter hears him say—point at the exhibit in front of them, then at Celeste’s map, then they must get into shop talk because it seems like the conversation is never going to end. Shooter is torn between feeling jealous of this Jack guy and feeling awestruck by how smart and knowledgeable Celeste is.
When she finally breaks away from Jack, she has a business card in her hand. “He’s the director,” she says, grinning. “He offered me a job.”
The business card of Jack Colgate, director of the Living Desert Zoo and Gardens, is like a silver ball bearing at the start of a Rube Goldberg contraption. Why don’t theymoveto Palm Springs? It would be better if they left New York, right? Fresh start, et cetera. Shooter can do his job from anywhere; he travels so much anyway, and he’s in Las Vegas all the time. He can be home with Celeste more once he cuts out the cross-country travel.
They talk about it over dinner at Jake’s. They are seated in the courtyard with a couple of martinis. Celeste is wearing a green dress. Her hair is long and loose around her face; she doesn’t wear any makeup. Her beauty is all natural, enhanced by moisturizer, ChapStick, and a light tan from the afternoon sun.
“What about your parents?” Shooter says. He paid enough attention over the truncated wedding weekend to realize that Celeste living three thousand miles away from her parents won’t work.
“What if they sold their house and bought an RV and moved out here?” Celeste asks. “They’ve always dreamed of doing that.”
“They have?” Shooter says.
“Well, no,” Celeste admits. “But probably because they haven’t thought of it. I bet they would quit their jobs, sell the house, take a nice long road trip out here, and relocate. My father can get a job at a men’s clothier—”
“Wil Stiles,” Shooter says. Now his wheels are turning.
“And my mother can work in a shop, maybe a place that sells home goods—”
“Just Fabulous,” Shooter says. “Or Motif.”
“You can teach my father to play golf,” Celeste says.
“Would they live with us?” Shooter says.
“Only when they’re not traveling,” Celeste says.
Before Shooter met Celeste, his worst nightmare was being tied down, owning a house with a yard and a driveway, living with his girlfriend’s parents. No one in his right mind wants to live with his girlfriend’s parents. No one in his right mind wants to teach his girlfriend’s father to play golf.
