Page 32 of Endless Summer: Stories
“Mac does,” Karen says.
“He does?” Celeste says.
“Oh, yes,” Karen says ominously. She pauses. “Your father’s secret is that… he’s pretending to be asleep right now.”
“He is?” Celeste says.
“I can tell by the way he’s breathing,” Karen says. “He’s awake, listening to every word we say.”
“Mac?” Celeste says to her father.
“Go, sweetheart,” Bruce says. “And remember we love you.”
Celeste kisses her parents goodbye, then pads down the hall to her room and changes into her pale pink sheath with the nautical rope detail. This was supposed to be her going-away outfit, what she’d wear when she and Benji left for the airport after the Sunday farewell brunch. The trappings of this wedding have meant little to Celeste but she did love the old-fashioned elegance of a going-away outfit, and now, since she is going away, she will wear it.
Celeste grabs her yellow paisley Vera Bradley duffel bag and leaves the Winbury house. Her relief at a clean escape outweighs her regret at knowing she can never return.
At ten after six, Celeste and Shooter meet on the bench at the side of the Steamship terminal.
“How’d it go?” Shooter asks.
“Easier than I expected,” Celeste says.
Which was exactly how Shooter had planned it.
Shooter doesn’t take Celeste to Las Vegas; it’s no place for a genuine lady. Instead, he books a suite at the Ritz-Carlton in Palm Springs. Shooter is a big, big fan of Palm Springs. He likes the midcentury vibe, the ghosts of old Hollywood, the endless emerald patchwork of golf courses (which he will ignore while Celeste is present), and, of course, the weather. There’s never a cloud in the sky.
His enjoyment of Palm Springs is enhanced by Celeste’s enthusiasm. She has never been anywhere with palm trees. She has never been in a desert or seen a cactus growing in the wild. She loves the street names—Gene Autry Trail, Bing Crosby Drive, Jack Benny Road, and, her favorite, which is felicitous because it’s where their hotel is located—Frank Sinatra Drive.
“This is where they all hung out back in the day,” Shooter says. “Bob Hope, George Burns and Gracie Allen, Dean Martin, Dinah Shore, and, of course, Frank.”
He swings their rented Camaro, top down, into the circle in front of the Ritz.
“Welcome back, Mr. Uxley,” the valet says as he opens Celeste’s door.
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back,the valet, the bellman, the front-desk clerk say. Shooter starts to feel uneasy. He knows that the staff has been trained to remember all of their repeat customers, but Shooter can’t help feeling like a heel. He was here four weeks ago with Benji for the bachelor party and now he is here with Benji’s fiancée. Former fiancée.
He wants nothing more than to get Celeste up to the room. Benji wouldn’t believe it, nobody would believe it, but Shooter has not yet slept with Celeste. He wanted to wait; he wanted to be away, relaxed, out from under the blistering fire of this thing they’ve done. He hasn’t checked his phone since leaving Nantucket and neither has Celeste; they agreed that would be best.
He sees a figure walking toward him in the hall, a man—tall, thin, blond hair, glasses.
Shooter’s heart sinks.
“Mr. Uxley!” the man says.
“Hey, Frank,” Shooter says. Frank is the concierge on the club floor; this is a relationship Shooter has given a lot of time and energy to. He and Frank shake hands. “And please don’t ever let me hear you calling me Mr. Uxley again.”
Frank laughs. “Okay, Shooter, sorry.” He turns to Celeste. “And who have we here?”
“Celeste Otis,” she says, shaking Frank’s hand. “It’s a pleasure.” She offers him a smile so beautiful that Shooter’s knees grow weak. She is happy, finally, and there is nothing more attractive on a woman than happiness.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Otis,” Frank says. “Where are you visiting from?”
“New York City,” she says.
“Very nice,” Frank says. “And what do you do in New York?”
“I’m the assistant director of the Bronx Zoo,” Celeste says.
