The Art of Disappearing by Ivy Pochoda (popular romance novels .txt) 📕

of St. Petersburg. Plush ottomans and divans opened their arms to weary gamblers. Even the stools in front of the slots and the tables were upholstered with a polyamide nylon that would need consistent monitoring.

“Fabrication knows the size of the project?” I asked Sandra, waving my arm at the textile jungle outside her office. We passed out of the restricted area and entered the casino’s main floor.

“They said you were good. They said you have a special understanding of fabric,” she said. “I don’t know what that means exactly, but if you can tell us how to get these scuffs from the horses’ hooves off carpets, I’ll know we’re in business.”

“Horses?”

“We planned to have horse-drawn sledges bring people up and down the mall, but the horses—well, they just created a mess.” She bent down and showed me a depression in the carpet where horseshoes had ripped up the pile. “Now we’re going to use them only at the opening. And we’re going to cover their hooves with little velvet booties. Other than that, the sledges will be motorized.” Sandra pointed to a track laid on the floor. “Unfortunately, they’ll be more of a ride than a form of transportation, but they’ll still be way more exciting than those gondolas at the Venetian. We’ve had someone do an exact copy of Catherine the Great’s sledges, and we’ve piled them with all sorts of fake fur. I’m sure you’ll love them, since snow’s your thing and all.”

“Sure,” I said, wondering how the fake-fur throws would look at the end of a week.

“Speaking of snow, have you heard about the Hermitage Salon?” Sandra asked, grabbing my arm.

“No.”

“You will love this. We can’t go in now. They’re doing some last-minute tweaking on the temperature controls. But let me tell you, there’s an enormous frozen lake where professional skaters will perform and at mealtimes there’ll be a band. And here’s the kicker,” Sandra said, extending her arms for emphasis, “once every half hour, we’ve arranged for it to snow.”

“So whenever I’m homesick…,” I started to say.

“My thoughts exactly,” Sandra said as her eyes lit up. “And vodka, do you like vodka?”

“Sure.” I looked at my watch. “But not before noon.”

“Me neither. But sometimes—well, sometimes. We’ve got well over two hundred varieties.” She threaded me past the bustle of last-minute construction, through the completed shopping mall with stores waiting to unload gold jewelry and leather handbags, and into a vodka-themed bar called, oddly, Red Square. Except for a painter doing some touch-ups, the place was empty. Sandra dipped below the bar and retrieved a bottle of apricot vodka. “Occupational delight,” she tittered, filling our glasses. “When we’re up and running, this entire bar is going to be made of ice.” She ran her nails along the recessed metal countertop. “So.” She opened a folder that she’d brought with her and slipped back into her brusque business voice. “Let’s discuss the terms of your employment. We are in a bind. We got our gaming license quicker than expected. A miracle, a real gift from God in this town. We need to get this place in order fast. Spotless. Showcase perfect.” She resettled her blazer over her chest. “Fabrication has told us that you will do the job. I hope they’re right.”

“Of course,” I replied, pleased to be employed by the only wintry oasis in the city. The overwhelming variety and opulence of the textiles were irresistible—a full-bodied orchestra waiting to unleash its music on my ears.

“From what I can see on your résumé, you’re a traveling consultant. And what we need is for you to stay in one place.”

“I’m planning on staying in Las Vegas for a while,” I assured her.

Sandra frowned. “But what I’m thinking is that a traveling consultant doesn’t have a place to live. Am I right?”

I told her that I was staying at a motel and that Fabrication would foot the bill during my contract.

“Well, that doesn’t sound satisfactory at all. I imagine their air-conditioning isn’t up to standard. And that will do you no good. Especially you, Mel Snow.” She took a long sip of vodka. “A motel,” Sandra repeated under her breath as she flicked through the papers in her folder with a click of her tongue. Satisfied with her search, she shuffled the papers into order, tapped the folder on its short end to make sure everything slid into place, and took another drink. “Until we open, you are welcome to stay here. We have several rooms set aside for consultants and important visitors, and I’m sure that I can arrange the Cherry Orchard Suite for you. Since you know how to manage fabrics, I don’t have to worry about damages.”

“Of course not,” I said, surveying the shopping mall that was going to be part of my new home.

“You’re alone?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you traveling alone?”

It felt odd telling a stranger something that I hadn’t had the courage to tell my parents. “Just married.” For a moment, my words sounded so unbelievable that I worried I was lying.

“A Vegas wedding,” Sandra said with a knowing nod. “I bet your husband’s either a bottle rocket of passion—the can’t-wait-let’s-do-it-now type—or one of those never-going-to-commit guys you need to nail down in any way possible.”

I was on the verge of telling her that I had no idea. “He’s a magician.”

Sandra took a last gulp of her drink and kept her opinion to herself.

My brother spent his childhood trying to convince me that I’m a lapsed water child—that if I were willing, I could have listened to the stories of oceans and rivers as their water slipped through my fingers. Well, it’s not water speaking to me, but fabrics. It’s been that way since I was a kid. Vinyls sound like an off-key oboe, chintzes like woodwinds in full flight, velvet like the comforting rhythm of a bass drum in an orchestra pit. Cotton, which many people find pedestrian, announces itself like a Main Street marching band—crisp and clean. Satin sounds like the blues, and organza