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

of me. It’s Greta in her shredded peasant outfit. We’re in the Winter Palace.

“Too much to drink?” the teenage waitress scoffs. “And it’s so early.”

“What happened?”

“She wants to know what happened? One minute you’re, like, holding your drink. The next, you’re taking my tray down with you.” She narrows her eyes and peers at me. “Hope the carpet’s all right.”

“It’s stain-resistant.”

My forehead is tender from my fall. I can feel a small bump. What was it that Eva said on top of that mesa? You can’t bang your head against a dream, and if you scream, you wake up. Of course, this is no dream, and I wonder how to find Toby inside his trick.

“So, you gonna sit there all day?” Greta asks, not helping me to my feet. “You better not cause a scene over here. I need this job. I won’t be fired because you can’t handle a drink.” She looks over her shoulder at someone approaching through the parting crowd. Sandra.

The Winter Palace manager appears in front of me, her face a mixture of pity and condescension. She’s a cloud of perfume, champagne, and voile.

“Mel, get up.” Sandra offers me her perfectly manicured hand. She’s not wearing the dress I helped her pick out, but something brassier. “You can’t be lying around. And in that outfit. This is VIP.”

I’m on my feet. Despite the artificial cold of the Winter Palace, I’m having trouble breathing. “Quick,” Sandra says in her stage whisper, “get into my office. Change into something suitable.” She hands me her key card. In an instant, she’s gone, leaving me with Greta.

Greta is about to walk away. “Greta.”

She stops and give me a confused look. “Yeah?”

“There’s going to be a magician, right?”

She shrugs. “You just passed out in public, and you’re worried about a magician.”

I make my way to Sandra’s office, searching for Toby as I go. People are giving me strange looks. I guess, being dressed for a Dutch winter day, I don’t exactly blend into a swanky Vegas crowd. Sandra’s office is a tornado of discarded heels, dresses, and costume jewelry. I see the dress I helped her select from the mall at Caesar’s discarded on the back of her chair. I rummage through the clothes. Most of the dresses are sateen, and their colors are strictly SoCal or Key West. If I had the time to listen, I’m sure they’d all be singing the chorus of a Jimmy Buffet song. I’m looking for fit rather than style, which leads me to a orange-coral knee-length number. It has spaghetti straps and tiny crystals along the bodice. I put it on and feel like I’ve wandered off from an Under the Sea prom night.

The opening party is flowing from the lobby into the Hermitage Salon. The shoulder-height vases bursting with hyacinths smell extraordinary. The motorized sledges whirl through the shopping promenade, carrying tipsy revelers bundled underneath the faux fur throws. Fireworks explode from the onion domes. A folk music trio in Cossack dress moves through the crowd. I look everywhere for Toby. Waitresses give me canapés. Another champagne flute winds up in my hand.

Sandra is at my side once more. She plucks the strap of my dress. “That’s better. You look like one of us.” She’s riding high on a tide of champagne and adrenaline.

“Sandra, is Toby performing?”

“Toby?”

“The magician?”

“Oh, honey. Of course he’s performing.” She holds up her champagne glass and gestures around the room. “Why do you think all the ladies are here?”

I step back to avoid being doused with Sandra’s drink.

“But believe me, you’re gonna have to wait in line for his time, hon.”

“I need to talk to him before the show.”

Sandra gives me a look that lets me know I’m about to embarrass myself and her again. “Grab a drink and relax. I can’t imagine a magician needs to be disturbed before his big Vegas debut.” Now Sandra’s voice becomes all business. “The carpets,” she says, pressing the toe of her cream-colored shoe into the pile, “are they holding?”

“So far,” I reply, my voice small and distant in my own ears.

The party continues. Everything is a little brighter and merrier than I remember. The champagne seems to pop with iridescent sparkles. Music pours from the speakers, inspiring the guests to tap their toes. Suddenly, a Russian juggling troupe bursts onto the floor and begins to toss their batons. The crowd parts, delighted by the flying sticks and balls, some of which are now on fire. Almost before the juggling is complete, guests shuffle toward the Hermitage Salon. I follow. Peering over the bare shoulder of a woman in a sultry cocktail dress, I see members of the St. Petersburg Orchestra playing as they arrive on the artificial ice in sledges.

The crowd’s exuberance swells as an impromptu snowstorm gusts through the salon. I need to find Toby or Greta. I’m stuck, wedged in a sea of dresses, tuxedos, and cocktails as the tiny artificial flakes pour from the ceiling. The crowd looks up as snow covers everyone with a sparkly sheen.

I push my way through the crowd and begin to search for Toby. Instead, I find Greta sneaking a cigarette near the Red Square pub.

“Looks like you pulled yourself together,” she says as I approach.

“I wouldn’t smoke in that outfit,” I reply.

“Yeah? And I wouldn’t pass out at six P.M. Guess some people shouldn’t drink.”

I try to stay calm. “I didn’t pass out.”

“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes.

“Listen, Greta…”

“I barely know you, so stop calling me that. Anyway, it’s not Greta. It’s Paula.”

“Sure, Paula. The magician—,” I begin.

She extinguishes her cigarette. “Yeah, sure, the magician. What do you care? You wanna get cut in half or something?”

“Me?”

Greta shrugs. “Lots of people volunteer for stuff like that.”

I look down at her bodice, where I expect a bloodstain to blossom. “What about you?” I ask.

Greta laughs. “Yeah, right. His show bores me. I came to town ’cause I thought he’d do something cool. If I see another card trick, I’ll puke.”

“Good,” I say, helping myself