LITMIR.BIZ

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      “I met Victoria McKimber once,” Norton said. “She was representing American Beauty at a fundraiser for Door of Hope at Caesars Palace. That lady really knows how to work a room. I wasn’t there three minutes before she was chatting me up. And it got her what she wanted, too. That was the first time she made my column.”

      “How long ago was that?”

      “Oh, I’d have to check. Off the top of my head, I’d say two years, maybe three. I hadn’t given her a thought until I caught The Morning Show on Monday. Recognized her the minute I saw her, even with all the extra hair and—”

      “Nutcracker tits,” Ed said, and that’s when I left.

      At least being back in my cube gave me a good chance to do some research. A few clicks and I learned that the Sekhmet Temple of Goddess Spirituality was built by a woman who wanted to get pregnant. On a trip to Egypt, she promised the lion-headed goddess Sekhmet that she’d build her a temple in exchange for a little fertility magic. Sekhmet obliged within a month, granting the first of three daughters, but it wasn’t until decades later that the woman kept her end of the bargain. She eventually organized a female work crew and built a stucco-covered straw-bale sanctuary on a patch of desert not far from the Nevada Test Site.

      Why anyone would ask Sekhmet for help having babies, I can’t figure out. The stories about her make her sound more like a monster than a baby-loving fertility goddess. When Ra, her Sun God father, sent her to punish human evil-doers, Sekhmet used her supernatural strength to rip the humans to shreds. The massacre was so huge and bloody that it shocked even Ra, who wasn’t exactly nonviolent himself. A quick thinker, he filled a vat the size of Lake Nasser with beer and dyed it red to look like blood. Sekhmet drank so much she passed out, and the destruction of mankind was averted. I don’t know much about Egyptian religion, but this does not strike me as appropriate behavior for a goddess of sweet motherhood.

      As I walked out to the Max that evening, I suddenly remembered that “new moon” would more appropriately be called “no moon.” It was going to be as dark as deep space as soon as I left the neon radiance of Las Vegas, and not much warmer. I was glad I had grabbed my ski jacket on my way out the door.

      It had come as a big surprise to me that winter is actually cold in southern Nevada. When I arrived last May, I laughed at all the chimneys, figuring they’d been built for looks by homesick New Englanders. Now that I’ve nearly broken my neck a couple of times slipping on patches of ice created by errant sprinklers, I know better. And even though the portable electric heater in my apartment is powerful enough to keep me from freezing, I’m grateful that Sierra and Michael don’t mind sharing their fireplace once in a while.

      I slid behind the steering wheel, snapped on my seat belt, and fought off a sudden attack of nerves. Why had Victoria invited me? What happens at a ceremony honoring a deity of mass destruction—in the dark? I checked my cell phone. It was fully charged. My gas tank was full, and as I turned the key in the ignition, I made up my mind to take David’s advice. I’d be doing the driving out to Indian Springs.

      I arrived at the Silverado with a minute or two to spare and waited at a table in the coffee shop. When the waitress showed up, I ordered coffee. As I sat there, I almost hoped Victoria would stand me up. I was still a little uneasy about driving into the darkness with her.

      Whenever I have doubts about whether I should do something a little adventurous, I think about my Aunt Melanie. Back in the middle sixties, when she nineteen or twenty, she spent a heavily chaperoned summer in England with a group from her college.

      The day before she flew home from London was a Sunday. Auntie Melanie wanted to visit St. Paul’s one last time. Another girl said she’d go with her, and the chaperones decided to let them. At the last minute, the other girl decided not to go.

      “But it was my last chance,” Auntie Melanie said. “I was already dressed in my hat and gloves.”

      So, breaking all the rules, she hailed a cab and went on her own. After the service, she stepped out in front of the cathedral. As she stood there hoping a taxi would appear, a young man approached her.

      “He was in his twenties, and he was wearing a dark blue three-piece suit,” she said. “He bowed slightly and asked me if he could be of service. Well, my first reaction was to step away. This was exactly the reason we had chaperones—to keep us safe from men with bad intentions.” She would always chuckle at this point.

      “But he kept talking politely while I kept looking around for a cab. He realized I was an American after I spoke a few words. ‘A flower of the colonies,’ he called me, and we both laughed. We chatted some more. I was about to ask directions to the Underground when he said, ‘I know this is terribly forward of me, but would you do me the honor of accompanying me to a garden party this afternoon?’”

      Auntie Melanie thought for a moment. The young man seemed decent, and his manners were perfect. She had a hundred dollars in travelers’ cheques in her handbag and two ten-pound notes tucked into her bra. When I was a kid, I never let her leave out that part of the story.

      “I had money in case I needed to get a ride back to London,” she would tell me, “but I still should have said no.”

      “Then why did you go?” I would always ask. I could answer the question myself, but I loved hearing her say the words.

      “I seized the opportunity!” When I was little, she would grab me and hold me tight. “It was too precious to let it get away!”

      And oh, was it ever. Christopher Drummond drove Auntie Melanie to a palatial manor in Windsor in his shiny green Jaguar E-Type.

      “With the top down,” Auntie Melanie said. “It was a beautiful day, and he loaned me his college scarf.”

      All this would have made my aunt’s story more than enough to enchant me, but there was more. At the party, Christopher Drummond introduced my aunt to Princess Margaret!

      “Oh, she was beautiful!” my aunt would say. “And she was wearing the most glamorous pink straw hat. I was so glad I was dressed for church, and that I had learned how to curtsey.”

      And then she would show me how to curtsey, “because you just never know when you might need to.”

      While curtseying was not a skill I’d be likely to need at the New Moon Ceremony, I reminded myself about the other lesson from my aunt’s story. Spending a few hours with a prostitute at a cult site in the desert was an opportunity I might never have again.

      Just then I saw her, over near the roulette table. She was dressed all in black spandex except for a wide silver belt cinched tight around her waist. Two women were talking to her, and a guy in a cowboy hat. Oh, my God. She was signing autographs.

      “Copper!” Victoria said as soon as she saw me. “I’m so glad you could make it!” She sat down, reached across the table, and patted my hand.

      “Would you like some coffee?” I asked, “Or do we need to get going?”

      “I’m fine,” she said, “but finish yours. We’ve got plenty of time.”

      I took a sip and watched her as she pulled a little mirror out of her huge shoulder bag and checked her makeup.

      “The Sekhmet Temple’s my church,” she said, putting the mirror away and zipping her bag up. “I don’t get out there very often, but it’s always there for me. Supportive, nonjudgmental. I grew up Catholic, but …” she paused and smiled. “Let’s just say I’m even less salvageable than Mary Magdalene.”

      “Thank you for inviting me,” I said. “I’m still pretty new in town, and—”

      “It’s totally my pleasure, Copper,” Victoria said. “I was hoping we could talk some more. I wanted to … ” She hesitated as I took my last swallow of coffee. “Maybe we should get going. We can talk while we drive.”

      “Oh—” I paused. “I’d like to drive, if you don’t mind. I’ve got my laptop in my car, and‍—‍”

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