Today I drove down Main Line Road, past Baby Cakes, the local cupcake store, and Packin’ Pistils, the local florist. A stretch of car dealerships lit up like casinos filled the last quarter mile, and after that the road dead-ended. A right turn would have led me to the highway access and eventually to the heart of Las Vegas. A left turn took me to Christopher Robin Crossing.
My dad had said that Blitz Manners lived in the mansion at the end of Winnie Lane, but it turned out he was slightly mistaken. The large white mansion sat at the intersection of Winnie Lane and Pooh Bear Drive, making it the house at Pooh Corner. I wondered how that looked on an engraved invitation!
I pulled over to the side of the road and flipped my visor up. The house stood majestically on its plot. Although it was surrounded by equally impressive architecture, it was by far the most grand of the development. A shiny black town car sat in the driveway. I could tell from the way the tall blades of grass behind the car bent backward that the engine was running and the exhaust, though invisible, was present. A well-appointed blond woman in a lightweight black suit came out of the house and gingerly descended the stairs that led to the driveway. She looked as though a team of professionals had been tasked with her hair and makeup. The driver stepped out of the car, came around to the side, and held the door open for the woman. I guessed her to be Blitz’s mom.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice, Claude,” she said. “I thought my husband was going to be able to drive me, but he had to go to the dealership.”
“It’s no trouble, Mrs. Manners,” the driver said. “I’m awfully sorry about your son.”
“Please,” she said, holding her hand up. “I have to hold it together for a town council meeting and it’s taking all of my energy not to break down.”
“Of course,” the driver said.
Blitz’s mom sat in the back of the shiny car and the driver closed the door. He walked around the front and backed it out of the driveway.
I flipped my visor back into place and pulled away from the curb. The town car passed me just before I reached the stop sign at Tigger Trail. I turned right and circled around the rest of the streets of the development until I realized I’d gotten myself lost somewhere in the Hundred Acre Woods. I parked along a curb and climbed off the scooter, taking to foot so I wouldn’t burn up more gas. The thin suede soles of my moccasins provided little in the way of support, and after only a few blocks, my arches were tired and I was no closer to finding the way out. In the distance, a street sign announced Winnie Lane. Sure enough, when I turned at the intersection, I was back at Pooh Corner. Now the only trick would be to figure out where I’d left my scooter.
“Hey!” a voice called out. I looked to my left and right, finally spotting Grady hanging out the window of a silver sports car. He pulled up alongside of me. “Margo, right? What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”
“Truth?” I said, knowing I was about to deliver a lie. “I took my scooter out for a ride and got a little turned around. My tank is low so I started walking to find the way out of this development.”
“Is your scooter that little white thing with the red seat?”
“Yes. Do you know where it is?”
“You don’t?”
“Directions aren’t my strongest suit.”
“Hop in, m’lady, or should I say, hop in, Indian princess?”
The lock popped open and Grady reached across from the driver’s side and pushed the door open. I climbed in.
“Thank you. I don’t think these boots were made for walking,” I said. I rubbed at the ball of my foot through the suede.
“You’re something of a mystery aren’t you?” he asked. “Mod, Western, Indian. How do I know which is the real Margo Tamblyn?”
“As soon as I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
“Are you saying this is the result of an identity crisis?”
“This”—I gestured to my outfit—“is the result of growing up in a costume shop. How about you?”
“Me? No identity crisis here. This”—he tapped the dash of his car—“is the result of growing up in a casino. I like to gamble, and I like to win.”
“You won your car gambling?” I asked, feeling my eyes grow wide.
“Nah, my dad owns a casino.” He laughed. “Gotcha, though. You should have seen your face.”
Grady pulled the car away from the curb and drove to the end of the road. He turned left—I would have put money on the fact that we needed to go right, which explained both why I didn’t gamble and how I’d gotten so absolutely lost—and drove a couple of blocks before turning right and then right again.
“So how does your dad owning a casino get you a car like this?” I asked.
“Dad’s got favors all over town,” he said. “The car came from Black Jack’s place. Black Jack Cannon gave dad the car in exchange for a seat at his penthouse poker game.”
“Black Jack Cannon,” I repeated. “He’s Blitz’s dad, isn’t he?”
Grady made two more rights and pulled his car up behind my scooter. “New dad. He married Blitz’s mom after his real dad died.”