She glanced around as he pulled into a parking lot. "Is this it?"
"It's across the road. This is like the visitors' center, the staging area. We get our tickets inside, and they take groups over in shuttles. "
He turned off the engine, shifted to look at her. "Five bucks says you're a convert when we come back out. "
"An Elvis convert? I don't have anything against him now. "
"Five bucks. You'll be buying an Elvis CD, minimum, after the tour. "
"That's a bet. "
* * *
It was so much smaller than she'd imagined. She'd pictured something big and sprawling, something mansionlike, close to the level of Harper House. Instead, it was a relatively modest-sized home, and the rooms - at least the ones the tour encompassed - rather small.
She shuffled along with the rest of the tourists, listening to Lisa Marie Presley's recorded memories and observations through the provided headset.
She puzzled over the pleated fabric in shades of curry, blue, and maroon swagged from the ceiling and covering every inch of wall in the cramped, pool-table-dominated game room. Then wondered at the waterfall, the wild-animal prints and tiki-hut accessories all crowned by a ceiling of green shag carpet in the jungle room.
Someone had lived with this, she thought. Not just someone, but an icon - a man of miraculous talent and fame. And it was sweet to listen to the woman who'd been a child when she'd lost her famous father, talk about the man she remembered, and loved.
The trophy room was astonishing to her, and immediately replaced her style quibbles with awe. It seemed like miles of walls in the meandering hallways were covered, cheek by jowl, with Elvis's gold and platinum records. All that accomplished, all that earned in fewer years, really, than she'd been alive.
And with Elvis singing through her headset, she admired his accomplishments, marveled over his elaborate, splashy, and myriad stage costumes. Then was charmed by his photographs, his movie posters, and the snippets of interviews.
* * *
You learned a lot about someone walking through Graceland with her, Logan discovered. Some snickered over the dated and debatably tacky decor. Some stood glassy-eyed with adoration for the dead King. Others bopped along, rubbernecking or chatting, moving on through so they could get it all in and push on to the souvenir shops. Then they could go home and say, been there, done that.
But Stella looked at everything. And listened. He could tell she was listening carefully to the recording, the way her head would cock just an inch to the right. Listening soberly, he thought, and he'd bet a lot more than five bucks that she followed the instructions on the tape, pressing the correct number for the next segment at exactly the proper time.
It was kind of cute actually.
When they stepped outside to make the short pilgrimage to Elvis's poolside grave, she took off her headphones for the first time.
"I didn't know all that," she began. "Nothing more than the bare basics, really. Over a billion records sold? It's beyond comprehension, really. I certainly can't imagine what it would be like to do all that and . . . what are you grinning at?"
"I bet if you had to take an Elvis test right now, you'd ace it. "
"Shut up. " But she laughed, then sobered again when she walked through the sunlight with him to the Meditation Garden, and the King's grave.
There were flowers, live ones wilting in the sun, plastic ones fading in it. And the little gravesite beside the swimming pool seemed both eccentric and right. Cameras snapped around them now, and she heard someone quietly sobbing.
"People claim to have seen his ghost, you know, back there. " Logan gestured. "That is, if he's really dead. "
"You don't believe that. "
"Oh, yeah, Elvis left the building a long time ago. "
"I mean about the ghost. "
"Well, if he was going to haunt any place, this would be it. "
They wound around toward the shuttle pickup. "People are awfully casual about ghosts around here. "
It took him a minute. "Oh, the Harper Bride. Seen her yet?"
"No, I haven't. But that may only be because, you know, she doesn't exist. You're not going to tell me you've seen her. "