Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

Her right hand folded into Matt’s as they swayed together with a half dozen other couples, some silver haired, some . . . good grief! . . . with gelled hair spikes and visible tattoos.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Who comes to Vegas, is part of Vegas.

“Frank Bucek told me about your takedown at the New Millennium,” Matt said.

“Oh. That. It was the Fontana brothers’ takedown.”

Matt nodded.

Temple felt the gesture to the bottom of her soles. Solid.

They were close, not tentative, and she liked it.

“He gave me some advice,” Matt added a minute later.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. He said ex-priests were hard on their wives.”

“Oh. Really? How?”

Matt shrugged. Temple shivered. “We’ve been little tin gods in our parishes or wherever. Catered to. By housekeepers. Soccer moms. Looked up to by kids. We can be a tad self-centered, never meaning to be.”

“All in the name of serving mankind?”

“Right. The grandiose big picture, not the intimate small picture. I wouldn’t want to be that way.”

“Of course not. What does Frank’s wife do?”

“Keeps him down to earth.”

“Sounds like . . . fun.”

“And then there’s . . . you know, sex.”

“Oh. I suppose that would be an issue for anyone who’s been celibate for a long time.”

“Right. We tend to be overly . . . intense.”

“Really?”

He nodded, which brought her cheek in contact with his cheek.

Matt led her back to their table before the heat of his hand had quite branded itself onto her taffeta-clad back.

How many years since her high school prom night? Twelve. Was it possible? Thirty-one looming? And just yesterday she’d been sweet, dumb sixteen, before high school kids had even thought of “friends with benefits.”

“You can dance on wood as well as sand,” she said approvingly as he pulled out her chair so she could gather the full skirt under herself and sit. Sometimes vintage was awkward.

A lot of times life was awkward.

Matt sat opposite her. The Crystal Phoenix avoided the usual flickering candle under glass on its table. Instead a Murano blown-glass phoenix spread its tail feathers in a series of fairy-size floating flames.

The flickering uplight made every man and woman look like a soft-spotlit movie star. Matt was a floating, glittering image of himself. Temple hoped she was too. No wrinkles. No worry, just radiant points of light.

The waiter wafted plates before them as if presenting canna lily leaves bearing manna from Fairyland. Divine scents lilted upward.

“How wonderful,” Temple said. “Chef Song has outdone himself.”

“Even Louie might approve,” Matt said, eyeing her.

Even Louie might approve . . . what? The menu? A delicate fish dish for her, medallions of beef for Matt? The two of them together, dining at Louie’s old stomping grounds, the Crystal Phoenix? The chef? The place? The atmosphere? The pheromones?

They were silent during dinner, every bite of which was . . . divine.

Temple patted her lips with the heavy linen napkin, thinking about when to refresh her pale lipstick, thinking about the beaded lipstick holder in her teeny-tiny purse on the tabletop. About whether to excuse herself and flee to the ladies’ room. Or to reapply her going-out mouth at the table, as etiquette said one could, in front of one’s escort.

Matt beat her to it by abstracting a small, black satin box from somewhere. It was almost as magical a manifestation as some paper bouquet from Max.

He held it under the flickering crystal gaze of the mythical bird that had died in flame and ashes and risen from them hard, diamond-bright, invincible. Reborn. New. Fresh. Real.

Temple took the box in her hand. Licked her lips.

Opened it.

Glanced away from the laserlike fire.

Lasers healed, lasers struck dead. Lasers dazzled.

“Matt.”

She finally focused past the blinding glitter. The bling. A ring of diamonds massed in the mechanically graceful assemblage of curves and angles that screamed Art Deco. Art Deckle. Not even a dead man could push himself between this view and her understanding of it. “Fred Leighton,” the inside of the satin lining declared in subtle letters. Estate jewelry. True vintage. Amazing beauty of shape and line, of time and history. Of understanding what called to her.

“This,” she said, “is truly Red Carpet bling. It’s exquisite. My God, I’m Julia Roberts!

“This is a ring,” he said. Corrected. “You’re you. It’s really two guard rings. It comes apart, see? The band is rubies, for . . . later. I saw it and saw you. That’s all.”

Temple was agape at the clever way the two halves of the ring separated to admit a band. A band of rubies for a wedding ring. What an exquisite thought, an exquisite execution, the epitome of every reason she loved vintage things, but Fred Leighton, jeweler to movie stars . . . that was way too much.

She said so.

“Listen. I’ve given triple that to African famine and Gulf Coast flood relief. You can wear it in good conscience.”

Of course he would have; that was why she’d always had to spur him into springing for the basic little comforts of American consumer life. But for her, he needed no encouragement. He went big.