Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

“Worse than we can imagine. Look. We arrive. We chitchat, we idly mention our significant others. . . . ”

“Nothing ‘idly’ about that for me. They’re sure to think I’m still being hoodwinked by that rat, Max.”

“Are you?”

“Only when I stop to think about it.”

“Oh, Temple,” Kit said, squeezing her hand. “I’m sure he would never have left you if he’d had a choice.”

“You mean dead or alive?”

“I mean dead or alive. But you’d never leave Matt standing forever in the wings, waiting for an interrogation by your parents, would you? They can be soooo Midwestern.”

“So can we. Sometimes. Let’s go do it. Maybe we can make them feel guilty for a change.”

“Excellent plan. We are women of the world.”

“We live in Manhattan and Vegas. They live in the Grain Belt.”

“We drink martinis and absinthe, they drink—”

“Absinthe?” Temple asked. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“It was banned, but one or two brands are now allowed on sale, and I also do smoke the occasional cigar.”

“No!”

“That’s very hot in Manhattan. Cigar bars. A girl has to adapt.”

“Let’s adapt our way into the worst shock and awesome disapproval Karen and Roger Barr can deliver.”

“Right.” Kit linked arms with Temple in a Yellow Brick Road sort of way. “Off we go.”

Of course, Nicky and Van had seen to it that the Barr party had the best table in the house, overlooking the Strip shooting due north far below on a shimmer of glitter and neon and fairy dust.

Temple was wearing her solid Austrian crystal pumps with a black cat on the heels with a silver knit two-piece suit. Kit was electric in a teal satin dressy suit.

Temple choked when she saw them sitting at the table, eyeing the Strip, Dad in a navy sport coat, Mom in a lightweight blazer.

“Just think American Gothic,” Kit whispered, tightening her grip on Temple’s hand.

Temple had to laugh. She hadn’t seen her parents since leaving Minneapolis with Max to come to Las Vegas more than two years ago. She’d left under a blue-black cloud of parental skepticism and dismay, but she was almost nine years past twenty-one and had the right to follow her heart.

They surprised the Barrs, who turned to see them standing there, smiling, thanks to Kit’s little joke.

Karen gave a little cry and stood up to hug Temple. “Your hair! It’s. . . faded. But otherwise, of course, you look wonderful.”

“A cosmetological accident,” Temple murmured, not mentioning she liked the lighter strawberry blond-red so much she might keep it. An engaged woman had a right to change her hair color.

Her dad gave her the awkward fatherly hug perfected in the Midwest for occasions from weddings to funerals. Next it was Kit’s turn to be embraced by Karen and shake hands with Roger.

“This is a fairly subdued hotel,” Karen said after they’d all seated themselves again. First, Temple and Kit insisted the Barrs keep their seats facing the view. They’d been set on giving them up. “For Las Vegas.”

“It’s a client of mine,” Temple said.

Her mother was gazing at the padded closed menu as if it needed dusting. “That’s nice, dear. Roger, I hope you brought your bifocals, this menu is as thick as a phone book.”

“I know what I want,” he said, pushing the glasses in question up his nose. “I always get a New York strip steak and a baked potato.”

Kit and Temple exchanged agonized teenage glances. Too bad they were both so far past the teen years.

Temple eyed her mother. She wore a figured silk blouse and rose slacks under the beige blazer. Her father wore a sport coat and long-sleeve shirt, no tie. Their clothes were perfectly suitable for a fine restaurant in casual Las Vegas.

Why, then, did they look so stuffed shirt?

“I see,” Temple’s mother said, “you’ve opted for going barelegged.”

“It’s always hot here, outside at least, and I hate pantyhose. And this is a desert climate. . . .” Templelet her apologia trickle off.

“Me too,” Kit said. Karen eyed her over the menu. “I never wear hose in Las Vegas. This is the West.”

“But in Manhattan,” Karen began.

“Oh, in Manhattan. Yes, of course. All the time. Sliding into the hot, broken-down cab seats, out of the hot, broken-down cab seats; panty hose, every second. Racing crosstown on the crowded sidewalks, all of us women in panty hose. Every minute.”

“You chose to live there,” Karen said. “What is this cerviche stuff?”

“Spanish,” Temple said hastily. “Undercooked and overex-pensive. Not that we have to worry. Our meal is on the house.” She didn’t add that it was raw fish in lime or lemon juice. Min-nesotans didn’t eat anything but vegetables raw.

Her father frowned over his glasses frames. “We’re perfectly capable of paying.”

“I have a permanent free pass to all the Phoenix’s restaurants.”

“Food is very cheap here, Roger,” Karen explained. “They practically give it away.”

Temple took a deep, deep breath. Not these high-end days. A dinner for four here could run close to three hundred dollars. If they had cocktails and wine with the meal, it would be more. Temple desperately wanted cocktails and wine with the meal.