Cat In An Alien X-Ray

She linked Temple’s arm through hers and led her on a stroll through the lavish indoor tropical gardens and water features of the Crystal Court cocktail lounge. Although this was a private reception in honor of Kit and Aldo Fontana’s return from a Lake Como honeymoon in Italy, a big and festive crowd thronged the Crystal Phoenix Hotel’s bar area. The soaring spotlighted entry wall was frosted-crystal sheened by a thin veil of falling water. Very bridal.

A life-size wedding cake topper couple posed in the center of the space. “Living” statues as pure white as Carrara marble had been introduced at the Venetian Hotel. The specialty mimes looked frozen in place, but moved infinitesimally, disconcerting the unwary in a whimsical, charming way.

“Adorable couple, me and Matt,” Temple repeated her aunt’s comment. “Them too.” She nodded at the statues. “And … I could say the same about you and Aldo.”

Kit smiled like the Persian who’d lapped up the ice cream. “We Carlson girls are just the bee’s knees. Luckily the genes weren’t weakened by your father, Mr. Barr.”

“Leave my poor father out of it, Kit. I hear you ‘Carlson girls’ have been chatting about me behind my back. Have you even told Mom you’re married now?”

“Hell no. She’d make such a fuss. Have you told her you’re engaged?”

“As a matter of fact,” Temple said with a virtuous air she could seldom assume, “yes.”

Kit grabbed her hand and sat them down on a white patent leather tufted bench with Lucite legs. It felt more like floating than sitting. “How’d she take it?”

“She was dubious until she learned the happy fiancé wasn’t Max.”

“Your mother recognizes a dangerous man when she sees him.”

“Wait’ll she sees Aldo.”

“I hope to postpone that day until Aldo condescends to grow a respectable gray hair or two. These Italians are slow to turn distinguished.”

“I hope ‘that day’ is at my wedding.”

“Then you’re going to do the deed in Minnesota?”

Temple sighed. “Maybe. Or Chicago. Or maybe there’s someplace ecumenical in between.”

“Iowa?”

Temple laughed. “Why not Wyoming, while you’re at it?”

“Wherever it is,” Kit said with a hug, “you’ll make a beautiful bride.”

That made Temple tear up a tad. “I’d better not desert my bridegroom-to-be. It’s really great to dress up and go out in Vegas together at an event that’s not so late he’ll have to rush off to the radio station.”

Temple jumped up and fluffed the full skirt of her ’50s vintage dress, now so “in” again. She and Kit strolled back to the main mingling area.

“Ah, bella.” Tall, dark, and handsome Aldo Fontana intercepted them and so equally offered his glance that it was impossible to tell which woman he’d called beautiful, presumably both.

That was the Fontana touch, diplomatic to the bone. Imagine the movie Godfather having ten nephews who were maître d’s at a five-star restaurant.

All the Fontana brothers were clichés: ridiculously tall, dark, and handsome. There were an incredible ten of them, here now mingling in suave social patterns to make guests feel welcome, whether it was steering a couple to the bar or kissing the ladies’ hands.

Matt, bearing a tall frosted glass, joined them. “A mini family reunion?” he asked, smiling at Kit.

“Don’t you look handsome,” Kit said, embracing him and brushing his cheek with a kiss. “Family privilege, right, Aldo?”

Aldo responded by kissing Temple’s left hand and winking at the engagement ring on it. “Family privilege, Matt.”

“You’ll all be pleased to know,” Temple said, “that Kit has informed my worried mother in Minnesota that I’m under the wing of a large Italian family while in Las Vegas. She was much relieved.”

“Then,” said Aldo with a brush of his palms that ended with a gentle clap, “my function in life has been more than met. May I sweep you away,” he asked Kit, “for a private family stroll among the camellias? I do have a lot of brothers.”

“Your mother and mine,” Matt told Temple after they moved on, “would have a lot in common. Worrying. How do we stop them?”

“We get married and convince them we’re grown-ups. If my mom knew that Uncle ‘Macho’ Mario’s roots are as firmly planted as a corpse in Vegas’s mob history, she’d be down here with the state police to pry me out of Vegas. Come to think of it, Chicago’s a more notorious mob town. She’ll pout when we settle down so close, but far, to her.”

Matt’s arm around her waist had tensed during her happy babble. Maybe she shouldn’t have had that champagne cocktail when they arrived.

“Don’t count your Chicagos,” he said, “before they put out a contract on me. Media kingpins are fickle.”

“It’s not like we didn’t totally blow the network bigwigs away. They were even talking about ‘doing something’ with me. We could be the hot new media couple of Michigan Avenue.”

“It could all fall through.”

“Anything could, I guess, Matt.”