Cat In An Alien X-Ray

He remained silent, a shadow in his eyes. Then he deliberately shook off the mood, like Louie unseating an invisible flea. “Here I am, neglecting Number One fiancée. I think I’ll switch to champagne. It’s certainly given you a bubbly glow.”

As they took a couple of steps toward the bar, Temple’s idle gaze encountered a fixed point, and she stopped moving. “What’s she doing here?”

He looked where she was staring. “Van von Rhine? She runs the joint.”

“Not Van, the woman with her, the hot blonde from the icy Alps. Van’s private school friend, from Switzerland. Funny, Max just spent a couple months in a coma and then on the run in … Switzer … land.”

Temple’s lower jaw remained frozen in position even as Matt frowned to identify the woman in question. Moving through the crowd to join the two women, what at first impression seemed a Fontana brother, was Max Kinsella.

When she turned to consult Matt, he was already looking at her.

“Isn’t that a shock?” she demanded. “I don’t know why he … why she … why they’re here. It’s a reception for Kit and Aldo. That woman surely doesn’t know them.”

“Max does,” Matt reminded her.

“If he remembers,” Temple pointed out. “Though everybody in Vegas knows the Fontana brothers, and Kit met … ah, Max met Kit—oh, ages ago.”

Temple had just remembered that her Christmas visit to Kit in Manhattan had ended with her aunt encouraging them to, er, reunite after the shock of Max’s sudden exit of a year before, followed by as sudden a return.

“He and the blond schoolmate seem to be an item,” Matt noted, unable to hide some smugness.

“That’s wonderful,” Temple said. “Max is creating new memories. He won’t be so alone.”

“Without you?”

“Without Gandolph.”

At that moment, Van took the blonde in hand and headed toward Temple and Matt while Max turned to be hailed by Aldo and Kit. Temple wondered how much he remembered of the Fontana brothers … and Kit … and that night in Manhattan.

“Temple, Matt,” Van said, “I’d like you to meet my finishing school friend, Revienne Schneider. I know, Temple, you’ve met in passing, but Revienne has a profession you, and particularly Matt, would find fascinating.”

And with that, Van glided off, her hostess job done and her perfectly smooth champagne-colored French twist disappearing into the clusters of shoulders making conversation islands in the room.

Now Temple, Matt, and Revienne formed a new, alien clump of three.

What had Van been thinking?

First of all, even with Temple wearing her favorite heels with the sweet and clever bows (the ’50s were all about bows), Revienne on her four-inch Louboutins bristling with cuffs and spikes and gladiator leather towered over her. Worse, like many tall women who boldly went for even taller, she was used to looking men in the eye about a foot above Temple’s sight line, which put Revienne on eye level with Matt.

So Temple was automatically out of the conversation. She hated that!

Apparently, Ravishing Revienne also knew Max. From where? And when?

And what kind of name was Revienne? Temple was reminded of a vintage French perfume, Je Reviens. It meant “I return.”

Boy, did that not bode well for Temple. She would have loved to equate Revienne with the similarly shod, overwhelmingly blond D movie actress Savannah Ashleigh, with whom Temple had crossed stilettos before … but that wasn’t fair.

Revienne’s hair was such a smooth blend of French vanilla and caramel, you could almost taste it. Even her aggressive shoes were the one runway touch in her ensemble, a silky summer suit even more meltingly luscious than one of the Fontana brothers’ ice cream numbers.

And … an exquisite wisp of designer scarf flirted with her neck and shoulders. Temple had an entire drawer devoted to discarded and gifted scarves, with which she could do nothing even remotely fashionable.

“I’ve heard your radio show and have become addicted,” Revienne was telling Matt. “You are such a brilliant and intuitive counselor. How can you relate so quickly to such an array of problems, having no personal contact with the clients?”

“I’m sorry if I kept you up late,” Matt said with a smile. “They’re ‘listeners,’ not clients. Maybe it’s because I heard confessions for many years as a priest at a parish that had a Latin Mass and used confessionals for the older people.”

“C’est vrai?” Revienne asked Temple in such apparent surprise that she needed confirmation, which was another churchly rite, Temple mused.

“Of course it’s true,” Temple said, glad she understood a few French expressions, “if Matt says it is. Are you surprised he heard confessions in an old-fashioned, uh, booth, or that he was a priest?”

“Both, I suppose. I’d taken you for a married couple.”

Temple and Matt exchanged a smile and he answered. “You’re a pretty good snap psychologist yourself, Ms. Schneider. We soon will be married.”