Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alphabet Endgame

“Well, they’re sponsoring a private fashion show and fitting for our out-of-town bridal party members in the bridal suite for two days before the wedding. Including tux fittings for all the men.”

“Fittings?”

“Yes, for keeps. Dad will never again be able to say he can’t go to a formal outing you want to attend because he doesn’t own a tux.”

“My goodness, they must be fond of you. Am I going to be meeting any more of Nicky Fontana’s Italian gigolo brothers?”

“Aunt Kit’s husband, Aldo, recovering bachelor. And, yes, assorted tones and flavors of Fontana brothers. All yummy.”

“Oh.” She looked pleased. “That Kit, snatching up a confirmed bachelor at her age in life. I’m glad she’s no longer living alone and single in Manhattan.”

Karen made it sound like a spinster’s circle of Hell.

Temple thought Fun, fun, fun!

“Temple. You didn’t forget Kit. Is she coming?”

“Fontana brothers assemble in a flock. So I thought Kit could be Matron of Honor.”

“ Matron .” Karen hooted. Sisterly rivalry showed its acerbic head. “She wouldn’t like that description.”

Temple didn’t know about that personally. “I’m thinking of lilac for her. But for your Mother of the Bride dress, there’s a shade of exquisite medium green that goes with our hair color.”

“Well, my and Kit’s hair color has faded.”

“Nothing about you is faded, Mom. The color I’m thinking of is close to jade green and is socko with the shade of the famous Tiffany blue gift box, a sort of soft turquoise, if you know what I mean?”

“I have seen a Tiffany gift box or two in my time, dear.”

Temple smiled. Matt’s mother would certainly be wearing the Virgin Mary blue topaz earrings he gave her. The women would recognize a tonal bond before they knew it. The subconscious was an awesome uniter.

“Now,” Karen mused, her eyes cast up, while Temple fidgeted and the Roman church burned. “I think you must ask one of your nephews to be ring bearer. Todd is six and adorable.”

“Louie is eight or so, and experienced.”

“None of your brothers have sons named Louis.”

“Louie is Midnight Louie. My roommate of the feline persuasion. He served as Ring Bearer when Matt’s widowed mother remarried here in Vegas.”

“But, Temple dear, using a cat as a Ring Bearer is just a joke.”

“So I should use a fidgeting six-year-old who is scratching his bum through the entire ceremony?”

“Well, at least Todd would not be switching his tail.”

“Speaking of that, I could use a flower girl.”

“Oh, oh, oh. Crescent, Tom’s girl, is seven and just precious, blonde curls, adorable in yellow with violet accents. Perhaps a dotted Swiss. No, organdy.”

“Oh, would you, Mom? Would you do her dress and a matching basket for petals? I’ll be wearing white, of course. You jade green, like leaves, and little Crescent’s yellow and Kit’s lilac will be the flower tones. Yellow goes so well with the gray tails and white tie the groom and groomsmen will wear, and Dad’s new designer black tux.”

“Well, of course.” Her mother’s eyes were already speculative, envisioning details. “I will do my best.”

“You’re always the best, Mom. After we sign off I can send you an image of my gown.”

Temple did as she’d promised and sat back with a sigh.

She did feel bad about leaving her mother out of this necessarily speedy wedding, but that was a Vegas specialty and seemed normal to Temple now.

Her computer tinged her.

Oh, my goodness, Temple , her mother’s email read. That is absolutely and uniquely “you”, and I now know my daughter is utterly grown up and her own self I could have never dreamed of when I held her as the tiniest of babies and for some reason named you Temple rather than Jane or Sue or Tessa, something ordinary.

Now, I would like to make one little suggestion. Ruffle-topped, white satin elbow gloves would be the perfect complement to the gown.

Temple glanced to the glove box on her desk. Ruffle-topped white satin elbow gloves.

That is the perfect last touch, Mom , she emailed back. You are the perfect Mom. See you soon. Love you!

15

Dumped by a Diva

Matt tried to think himself into the comfortable upholstered swivel chair at WCOO radio, the muffling earphones on his head, the glass walls of the booth a black, blanked-out image reflecting him, only the voices riding the airwaves, one on one, he and a caller, like Elvis, he’d never meet.

He felt a faint moisture at his hairline, realizing this moment was more important than any TV talk show gig, and maybe performing “live” and on camera wasn’t for him.

This would be the toughest audition for his vaunted step-up job, and nobody who counted in the network would see it. But he would know if he let any one of the major players down. He was like a judge. He had to be honest and fair, and make each and every one of them follow that path.

“That was so cool,” Mariah was saying as the front door opened and footsteps sounded in the hallway. “That wiggly effect on the soundboard,” Mariah’s voice continued. It had a pleasant mellow tone he hadn’t noticed when he both saw and heard her.

“The mic is your first and best friend,” Rafi’s signature baritone voice answered.

Right there Matt pegged why Mariah’s singing voice was so mature. She’d inherited it from both sides. There was nothing light and girlish about her singing already.

“Oh.” Now she was directing that slightly dismayed remark at Matt. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Rafi frowned behind her, not at Matt. “I thought your mother had errands to do this afternoon, or the session wouldn’t have run so long.” Rafi checked his cell phone screen, looking ready to bow out right now.

Matt now understood why Rafi, who had, only a week ago, physically extracted him from a mob nudie bar brawl with swift aplomb, was visibly itching to escape present company. To Rafi and Carmen, The Lie was always the invisible party pooper in the room and now Matt was in on it.

“Errands done,” Molina said, coming out from the kitchen. “Don’t run off, Rafi. Have some Dr Pepper. Good for the throat after a long vocal session, right?”

Nadir regarded Molina as if she were crazy, but took the offered bottle, as did Mariah, and Molina again ducked into the kitchen.

For once, the self-involved teen looked as ill at ease as her parents.

Her parents . Matt contemplated getting Mariah to make that leap in the course of an afternoon and felt like he was atop the Lake Mead dam attached to a bungee cord. Bungee cord. A doctored one had almost killed Max Kinsella. Matt decided he’d have to take the plunge too.

“Mariah—”

“She told you, didn’t she?” Mariah blurted. “I can tell. This is a setup.”

“What?” asked Rafi, pausing in sitting on the other chair flanking the couch.

Matt’s quick head shake “no” diverted him to the other side of the couch, next to Molina’s now empty place. Rafi, already well trained to house rules, leaned forward to put the Dr Pepper bottle on a coffee table coaster.

Matt and Mariah were now positioned in chairs opposite “the parents” sitting on the couch. A classic family confrontation arrangement.

Mariah was ignoring the adults to drink from the Dr Pepper bottle while slipping Matt nervous looks. She put the bottle on the coaster on the small end table between their two chairs. Matt mirrored the move.

He noticed Mariah’s fingernails were the short, rounded style he’d seen in TV ads, painted in the popular Goth-dark gel polishes He’d once described himself to Temple as “sixteen going on thirty”. Mariah was thirteen going on thirty.