Douglas, Nelson - 2Golden garland

"Tut-tut. Look in that ludicrously large tote bag of yours, Cinderella."

"Tote bag?"

Temple opened the bathroom door an inch. "Max," she said sweetly, "can you just hand in my tote bag? Thank you." Temple grabbed it and kicked the door shut. "What do you mean 'look'?" she demanded of the phone.

"Just look."

Temple pawed through the usual flotsam of her bag and felt something filmy snag on her fingernails. She dredged out a great deal of sheer black chiffon.

"Kit! What is this?"

"An example of a postmenopausal woman's optimism. Don't do anything in it I wouldn't do. I expect a full report whenever. Within the bounds of good taste, and close relatives, of course. Bye, dear. Sweet dreams."

The phone droned at her. Temple pulled and pulled and pulled black chiffon out of her bag until she felt like a magician doing the scarf trick. Well, Kit and she were the same size, and this certainly had to be better than second-best undies . . . and who knows what those European Mata Haris had worn just to the beauty parlor?

She peeked out a few minutes later, relieved to hear the homely drone of the television set on low. Only one small bedside lamp lit the room besides the eerie glow of the TV screen.

She ankled out, casual, aiming a comment at the man in the bed.

"It's all yours. The bathroom, I mean!"

Why did resuming a love affair after an interim feel so much like starting one all over again?

A hand stretched out from the bed. She mounted it, and this high, narrow, old-fashioned bedstead required mounting.

"Guess what's on?" Max's profile was directed toward the TV. How . . . domestic. How . . . easy.

"What's on?"

"Mary Tyler Moore reruns."

"Really? It must be weird to be an actor and see yourself as you were thirty years ago."

"Must be."

Max had one hand on the remote control, and one hand on her. Men! God bless 'em.

Temple snuggled down next to him, and sighed.

His free hand trailed through a stupendous excess of sheer black chiffon at her hip. "Must have caught something exotic in there."

"From the forties, probably."

"Forties noir."

"Exactly."

The remote control clicked, and the TV went black, forties noir black.

Temple woke up in the night, hearing the mechanical wail of an ambulance or a police car. For a moment she panicked, not recognizing the shape and shadows of the room. Everything was dark except for a blot of white shadow at the big old window. She reached out in the bedclothes, touched a figure, sleeping.

The white blot of window was a spotlight. Temple stretched in the comfortably rumpled covers, realized she was missing something, and finally found a heap of black chiffon on the floor.

She yawned.

The bathroom door was closed.

She stretched out an arm.

And stretched.

And stretched and found only empty bed linens.

Temple frowned for a moment, then relished her unexpected privacy. She felt wonderful, all over. Body, mind, soul. Like an unused instrument that had performed a very private concerto. In the muted daylight, the alien ring gleamed on her left hand. A band, winding like a road. A stone, glittering like a rainbow pond. Diamonds like dew. Everything was. . . like, groovy.

She bent over the bed's edge to fish up the fallen chiffon. Might as well see in daylight what this thing had looked like last night.

Max should be out of the bathroom soon. She didn't hear the shower spattering . . . She got up, wriggled into the nightgown and tiptoed to the bathroom door.

A small desk crouched against the wall beside the bathroom door. An oblong of stationery caught her eye. An oblong of written-upon stationery.

She stopped, braced her arms on the desk and read the bold, left-leaning script.

Temple darling,

The salutation stopped her heart. It could only lead to one thing.

I hate this, but the call came last night and you were dead asleep. Somethings happened in Las Vegas I need to look into right away. I thought of taking you with me, but remembered you and Louie may still have business at the advertising agency. I'll tell you everything as soon as you get back, and call you at your aunt's this afternoon. This isn't the way I planned to wake you up in the morning, believe me.

All my love, Max

"Max!" Temple repeated aloud, making a fist and hitting the paper.

On her white-knuckled hand, the broad gold ring looked like a weapon.

She relaxed her fingers. What else could he have done?

Max.

Chapter 39

The Billie Holiday Blues

"How did it go?" Kit wasted no time in greeting Temple at the door. She peered beyond her, hopefully, into the hall.

"Mixed reviews," Temple said shortly, barreling past her in the warm red coat and bunnie-cute earmuffs and gloves.

Inside, she ripped them off and tossed them on a chair.

"Mixed reviews?" Kit collapsed atop her discarded outerwear on the chair. "You surprise me. Max surprises me."

"Me too. Oh, the main event was fabulous. It's just that the encore was sadly lacking."

"Encore?"

"He's gone. Left last night. Sometime. I was sleeping. Called back to Vegas."

"A magician is on call?"

Temple cast her aunt a quelling look. "Oh, it's not his fault. I understand. It's just that it was a teeny bit anticlimatic, you might say." Her smile felt wan, even to her. "Thanks for the radical gown. I really needed that."

"But the performance was . . . adequate?"

"Auntie Kit, your best gown did not serve in vain, that I can assure you. I just like to wake up next to the man I slept with the night before. Like I said, it's not Max's fault. He has. . . obligations

"I went out with a fireman once. Don't laugh, I did. Sweet man, sexy man, but he did keep odd hours."

"Odd hours. That's the way to put it." Temple glanced down at her left hand. "My Christmas present."

"Oh, honey! That's gorgeous. And very promising."

Temple nodded. "You're right. I'm being immature. The evening was wonderful, the restaurant, the food, the hotel, Max. I needed every bit of it too." Temple leaned against the wall. "It all just happened so fast. My emotions feel like they've been on a roller coaster."

"I can understand that. How long since you and Max have been together?"

Temple calculated. "Almost ten months."

"Sounds like things went better than most people would expect after all that time."

"He's going to call this afternoon."

"But he won't be here for your party tonight?"

"No. What did you really think of him, Aunt Kit?"

"Oh, my. Don't ask the deprived. Of course, I've been smitten ever since you reported that he told you that going to bed again would resolve all your doubts. I do like a confident man. Did it?"

"Yes, and no."

"Hmm. You're wearing the ring."

"I loved him, and he loved me, but I don't know if we can work out what needs to be worked out."

"Past tense?"

"Past tense bleeding messily into present and future, especially now that we've tumbled into bed again. I can't really explain what stands between us, Kit. It's very serious, and not either one's fault. We're caught by past circumstances. Nobody to blame. But sad just the same. For now, there's hope. I guess that's what I should concentrate on."

Temple shrugged. "Do you want your, uh, thingamajiggy back?"

"It's your memory now. Keep it and wear it in good health."

"It's not wearing it that's so good for one's health, Aunt."

"Whatever," Kit said coyly, looking pleased.

The day would have been anticlimactic, like any morning after the night before, except that at 4 p.m. Kit's phone rang.

She dashed to get it, then stretched the cord as far as it would uncoil to check on Temple's location: brooding at the Manhattan cityscape for one of the last times this trip, a slick magazine lying open and unread on her lap.