Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  Matt turned off the engine. Turned to her. “It’s Alice’s restaurant. You can get anything you want.”

  Then he came around and opened the door. She stepped out onto sand.

  The car’s headlights revealed an expanse of water. The surface was so gently riffled by the wind that it resembled the tiny ridges of sand dunes in the uncertain light. Silk moire.

  Temple peered around for a source of light. There was none but the sickle moon and the shimmer of headlights on the water. And, if she turned around to look back, the distant ground-bound aurora that was Las Vegas.

  “Matt—?”

  “You remember. Isn’t this familiar?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “It’s a natural spring in the desert. Been here for centuries. That salt cedar tree, the giant weeping willowlike one there, is maybe five hundred years old.”

  “It’s spectacular, but—”

  But … Matt was leaning back into the car. Music started pouring into the empty desert night. “Sometimes When We Touch.”

  He came around the open door, carrying a white box. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

  Temple nodded. “Call me incomprehensible.”

  He took something out of the box and slid it around her left wrist. Scent exploded on the dry desert air, intense, sweet as syrup, yet amazingly delicate.

  A white moonflower blossomed on her arm. Three of them. Gardenias.

  “Matt. We did that prom night thing, way back months ago.”

  “That was you taking me to my high school prom, the one I never went to. This is me taking you to yours, the one you went to but never liked.”

  Temple brought the gardenias to her nose. Did any scent in the world pack such an intense emotional punch?

  “I had a prom night,” she said. “You didn’t.”

  “That’s the single nicest thing anyone ever did for me. Thought I’d return the favor.”

  “You don’t have to. I’m a veteran. Been there, done that.”

  “Not the right way. You asked why I bought the Crossfire. I bought it to take you to the prom.”

  “Me? Your car? Why?”

  “Don’t you remember? Curtis Dixstrom and his father’s dweeby Volvo station wagon?”

  “Oh, yeah. I told you that so long ago and you remember every detail? No, the most handsome popular guy in school didn’t ask me to the prom. Yes, I was humiliated going with some fourth-tier guy who wanted an excuse to get a lot closer to me than I ever did to him. But … that’s life. That’s high school. I’m ashamed I was ever so stupid and shallow. If I ran into some Mr. Hot Stuff Who Didn’t Ask Me today I’d be bored to tears in two minutes. I bet my actual date would be a lot more interesting. I grew up. He grew up. The guys and girls who had it all in high school never did. You don’t have to make up one damn thing to me.”

  “But I want to.”

  He’d bought a thirty-five-thousand-dollar car just to take her back on a sentimental journey! Should she just say no? Hell, no!

  “Oh. Well. The wrist corsage is—”

  “I remembered that dress didn’t allow for anything pinned onto it.”

  “So … gardenias. Thank you. I’ve always looked for a perfume that duplicated their scent but everything artificial overpowers reality.”

  “Overpowering reality. That’s what this is about.”

  Matt brought out a crystal plate of hors d’œuvres, an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne, and two crystal flutes.

  Temple recognized the products of the best caterer in town.

  “Um, this is a big cut above the prom buffet table of Ritz Crackers and Cheese Whiz and seriously nonalcoholic punch.”

  “The past can be improved upon; that’s what this is all about. Have a seat.”

  Just as Temple was about to ask where, he picked her up by the purple taffeta waist and set her atop the Crossfire’s warm hood.

  “A rough road trip out into the deep desert,” she observed. “Serving as an impromptu buffet table. That’s a heck of a way to treat an expensive new car, Devine.”

  He sat on the other side of the hood, so they were facing in opposite directions, like on those old Victorian seating pieces. Courting sofas.

  She held her flute up for a bubbly infusion. The music on the CD pulsed softly.

  “Won’t the battery die?”

  “I put the headlights on parking. They’ll last for hours. Long enough, I hope.”

  Long enough for what?

  But the shrimp and salmon and cream cheese and all the chilled appetizers were a piquant contrast with the thick soupy warm desert air. And the dry champagne went down like very sophisticated Sprite.

  Temple was swinging her feet against the front tire to the rhythm of Rod Stewart’s romantic anthem “The Rhythm of My Heart.”

  “Great soundtrack,” she said when the edge was off her hunger and the champagne flute was on its third refill. “To whom do we owe the pleasure?”

  “Ambrosia of WCOO-AM.”

  “Your boss? The Queen of Late Nite Music to Sigh By?”

  “Yeah. I asked her for the appropriate background music. Some of it’s thirteen years old and some of it’s today.”

  “And all of it’s classic.” Temple set her flute on the Crossfire hood, mellow enough not to worry about maltreating a hot car.

  “Shall we dance?” Matt asked.

  She was ready to jump off to the ground herself but he was there to catch her, and before you could say “Canadian Sunset” they were slow dancing, swaying to the music.

  No. That was on the radio. The car CD, rather.

  Temple’s corsage-bearing left hand (with Max’s emerald ring on the middle, not the third, finger) was resting on Matt’s shoulder. She and Max had danced around the marriage question a few times, but that was two years ago, when their romance was as fresh as a daisy and as hot as a hibiscus and anything seemed possible. Not lately. Max was married to the mob lately. The counterterrorism mob. Danger was his sole dancing partner. Temple had defended him to Molina and every other corner, excused his absences to herself, accepted his apologies, and understood and understood and understood until she took the word for her middle name.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t see or touch the past. Only the present. She could see only Matt. Feel only him. And nothing about that seemed wrong, only absolutely, infectiously, incontestably right.

  The gardenia scent enveloped her, enveloped him. It swirled on the dry night air like a drug.

  Something brushed her temple. An insect. No. Someone’s lips.

  Her cheek. Her chin. Her lips.

  They were kissing. And kissing. Separating and touching. Tilted this way. That way. Again. Scent and sound. Feet stepping together. Apart. Lips together apart. Always new. Testing. Tasting. Slow dancing on the desert. Surprise and collusion. Collaboration in rhythm. No missteps. Perfect harmony.

  Slow dancing.

  Just me …

  And my …

  He lifted her up on top of the car hood again. Better.

  Liquid gardenia moonlight. Radio at the midnight hour.

  Temple knew better. But she couldn’t think of a better way to be. Matt matched her. Motion for motion. Surrender for surrender. She thought of hovering humming birds darting at blossoms. So swift. so graceful in their elegant hunger.

  Separation. Intermission. When it came, it seemed unnatural.

  “I’ve thought about it,” Matt whispered.

  Whispering in a desert was ludicrous but it was the only appropriate response to this infinitely delicate, devastating situation.

  “I want it to go fast. I want it to go slow.”

  Seconded. Jimmy Buffet was singing about a slow boat to China. He knew sailing ships.

  “I decided slow.”

  “Slow,” she repeated. Dutifully. Running a very slow tongue tip along his upper lip.

  And she had to wear this balloon of a dress meant to keep her from feeling anything below the waist. That was then, this was now.


  She pushed her upper teeth into his lower lip and felt his hands convulse on her waist.

  A finger, or thumb, ran down the long zipper at the back.

  Desert air struck her spine with the shock of hot water.

  His hand was hotter.

  “Slow,” he said.

  Oh, yes. Oh, no. Vive la difference!

  “So,” she said, remembering certain concerns, very remote. “What about your religious whatever?”

  He let them pull apart.

  “I am not going to mention you in confession.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  “No. I’m serious. I won’t deny what happens with us. But—”

  But. Always but. Temple opened her eyes. She was staring up at a lot more stars than she’d ever glimpsed in the overlit city she called home. Because Matt’s hair was brushing her cheek, and his lips were on her throat, her shoulder, her small claim to cleavage.

  “So I’ve figured it out,” he said, lifting his face to hers.

  She breathed softly onto his mouth. “How? You still can’t sleep with anyone outside of marriage.”

  “We get married.”

  “Married?” That snapped her out of Foreplay 101.

  “Yes. Civilly. Electra could do it. Would love to. I finally realized: this is Nevada. People marry instantly here. If you’re not satisfied—”

  “Shut your mouth. On me.”

  “We can divorce.”

  “Divorce?”

  “Or … if not, we marry again. Church ceremony. Catholic. Unitarians are easy when it comes to ecumenical. In the Twin Cities or Chicago or Milwaukee halfway in between. White gown, ring bearer, relatives, everything.”

  “You’d marry me civilly first so I can have a test run?”

  “Right. No strings, no obligation. You said modern women needed free samples. Of sexual compatibility, I assume. I can’t blame them. I am something of a freak.”

  “Freaking nuts. In a very sweet way.”

  And having said the word sweet, Temple needed to taste it again.

  “What about your Catholic conscience?” she asked finally.

  “We’d be married in the eyes of the law. I think I can fudge a bit. I spent so many years not fudging.”

  “Matt.” She pushed him away. That was against her religion, which was easy, he said, but she pushed him away with a surge of self-control.

  “I’m on the pill. That’s against your religion, right?”

  “Right. But your religion isn’t my religion. I suppose in the name of ecumenical tolerance … You’re on the pill?”

  This appeared to give him either pause or an infusion of fresh motivation.

  “We have a lot of issues, Matt. Children. Like I may not be ready. Or … not.”

  “I may never be ready. People work that out. Forget the this or that. That’s what had me all screwed up. You want to be my mother and father in thirty-some years? Afraid to face each other because they can’t admit that what they had was lost? That it was really something?”

  “You want to marry a bottle blonde?”

  “I want to marry you, whatever shade you’re wearing.”

  “Then this is a proposal.”

  He thought for a moment. “No, this is a free trial offer. A proposal would be much better than this.”

  “Can’t believe it could be,” she said, curling her fingers into the lapels of his jacket.

  That ended discussions for a while.

  Temple’s heart was beating like the Rod Stewart-advertised drum but her mind was racing too, from the moon to the dizzying scent on her wrist that blended with the champagne and the music into an altered state.

  To a low-profile emerald ring on her hand and a wrench of regret in her heart.

  To a certain knowledge that there was no going back from here, no slipping away into separate Edens.

  To a growing realization that she didn’t want to go back from here. She wanted to go forward.

  She so much wanted to go forward that it would have taken one finger pushing on the delicate necklace so near the pulse in her throat and she’d have been lying back on the Crossfire hood.

  Maybe he knew that. Maybe that was what he meant by going slow (although it might be what she considered going crazy).

  His parents had followed the moment and the magic and couldn’t bear to face each other, and perhaps him, now.

  Not for them.

  They necked for another extremely overheated ten minutes, then packed up their salt-cedar picnic.

  And left.

  Chapter 61

  The World His Oyster

  I am waiting up for my Miss Temple, my tail thumping with impatience. It is not right for a roommate to announce a midnight return from a social engagement and then to be three hours late!

  Normally, I am content to let others come and go at their pleasure and their leisure, since I do not want anyone dictating hours to me.

  However, time and again I have proved to be my Miss Temple’s muscle. Although I know Mr. Matt Devine to be such a straight arrow that he could aim his fancy new car at the town of Reno hundreds of miles to the north and hit it dead on, I have to wonder what he could be doing to keep my roomie up so late?

  Could it be a breakdown of the Crossfire? Flat tire? Gas tank leak? An attempted hijacking? Kidnapping? Encounter with terrorists? UFOs?

  Perhaps I have become a teensy bit too attached to my Miss Temple.

  I should have hitchhiked a ride in the Crossfire. Then I would not be worrying now. I pace like a Big Cat. Hey! I am a Big Cat.

  I chew my nails. I will certainly raise a ruckus when the truants come home safe and sound at—I eye the clock on the VCR. Three-thirty! What are they thinking of? Certainly not me!

  But … now I hear voices. In the short hallway leading to our domicile.

  Very low voices. Nice of them to worry about not keeping anyone up when I have been wearing out my pads with pacing!

  A key in the door. I go to sit by it, assuming a stern, accusing posture. She could have left a note.

  The door swings open a hair but no further.

  I still hear murmurs.

  I insert my head silently into the opening, assuming a put-upon look. I have not had a treat spooned over my Free-to-be-Feline since we left for the Teen Queen Castle. I am hungry!

  My Miss Temple is leaning against the door frame with her hands braced behind her like she has all the time in the world. She looks half asleep. Correction: she looks like she is half dreaming.

  Mr. Matt has leaned a hand on the doorjamb above her head. At least he is not neglecting her.

  Miss Temple jams the toe of her purple silk sandal into the wooden hall floor, looking down. He is looking down on her shockingly blonde head.

  “You could come in,” she says, a strange slow, reluctant, warm, inviting tone in her voice, like she means it and is afraid she does mean it.

  No! I am waiting impatiently for a long-delayed spread of oysters and shrimp over my Free-to-be-Feline! Enough palaver!

  Apparently, Mr. Matt agrees, for he drops his hand from the door frame and catches her hands tight behind her back and … well, his other hand lifts up her face and he does something totally unfeline and quite unfit for the youthful eyes of my species.

  It is a good thing I have been around humans during mating season, for I shut my eyes in time to avoid witnessing something we would all prefer that I did not.

  And then my Miss Temple is in the room at last, a silly sort of shawl trailing off of one shoulder, bringing with her a suffocating floral scent as well as the dreamy attitude.

  The door is closed and we are alone at last! I howl my anxiety and indignation.

  “Louie! So glad you made it home safe,” she says.

  So I could say.

  “I will get you something,” she adds.

  But she doesn’t. She turns back to the closed door and presses against it. Almost pulls it open again. Stops. Paces in the tiny hall. Goes to
the living room and picks up her cell phone. Holds it to her mouth as if it were a flower.

  Speaking of which, I wish she’d ditch the wrist corsage, which I have determined is the source of the noxiously sweet odor. I have had enough of them in this case.

  She paces some more. Counts to fifty under her breath, then dials a number. And listens. And paces. And listens.

  “What?” she demands of the room in general. “He has to be there by now!” Pacing.

  And I thought my species had that down.

  She kicks off the high heels. And paces some more. And then redials.

  She stops suddenly to regard me as if seeing me for the first time. But not to proffer food or even a welcoming caress.

  “Cold shower?” she asks me.

  She hurls the cell phone to the sofa. Why is she mad?

  She is like, really angry.

  She retrieves the phone and hits the redial button again.

  People are so predictable with their toys. I suppose it is somewhat entertaining to watch them cavort with technology.

  Then she stares at me again and bends down to swoop me up in her arms.

  First of all, I do not “swoop.”

  Second of all, I weight almost twenty pounds so I am quite a bundle of bones for her to hoist.

  Third of all, she is wearing this dress with only a halter top, so I have nothing but warm bare flesh to wrap my legs around. Ick! It takes all my considerable self-control to keep from latching on to her with my shiv tips.

  Perhaps that is why she has goose bumps on her arms.

  She carries me to the French doors leading to her petite balcony, opens one, and walks out into the finally cooling night.

  Below us lies the serene blue rectangle of the pool and, on the other side, the parking lot.

  She gazes out, idly stroking my chin and throat.

  All right. This is better. I think about rewarding her diligence with a slight purr.

  Suddenly, she stiffens. All over. Her hand on my throat almost throttles me.

  I look down to see that Mr. Matt has strolled out to the pool. He is far more clothed than usual in that area, and he too begins pacing!

  My Miss Temple’s grip tightens.

  Mr. Matt sits on one of the lounge chairs and proceeds to remove his shoes and stockings! Well, I have always felt that humans were way overdressed. He looks like Tom Sawyer by the riverbank, I think, having lounged on a lot of library books in my time. (One does pick up things.)