Cat in a White Tie and Tails

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  Matt was a born negotiator, and he was really liking this turn of events.

  Temple relaxed, swinging her heels against the banquette bottom. Her feet didn’t reach the floor, as usual, but in this situation, nobody could see that. She slipped her hose-clad feet out of the heels. Hated pantyhose! However, important meal dates at fancy restaurants in a habitually colder climate like Chicago required sacrifice.

  She could see Matt looked more like his father, but he thought more like his uncle.

  When the waiter arrived, Philip cut to the chase, ordering Tia Marias and coffee for everyone, with a raise of his prominent eyebrows for any order modifications. All nodded cooperatively, and Matt’s faint smile expanded.

  “Sorry to bust in on you folks, and Jon. I figure you were discussing Mira, and that’s one topic I can’t leave to others, even if she can pretty much leave me hanging in limbo.”

  Matt leaned forward. “How did you figure out you two had my mother in common?”

  Jon spoke first. “Philip isn’t one to hold back. When he started seeing Mira, he brought a photo of them taken at the Polandia restaurant where they met to a family gathering. I recognized her from the time you tried to have us meet at a Chicago bar … Matt.”

  Temple saw Jon was still unsure how to relate to his long-lost son.

  “So you told Philip?” Matt asked his dad.

  “No. It looked like a friendly dinner, nothing more.”

  “But, Jon,” Temple asked, “if you were keeping Philip in the dark, how did Mira discover you two were related?”

  “Oh, boy.” Philip leaned back as the coffee cups and tiny liqueur glasses were presented. After the clinking and stirring subsided, he said. “The children’s charity fund we … I sponsor a big fund-raiser. Got five seconds on the local nightly news, Jon and I center-screen with Angelina Jolie. Everybody recognized us on the street after that.”

  Matt got the picture too. “So my mother did a meltdown and simply refused to see you anymore.”

  Philip nodded. His white hair was thick but receding, unlike Jon’s blond thatch. Oddly, that gave Philip’s face a thinner, more youthful look.

  “Not right away,” Philip said. “It’s the darnest thing. If I look back, I can see she became a bit more … guarded after that event. But she didn’t cut me off at the knees and refuse to see me or take my calls until a few days after that. A delayed reaction, maybe. She’d had time to think about the ramifications, which are damn awkward, but that’s no way to live when you’ve been around as long as we three. Not many second chances going to be dealt us at our age.”

  Matt exchanged a significant look with Temple. He leaned even farther forward. “What are your intentions toward my mother?’

  “Why, to marry her, you impudent pup,” Philip said with a laugh. “This is sounding like a Victorian novel.”

  “Then,” Matt said, “I have no objection and it’s basically only between you three. It’s not that I don’t understand ‘modern’ living-together arrangements, Philip, especially between older couples and maybe with big money in the family, but marriage means a lot to my mother. I think you two guys are uniquely liable to understand why, and why she deserves it. Period.”

  In the silence, the brothers looked down and nodded their heads.

  “Good,” Matt said. “There’s no need for you to share what happened thirty-five years ago with any of your family members. Or,” he told Jon, “to mess with family inheritances out of a sense of guilt. Money never makes things better, it just buys lawyers boats. Mira is a widow with a son from a previous marriage. I even have a different surname. Book closed. If Mom does marry Philip, she’ll be well provided for without Jon having anything to do with it.”

  Jon’s head was still lowered, but now he shook it. Not in disagreement, Temple saw, but with both gratitude and regret for Matt’s generous dismissal of the past and all its pain.

  “I’d be proud,” Jon mumbled, “to introduce you as my son.”

  “But you don’t need to,” Matt said, “and I don’t need that either. The best gift we could give my mother is a discreet, happy ending. Now,” he added, “if the brothers Winslow will allow Temple and me to escape to have some time to anticipate another stressful dinner date with network executives, I’ll leave you two with a three-step program.

  “Jon and Philip. Talk it all out until you’re sick of your own memories, grief, uncertainty, and guilt. Then, Philip, call my mother. Her withdrawal had thirty percent to do with the brothers thing and seventy percent with a ‘hidden planet’ in her life even I didn’t know about. Let that go. Last, she needs to meet with Jon so all of you can be sure that her love for Philip is unshakable.”

  “Wait.” Philip put a hand on Matt’s forearm. “You say she loves me?”

  “Yes, but we all need to make sure she can put that Romeo and Juliet thing behind her.

  “Then…,” Matt said.

  The brothers were sliding out of the banquette to make way for Matt and Temple to exit, a mutual expression of dumbfounded hope on their faces. Now they looked like brothers. Temple jammed her feet back in the high heels and prepared to scoot out.

  “Then, what?” Jon asked.

  “Someone call me in Vegas and let me know what happens. Nice to meet you. Thanks for lunch.” Matt handed out two business cards and took Temple’s elbow to head for the exit.

  She was still breathless as they waited for the elevator to the street level. “Wow. Mr. CEO of reconciliation,” Temple said. “That was … like a takeover bid, Matt.”

  “I knew it would be all right the moment I saw Philip.”

  “He’s a pretty likable guy.”

  “That’s not it,” Matt said. “He doesn’t look anything like his brother.”

  Temple gazed at him blankly for a few moments.

  “Oh. You mean your mother didn’t fall for the family resemblance, but the real man.”

  Matt produced a Cheshire cat grin. “Smart girl. You and her.”

  * * *

  “Our last night in utter Luxe coming up in about six hours,” Temple announce lazily, staring up at the ceiling, which was bordered by white enameled decorative molding on a glossy white surface that discreetly reflected them in bed.

  It was not so discreet that it didn’t reveal He and She in the altogether with a tangled sheet in the general vicinity and a big black blot at the foot of the huge mattress.

  “We look like Hollywood stars from the bedroom-glamour thirties on the Big White Set,” Temple said, stretching luxuriously. “I feel so Jean Harlow. Bring on the satin sheets tonight! Do you think room service will accommodate us?”

  “We just acted like that,” Matt said, rolling over to replace the Big White Ceiling in her view. “We don’t need satin sheets, and we’re running way behind schedule.”

  Temple put her hands on his jaws and smiled into his eyes. “You were just so hot, the way you manhandled the situation with the older, richer, guiltier guys. Prince Valiant, only blond. Your mother could not have had a better champion and I could not have been prouder. I love you.”

  Well, that comment didn’t exactly make up for any lost time on the getting-ready front, and Louie was forced to flee to the floor again.

  * * *

  “Dinner.” Temple groaned as they were dressing and duding up for the dinner with the “network people” forty minutes later. “Can one actually tire of five-star food? I crave a simple Happy Meal.”

  Temple turned from the suite’s full-length bedroom mirror. “Does this look sufficiently enough like what these guys’ wives would wear?”

  Matt peeked in, topless, from the bathroom clasping a buzzing electric razor. “I’m no expert, but that must be an exquisitely expensive suit.”

  He eyed the short pale gold silk dress under a bolero jacket with glitz-dusted cuffs.

  Temple shimmied her shoulders twice and spun to show off the subtle glitter woven into the outfit’s classic Coco Chanel lines. “I figured your possible future bo
sses would notice. St. John’s knit.”

  “Yeah? I don’t think any saint designed that. It’s like you’re wearing liquid Karo syrup on the way to a mud-wrestling match.”

  She laughed. “Glad you noticed. Sophisticated slink. Courtesy of the Grand Bahama Mama resale shop on Charleston in Vegas.”

  “I can buy you upscale business clothes.”

  “No way. Recycling is virtuously ‘green.’ The Gilmore Girls TV show mother/grandmother often wore St. John knits. All the male stars’ rich-bitch mothers on TV sitcoms do. Must be because there are so many thirty-something male scriptwriters and so many unemployed skinny older actresses.”

  “Huh?” Matt shrugged too. “That’s a secret code I’ll never crack, but I did visit a very not-resale shop on Michigan Avenue on my last trip here.”

  He fished a small blue box from the side pocket of his Pat Sajak–stylish suit.

  “Tiffany?” Temple accepted it with raised eyebrows. Inside lay a delicate web of diamond-dewed rubies on blue velvet.

  “Oh.” She rushed to the mirror to insert the neck-brushing earrings. They must have cost a couple months of her salary from the Crystal Phoenix. “They match my engagement ring, but, Matt, I wear my hair longer now. That’s why I only use little gold studs occasionally to keep the piercings open. No one will ever see them unless I put my hair up.”

  She fluffed her shoulder-brushing strawberry red curls to show him.

  He came up behind her, nudged the obscuring hair out of the way, performed CPR on her earlobes and earrings. “I will. That’s the way I want it. I might catch a glimpse now and then, but no one else will know.”

  “Oooh,” she said, turning to face him. “That is super sexy.”

  “So you’re not going to complain about the expense?”

  “Not since it’s so deliciously private. When you get to the matching navel ring, we’ll see.”

  He did not object to the threat.

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll let you count the ways again later.”

  They paused to enjoy a mutual smile even though they needed to rush.

  Temple could also count the ways this trip was so important for Matt, and the ways it had almost been jinxed. First, the ghastly Louie incident, then the unsettling revelations about his stepfather. Then meeting his mother’s brotherly beau. Events seemed designed to distract Matt from his amazing career opportunity. Temple had no trouble in deciding her role. She was here to totally take his mind off the negative and accent the positive for the rest of the trip.

  “You are so going commit even more mortal sin when we get back here tonight,” she threatened with all her heart. That ought to take his mind off the negative. Meanwhile, she had to play the good little wife-to-be, but she had no issues with that. Temple understood perfectly that when it came to a media career, a significant other could be an asset but was usually viewed as a possible detriment.

  * * *

  The Michigan Avenue restaurant stunned diners with soaring ceilings and blue-velvet banquettes amid a stark black-and-white décor. Matt and Temple were ushered to a private dining area that nonetheless featured a curved banquette, and a private bar for standing drinks and introductions.

  Their entrance caused a flattering break in the chitchat as all eyes turned their way.

  No problem. Temple was here to slay network dragons for her man. Super PR Woman had brought a ’40s envelope purse bristling with golden spangles. She could tuck it under one arm to keep both hands free for cocktail-holding and hand shaking.

  Her literally killer French shoes slayed her aching arches—’70s Charles Jourdan heels hosted two sets of unseen but sincerely felt Dr. Scholle’s cushioned inserts. A slight platform from the period put her on an easy interaction level with taller men and women, who were usually in the majority.

  She mingled generously, sipped stingily, chatted. She wondered if she could get used to a life of this.

  Scents of expensive perfumes and cologne vied with the costly waft of world-class whiskeys and gins.

  The other guests were older but so well-kept, both men and women, that Temple expected to see a manicurist and airbrush makeup artist hovering on the fringes and available for touch-ups.

  At last the man with the most distinguished wings of silver hair at his temples suggested they sit. Temple and Matt ended up shuffling on the sticky velvet banquette to the back seats of the huge horseshoe, ranks of three wives on Temple’s side and three execs on his.

  She felt a bit like an invitee to a feast hosted by Genghis Khan. They’d been “cut from the herd” and would each be given a good going-over by the jury of their own gender.

  Matt leaned to whisper in her ear as they unfurled their origami napkins. “Courage.”

  “Love your dinner suit, Miss Barr,” the glossily groomed woman on Temple’s left leaned in to say. “Your fiancé is instant Ben and Jerry’s Karamel Sutra on a stick.”

  Temple shot her an admonishing look.

  “You’ll have to get used to that reaction, dear. Media is brutal today. Crazed fans rule the air waves and the Internet.”

  Her apparent husband across the way leaned in. “Miss Barr has her own media appeal. Your Zoe Chloe Ozone profile and following numbers on Twitter were quite a pleasant surprise. Don’t be so shocked. We’re looking for multiple platforms today. Even multiple personalities. That you could invent such a zany Internet persona on a whim is quite intriguing.”

  “I was doing undercover investigative work to protect a vulnerable teen on that reality TV show,” Temple said, trying not to sound huffy.

  “Better and better.” The man eyed his wife. “Daughter of Dr. Phil. Daphne, please interrogate Miss Barr on her fascinating online sidelines. And ask her about the cat.”

  “The cat?” Daphne beamed. “I have a bichon frise I adore.”

  Temple couldn’t resist saying, “Oh, I’ve been considering that haircut myself. Would you mind giving me the name of your stylist?”

  Daphne bristled, then snapped, “Fifi’s Fashionable Fursians.” Her narrowed eyes studied Temple. “You were just kidding.”

  “Yes, but now I know the name of the primo pet groomer in Chicago. You know, I’m surprised that the reality TV craze hasn’t gotten to animal companions and their service industry.”

  Daphne blinked her false eyelashes. “That’s not a bad idea. Care to come up with a concept for my husband to kick around?”

  Temple was thinking she’d probably discover she’d rather kick the network veeps around.

  Did she have the makings of a docile corporate wife?

  Probably not.

  Could she rejoice in Matt’s success and reinvent herself in some interesting and fulfilling way?

  Definitely.

  Could Midnight Louie handle a big rough-and-tumble city like Chicago?

  No contest.

  Chapter 28

  The Post-Midnight Hour

  “You’re a regular human fly,” Rafi Nadir said, hanging over the Bull’s rail to watch Max inch along the ship’s sides to the prow.

  The night was dark and the moon was yellow and it reflected—along with the Strip neon—in the otherwise dark and silent artificial cove.

  Before they’d started the assault on the deserted ship mock-up, they’d come up with a good excuse for being here.

  “If anybody challenges our presence,” Rafi had told Max, “I can say you’re a rigging expert checking out an equipment problem with the last show.”

  “I really am one of those.” Max had grinned. “Darn. I could do a lot of grunt jobs in this town now that I have no career as a headlining magician.”

  “You’ve got the guts for high-wire work, I can swear to that. Your Neon Nightmare crash was … ‘Cirque du Soleil: Suicide.’”

  “It was attempted homicide,” Max said, “and believe that I take that personally.”

  Now, it was attempted interference with a major Vegas hotel’s prize attraction, and that would be taken
personally by some very big powers, including law enforcement.

  Max took a deep breath. He paused, having used his legs and feet—and toes—more than he had in months and feeling it. He’d commandeered some stage rigging to attach a rope to his waist, but doing a “Dracula climbing down the castle walls face first” act was no longer second nature.

  Max would rather be compared to the master vampire than a human fly, but he had to roll with what meager audience he had these days.

  “Thugs didn’t do this,” he said softly. His baritone voice carried well around water. “Muscle is required but doesn’t make up for dexterity and skill. Could you lower a trussed body over the prow?”

  Rafi shuffled to the ship’s pointed front and leaned over the gilded gingerbread decoration applied to the exterior.

  “Yeah, but it would hang straight down. Unless you got the guy rocking back and forth like a pendulum, it’d be hard to snug him up against the naked lady.”

  “That’s what they did, then.” Max’s questing hand had found enough niches in the elaborate façade to work himself under the figurehead, face-to-face with … considerable frontage.

  “Look,” Rafi said. His voice sounded way too close.

  Max looked up to see Rafi perching on the mermaid’s head with its carved ripples of flowing hair. Rafi was dangling a prop trunk dripping faux jewels from the deck by a rope. It spun and swung, threatening to swing right into Max’s head.

  “Three guys,” Rafi went on, whispering. “One on each side of the prow with ropes, one above to lower the corpse-to-be. Yeah? Right?”

  Max grunted an affirmative. Working under a slanted surface, no matter how strong or fit you were, was the hardest position to maintain possible. He grabbed the swaying trunk by the rope around its middle and threaded another dangling piece of performance rigging through the gap his grip had made. The bulky object stopping swinging and started spinning left and right.