"I didn't know Santa Claus made return engagements. And should he have Cutty Sark on his breath for the kiddies?"
Kit laughed. "One lowball to help face everything from pathetic Tiny Tims to greedy little monsters will hardly ruin Santa's reputation. Besides, he'll use a mouthwash chaser. Leave your luggage here by the door. You look like you've been lugging it long enough. Rudy can take it to your room after he gets back."
"Rudy?"
"Seasonal, isn't it? One of those outre coincidences that happen so often in a city this large. Come on. Sit down. Kick your shoes off. Unfasten your cat. Hello, Louie! Holding up, are we?" Kit laughingly surveyed the carrying device.
"Temple, I'm sorry, but you look like a candidate for a freak show, going to a job interview with your cat-headed Siamese twin attached."
Louie responded to Kit's greeting with a long drawn-out meow of disapproval.
"He is not Siamese anything," Temple translated more accurately than she could know.
"Sorry." Kit's husky voice had gone small and wee. She beckoned them around the white wall, and Temple went. An ajar door on the right tantalized with a slice of a powder room with black fixtures and malachite-design wall paper. Potpourri scent teased through the opening.
Midnight Louie sneezed.
The hall was really a kind of gallery. Uncurtained windows on the left offered a broad sill trailing pink camellias and poinsettias. On the right they passed an open kitchen done in butcher block counter tops, white appliances and stainless steel everything else, and un-doubtably as efficient as a Danish Jack the Ripper.
All along the hall, faint reflections in the night-dark windows followed them like ghostly Siamese twins.
These unshrouded canvases of glass, blackened by the night beyond so it was impossible to see out, but acting as display windows into the apartment's well-lit warmth, unnerved Temple. They violated her cautious Midwestern sense of privacy, even safety. Anybody could look in and see every detail as easily as a child spying into the secret world of a snow dome.
"Doesn't New York City sell blinds or curtains?"
"Temple," Kit chided, "we're eight floors up. Plus, even all those distant office towers are closed for the night."
"So you assume."
Kit stopped, her caftan an autumnal flutter around her slight form. She was an older (and one would hope, wiser) edition of Temple herself, down to the slightly foggy voice, the oversize eyeglasses and her petite size.
"Temple. Trust me. I know New York. You're not in Las Vegas now. Everything is not a peep show. The sad fact is that damn few people in Manhattan have the time, inclination or elemental curiosity to pry into other people's lives, much less their windows. We are hives of worker bees, each on our own buzzing mission, with no time to sightsee. So relax."
Temple made a face behind her when her aunt resumed walking. Kit's assessment sounded depressingly true. Only rank newcomers-- tourists was the demeaning description--would be as curious, or as cautious as she.
Then the white wall on their right ended with a column and a brick wall. Before them, the wide, welcoming main room narrowed to a point as sharp as a pencil's.
And the focal point framed by the converging window-walls from both sides of the apartment was Manhattan glittering in all its towering Christmas glory, the illuminated lightning-rod tips of the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings as thin and elegant as lit candles on a birthday cake.
Only it wasn't Temple's birthday, and getting here had been no piece of cake.
'This feels like we're on the prow of a ship," Temple began, "but--"
"Goodness, Temple! You live in a round building in Las Vegas and think nothing of it. Don't be so square. This building is shaped like a flatiron."
"The guidebook said the Flatiron Building was uptown from here--"
"It is. We're in the Village. But the building is similarly shaped, although smaller."
Temple edged into the unusual space, feeling doubly watched by the windows streaking to meet in a vanishing point of midnight cityscape just thirty feet In front of her.
"The view is magnificent."
"Too magnificent to cover with curtains or blinds. I'm glad you like it. I bought this place dirt cheap in the mid-eighties, before Reagan-era greed really got prices going skyscraper-high."
"Dirt cheap?" Despite the tawdry street-level neighborhood, Temple couldn't believe that any domicile in Manhattan was cheap.
"A hundred and thirty thousand." Kit shrugged. "Now close your jaw, take off your cat and coat, and sit down for a while."
"That was mondo money over ten years ago."
"I'd written a lot of historical romances by then, and the place has at least tripled in value since. I guess when it comes to retirement plans, you could say I'm sitting on it."
Kit plunked down on the black leather tufted sofa that faced straight into the nexus of New York, New York. "Can you really get out of that straitjacket solo? Do you need help?"
"No. I just unfasten these side latches, open the sack drawstring, pull Louie out and then gracefully shrug out of the, uh, straps."
The pulling out of Louie and ungraceful shrug that divested Temple of all encumbrances took three minutes.
"Let me get you a drink." Kit jumped up.
"I worry about Louie's claws on this leather--"
"Don't. I've had Russian wolfhounds on that couch. Louie is a fine example of a gentleman compared to them, I'm sure."
Kit returned with brandy in small snifters, sharing a tray of crackers and various spreads that looked gooey and foreign.
"Bye, Darlings!" a short, jolly fat man's voice shouted from the foyer.
"Knock 'em dead!" Kit hollered back, lifting her glass in a toasting gesture.
"Isn't he going to be dealing with hopeful little children expecting comfort and joy?"
"It's only one of those black-humor theatrical expressions, like 'break a leg.' "Kit looked Temple up and down from over the rim of her glass. "Are you in mourning? Did one of the Divine Mr. Ms kick off since I was in Las Vegas? Tell me it isn't so!"
"I wore black traveling to minimize cat hairs."
"You look like you're dressed for an expedition to Macchu Pichu high in the Peruvian Andes. No high heels, however, a wise move."
"I brought 'em along, so I can change off when I arrive where I'm going."
"Which is Madison Avenue. We're not right on top of it, but you can always catch a bus uptown if the cabs are all busy. I don't recommend the subway, even in running shoes. A lot of women use it, but they're residents stripped down for battle. You're going to be handicapped by toting a feline passenger around."
"I know. I know." Temple sipped some brandy. She was no judge of fine-anything alcoholic, but whatever the brand, blend or vintage; the liquor melted away the day's anxiety like a velvet blowtorch.
"We can have dinner out around here, or in, if I dive into my astounding selection of deli take-withs."
Here is fine. I'm worn out. And I have a nine a.m. appointment at Colby, Janos and Renaldi tomorrow. Louie and I do," she corrected as he paused in settling beside her on the couch to place a forefoot on her thigh, claws lightly extended. "I imagine he's tired too. I didn't have time to tell you about the recent Atrocity."
"Oooh. An Atrocity and a fresh one too! As if the newspapers didn't run enough news of that ilk on a daily basis. I'll sprint back to the microwave and warm up something starchy while you kick off those tennis shoes with the glandular problem and prepare to tell your tale. I don't suppose we can call it an 'Old Wives' Tale'. 7 " she caroled from the kitchen.