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-beFeline 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-beFeline! 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.