Temple muttered an Anglo-Saxon epithet she rarely used on grounds that it lacked finesse and tossed the letter opener atop a leaning tower of Christmas catalogs. And then the phone rang, startling her as if she had been shot.
Letdown. The morning after. Sometimes it made one a trifle edgy. Not Midnight Louie. He yawned again.
She didn't have the energy to stand at the kitchen wall phone, so she went to bedroom-office for the portable. Public relations people lived and died by the phone; they were multipurpose tools: personal accessories and lifelines and the puppetmaster's strings, the pianist's hidden harp that could play soft and persuasive or stormy and driving.
A phone was your best friend.
But she hesitated before answering this call. She wasn't ready to reenter reality. Especially the reality of an impulsively resumed love affair.
It wasn't Max, as she had half-hoped and half-feared. It was Matt, as she had half-feared and half-hoped.
"Welcome back," he said, sounding too close for comfort.
"Thanks. I'm still on jet lag."
"I know, though Chicago is only two hours off-time compared to New York's three. Listen, Temple, I've got to work the next few nights straight to make up for my time off. Can we make a date for New Year's Eve? I've got it off."
Temple blinked; only she knew her gesture was devoid of feline profundity.
"There's so much to tell you," he went on. "You wouldn't believe what happened."
"What about Effinger?"
"Oh, Molina had to let him go, but that isn't important."
Effinger wasn't important? Had Temple's plane landed in the true Twilight Zone? Effinger wasn't important, and Matt wanted-- nay, expected--a "date." This was more than she could take standing up. She sat down at her desk.
"You sound exhausted," Matt said.
"I haven't said enough for you to tell how I sound."
"That's what I mean. Usually you're bubbling over with info-bits on this and that, and you must have a lot to tell me too. I'll let you go. But, what? Nine Monday night? I thought we'd try to see the New Year in, if you can stay awake that late, so crack out your Louie shoes and something jazzy. We'll have to take your car, of course."
"Of course." Matt taking her car for granted? Taking her for granted? "You don't really have to take me out someplace ritzy--"
"Celebrations don't need justifications, like red sofas don't, right?"
He couldn't see her wan smile, but he must have sensed it.
"Temple." When she couldn't muster more than an inarticulate hmmm in a questioning up glide, he plunged on. "I really can't wait to see you. I hope you had the Merry Christmas you deserve. 'Bye."
Temple cradled the droning phone on her shoulder long enough for the operator's tart, schoolmarmish voice to come on and shrill that her call was disconnected.
Temple punched the unit off, then on again and pounded in a flurry of eleven numbers.
Three rings later, she was back in New York City, in a manner of speaking.
"Kit, Matt just called."
"Did you say Matt or Max?
"And you think you're confused."
"Just tell me, blond or black?"
"Blond. I don't know what I'm going to do."
"What did you do?"
"He wants to take me out for New Year's Eve. For a celebration. An upscale celebration, apparently. And I said yes."
"Modest Matt is taking you out on the town? Wow. I'd say send him here, but I don't believe in Santa Claus anymore. So you said yes. What a wimp."
"I owe him an explanation."
"But not a romantic rendezvous."
"This isn't necessarily a romantic evening. But he did call it a 'date.' He's never used that word before."
"Right. You're wondering what Max will say about this."
"I'm not wondering what he'll say at all. I know. What I'm wondering is how I'm gonna keep them in separate corners. There hasn't been a word from Max since I got back."
"For what... three hours? Temple, give me a break. Maybe he left a message on your answering machine. Did you check it?"
"No. That's a good idea. He probably invited me out for New Year's Eve," she added dourly.
"Kit, what am I going to do?"
"What you always do: the best you can. Max has to understand that his eight-month absence didn't mean your life was in deep freeze, even if your relationship was. He has to respect your other obligations."
" 'Obligation' doesn't quite describe Matt Devine."
"Relax, honey. Emotional involvements aren't like European principalities; they don't occupy neat borders within your heart. Life is messy. There's nothing to do but wade in and clean it up the best you can."
"Right. I'll check my messages."
"Was your flight okay?"
"Fine. Louie didn't even yowl. I think he's as worn out as In am.
"From what you told me of the auditions, Louie has his own romantic dilemmas to exhaust him."
"What do you mean?"
"Gold and silver, the lovely leading ladies, Solange and Yvette. Jeez, what names! I sound like I'm discussing a Franchise Sagan novel."
" 'Bonjour, Tristesse,' " Temple quoted an appropriate title. Hello, sadness.
"I didn't know your generation knew Sagan. Espresso and angst, youth and despair. Check your messages, hon. I'm sure Max has left one, and it'll be good for him to face some competition for a change. Builds character."
Temple thanked her aunt and disconnected, switching on the answering machine, whose small red flashing light had been blinking on the edge of her consciousness since she entered the office.
She pulled over a minisized legal notepad and dug out a pen from beneath her stratified papers while the tape rewound. And rewound and rewound. On her left hand, the glorious, still-alien ring Max had given her flashed its ambiguous message of fourteen-carat gold and fire opal.
It didn't look like an engagement ring; it didn't feel like a bribe or a sop, but it did weigh as heavy as a commitment.
Finally, the voices began parading as Temple scribbled phone numbers and notes.
The first message was a computer-generated solicitation. Nothing from her family, but Temple and Kit had called her mother's house from New York and had found the clan gathered the day after Christmas. Funny how your parents' house was always your mother's house after you left.
"It's Van von Rhine at the Phoenix. Happy Christmas, Temple," the machine replayed. "I'm so sorry to call you during the holidays, but we've--you've--received the most wonderful surprise Christmas present for the renovation project! You must come over to see after Christmas. Call me as soon as you can."
Temple felt a restorative prick of curiosity. Van von Rhine was the most tactful, if businesslike, of hoteliers. She rarely spoke in such imperatives or with such enthusiasm.
There was a reminder from her dentist's office. Why had she scheduled an appointment right after Christmas? Hadn't she known she would be too emotionally challenged to dive into mundane matters like flossing, plaque and mouthwashes?
She jotted down other numbers, other messages of routine importance. Not a word from Max.
Boy, the big rush in the Big City and the big silence on home turf. Guess she'd been smart to book something else for New Year's, right, Louie?
By now Temple was passing the cat still airing his undercoat on the loveseat, and heading for the bedroom. When in doubt, take a clue from a southern belle and take a nap. The necessary grocery store trip could wait until, if not tomorrow, late this afternoon.
Like all temporarily abandoned places, the bedroom was waiting with bated breath for Temple to reclaim it with the unmistakable clutter of her presence.
Temple hated bending over to unlace her homely travel ten-nies, but she finally struggled out of these engulfing marshmallows of the footwear world. Her black plane getup didn't show Louie's cat hairs, but had attracted more than its share of itinerant white lint, so she peeled off the top and leggings as she hopped and stripped on the way to the bathroom.