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  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.

  "More like a 'New Knives' Tale.' Or 'Tail' as in attached to the rear end of an animal."

  "Not Louie's end?"

  "Indeed. And almost unattached."

  "Oh, dear." Kit peered intently around the kitchen wall to inspect Louie's extremities. "He looks all there. Oh. He hasn't lost something invisible? Did you have him fixed? "

  "I didn't have to." Temple explained how the cat was kidnapped by an enraged Savannah Ashleigh, certain that Louie was the Unfortunate part of the Condition that afflicted her purebred Persian, Yvette.

  Kit was scurrying back on her velvet holiday mules to see Temple's full performance as the infuriated aging starlet playing Cruella de Vil.

  "And furthermore, she told the finest plastic surgeon in Las Vegas,' and she oughta know, "I want this beast fixed so that he will never leopardize a female cat's breeding potential again!"

  "She ought to have been thinking of a jaguar. She abducted your cat just to have him neutered? Without your knowledge and against your will? Incredible. And she took Louie to a plastic surgeon?"

  "I'm afraid Savannah was running on her Energizer bunny batteries again, instead of the usual brain power. Actually, it turned out fine. The dazed doctor performed a vasectomy on Louie. That was the only 'neutering' procedure he knew anything about. And he threw in a free tummy tuck."

  "Oooh!" Kit's eyes momentarily turned envy-green as she admired the lounging ex-tomcat. "You couldn't get me an appointment for something similar? I don't need surgical contraception at my age, but I sure could use all the tucking I can get."

  "You look trim as a paper cutter, Auntie dear, act twice as sharp and look half your age."

  Kit almost purred in time with Louie. "Children are so sweet. . . when they're all grown up. And if you expect me to confess my age after all that buttering up, forget it, Niece."

  "I wouldn't dream of asking. Besides, my mother is sixty-seven or -eight, so--"

  "Never mind. I can tell you that I was a wisp of forty-nine not nearly as long ago as it seems. What a demented bimbo!" Kit had returned to the subject of Savannah Ashleigh. "How anyone would let that attempt to act is the biggest mystery of all."

  "No, the biggest mystery about Savannah Ashleigh is what she'll do when she finds out what I did."

  "And that is?"

  Temple coddled the brandy snifter in both her hands, as if warming them at a private fire. "I filed suit against her. In small-claims court."

  "In Las Vegas?"

  "That's where the crime took place."

  "But... isn't there an anti-roaming cat law there? Wouldn't Louie be in the wrong just for being available for catnapping?"

  "The issue is the willful alteration of a cat she knew was not hers. And, besides, Louie was wrongfully accused of parenthood."

  "He didn't do the wild thing with the nubile Yvette?"

  "Not long enough to produce four yellow-striped offspring. I understand that kitty litters can result from more than one tomcat, but a black sire would always produce at least one black cat."

  "Who do we know that is yellow-striped?"

  Temple allowed a smug expression on her face as she stroked Louie's satin-furred ears. "Maurice."

  "Maurice? Chevalier is dead. I think. Yvette's name is the right nationality to appeal, but the species is wrong, even for a Frenchman."

  "Haven't you seen those Yummy Turn-turn-tummy ads on TV? The big yellow cat that comes running?"

  "Not often. Oh. That's Maurice? The British pronounce it 'Morris,' you know."

  "Well, over here we pronoun
ce it 'Maurice,' as in Father of the Pride:'

  "Then that's the cat that Louie bounced to get the commercial job that's brought you both to New York to visit the ad agency? I'd say Yvette's indiscretion was lucky for all concerned."

  "I sure hope so. This has come up so fast I haven't had time to consider if a show-business career is the best thing for Louie and me. I'd have to be away from home, traveling, and Louie's no lightweight."

  "But he's obviously star material. Look at him lolling on black leather as if to the limo born! You can't deny the thespian talent. Louie deserves his time in the spotlight."

  Chapter 6

  Phantom of the Wedding Chapel

  Just because it seemed so perversely inappropriate, Matt played the theme from The Phantom of the Opera on the small Hammond organ.

  At three in the morning five days before Christmas, the Lover's Knot wedding chapel was deserted except for the attentive, softsculpture presence of its constant "congregation." Not that the Christmas holidays weren't a popular time to get married; they were. So popular that Electra had to schedule weddings for the holiday period and used her new drive -by service for the overflow.

  Like Santa, she'd taken on a few seasonal "elves" to help with the nuptial overload, and had even inked in time off for herself.

  Oddly, Matt had never cared much for performing weddings. Despite the picture -perfect look to the grand day, behind-the-scenes involvement revealed all the familial cracks in the united front produced as lavishly as a Broadway show for one day of pomp and

  circumstance.

  The high cost of contemporary weddings, even modest ones, only upped the stakes.

  Beyond the in-law tensions, the money squeeze and open warfare over who should pay for what, beyond tiffs about who was in the wedding party, the bridesmaids' dresses, the music or the flowers, Matt most hated the hypocrisy so common nowadays.

  The Charade, he called it privately and contemptuously. This was the prewedding dissolution of a common household, when bride and groom who had been cohabiting, as the sociologists called it, for months, or even years, established separate addresses for the few weeks before the wedding . . . before they showed up at the rectory, parents in tow, to discuss the ceremonial details.

  Matt was supposed to counsel them, ignoring the unspoken awkwardness of the true situation. He was supposed to publicly endorse a fruitful union, and privately assume that of course they would not resort to artificial means of contraception . . . when they had been using such means for months, or years. Now, though, in his office, they would be born-again virgins, presumed innocent of unworldly ways, baptized in the church's desperate desire to pretend that mores were what they had used to be.

  Older priests, proud to be known as die-hard conservatives, used the prenuptial period as an opportunity to thunder like Moses come down from his mountain with his shalt-nots carved in stone: "You will," the priests would force eager-to-wed couples to agree, "be open to all the children that God gives you."

  Obviously, they had not been open to possible children while living together, and would not gladly accept the possible nine or twelve now, not with college costs sky-high, and women planning on careers. But they pretended conformity, needing the communal blessing. Words were as crooked as runes, begging interpretation. "As God gives us (despite contraception)."

  So everyone on both sides of the unspoken equation lied to each other, or to themselves.

  Matt didn't blame the couples or the families. They believed in the vows and the sacrament. They also believed in the ideal of a lasting marriage, so much so that "trial runs" had become almost universal.

  He just hated to see marriages launched so dishonestly. In prenuptial conferences, he avoided flat pronouncements, Instead encouraging the couple to be mature, considerate, aware of the seriousness of a lifetime commitment.

  And Matt had to admit that twenty-something couples who had lived together (as everybody in the parish knew) were better prepared for the realities of life together than the old-model ignorant teenage lovers rushing to the altar to formalize their untried mutual infatuation.

  Mixed feelings like these had forced him to reevaluate his vocation. They weren't the only reasons, but they remained with him, months after his priesthood had become past tense.

  His attention came back to his playing. His fingers had slipped into the familiar chords of "Silent Night, Holy Night," that most placid of Christmas carols.

  He smiled, and glided into "Jesu Bambino," one of his favorites.

  He played by heart, in the near darkness, his fingers finding the familiar chords as they read the oversize Braille of the ivory and ebony keys.

  Overhead lights switched on in a crashing chord of utter illumination, flooding the blinding, wedding-white walls and furnishings. Matt blinked, feeling the equivalent of an optical migraine.

  "I thought I heard the Phantom playing." Electra's voice was a bit breathless. "I expected a blank white half-mask, at least, or--even better--a hideous visage. You're quite a nice surprise."

  She wore one of her eternal muumuus that bloomed like hibiscus against a white stucco wall.

  "Maybe I do have a mask on. I came down to search for the Lost Chord, not operatic revenge, and not for a pretty soprano to dominate."

  Electra smiled, plopping down on the butt end of a pure-white pew, next to a Madonna-as-Evita clone in a mothball-scented pair of politically incorrect silver foxes that looked utterly sad drooping over a fashionable shoulder.

  "Quite a repertoire you've got there, Matt. What are you playing now? It's catchy."

  "Now? I don't know. Your arrival shocked me out of the 'Jesu Bambino.' "

  "Yeay-zoo what?"

  Matt's smile broadened, but his hands kept cajoling the keys. "This is a melody Temple asked about once. She thought it was a wedding march."

  "Kind of is, at that, although I run canned music now. The organ is for atmosphere or media opportunities if celebs drop by. Everybody wants speed, not mood. So what's the tune?"

  "I'm embroidering it pretty freely, but the bones are Bob Dylans 'Love Minus Zero--No Limit'."

  "Bob Dylan? Hey, that's my era, not yours. You were barely born in the folkie heyday. How'd you hear about him?"

  "I'm not sure how anyone finds word- and mind-benders like Bob Dylan and Gerard Manley Hopkins, but we do."

  "Who's this studly Hopkins fellow? A folkie?"

  Matt laughed. "A monk. English. Late nineteenth, early twentieth century. Wrote poetry with an invented style, something he called sprung rhythm."

  "Honey, I got something you could call sprung rhythm in my back, but I take pills for it." She sighed and braced her hands on her flower-trellised knees. "I could use a different wedding march, in case I ever decide to marry again. Don't want to hear the same old tunes that marched me to disaster before."

  "You've been married more than once?"

  "Oh, yeah." Electra sounded nostalgic. "See, I'm from the Liz Taylor generation. Think you're in love and want to sleep with a guy? Marry him. You can always get divorced. And we did. Liz and me, I mean. Not from each other."

  "Serial divorce. I don't know if that's admirable or insane."

  "I'm betting you'd say 'insane.' You strike me as a pretty straight arrow for these times."

  "You don't know how right you are. I'm so straight I'm not sure the earth isn't flat, because otherwise people would be slipping and falling off, wouldn't they?"

  "Maybe the earth is round, but people need to slip and fall once in a while. You never know what you find down the rabbit hole. Like that Max Kinsella. You never know where he'll turn up next."

  "So I've noticed."

  "I remember when those two first moved in." Electra grinned nostalgically. "All that energy and expectation. They were the cutest couple. You could tell they were waiting for their second AIDS tests. Temple was checking the lobby mailboxes for an envelope from up north twice a day. And then one day . . . well, I didn't see hide or hair of them for days on
end. Oh, sorry. Guess tales of Love's Young Dream aren't going to cheer you up."

  Matt had segued into a funeral man h without even noticing. "I was just thinking, none of the old songs celebrate getting your 'papers' certifying that you are plague-free."

  "AIDS is a plague, isn't it? That sexual free lunch I saw all around me when I was just a little too old-fashioned to take advantage of it; I felt like such a square. That's what we called being a straight arrow in my day. Me and my marriages. And now it's all over, the sexual free-for-all. Or it should be. People want safety and longevity in relationships."

  She nodded in time to Matt's increasingly upbeat dirge.

  "Do you have children from any of your marriages?"

  "Oh, sure. Adult children, although sometimes I'm not so certain about that. They move, I move. I write, they call. Now they wanta E-mail me. Can you imagine?"

  He nodded, not in time to the soft organ chords. "I'd have a computer if I could afford one."

  Electra shook her head. "To me, E-mail is like safe sex. Something's not quite all there."

  "I suppose a couple, once they've established that each of them is disease-free, has quite a stake in the relationship, even if they're not married."

  "I hope it makes 'em think that way, if they're sensible."

  "Have you seen marriage rates go up, since AIDS, I mean?"

  Electra was startled. "Gee. I don't usually think like a pollster. And I've haven't been here with my little wedding chapel since the Ice Age, lad. I just opened it five years ago, so I have no basis for comparison. I see a bunch of folks who shouldn't get married going right ahead and doing it, though. But what the hell? I shouldn't have a few times and I did."

  "I grew up Catholic." Matt paused to consider if he really did grow up. "Anyway, staying married mattered a lot. Divorce was anathema."