At last!
Max was tucked away safely at his house, and Temple finally had time to stay home of a workday morning to catch up with her public-relations business on the computer. And … she could look forward to picking up Matt at the airport at the end of it. Work and pleasure in one bracketing package with a few unexpected butterflies of anxiety fluttering in her blue sky.
By 10:00 A.M. she had fielded six phone calls and twelve texts between updating the Crystal Phoenix’s Facebook page, Tweeting for a dozen clients, and checking that all Google ads were up and working correctly.
“Now what?” Temple demanded of the Fates when her doorbell rang at 10:10.
It couldn’t be a solicitor. They never got past the lobby.
Savannah Ashleigh knew Temple was on the Violet case when she had the time.
Matt had his own key now.
Max? He’d been unnervingly distant and quiet for almost two days. Temple might almost think she’d hallucinated his return. He had her cell-phone number, not vice versa. Temple gave a small snort of annoyance. Having Max back in town and incommunicado was like returning to junior high, waiting for the boy to call … only now he’d text. Or the girl would.
Temple jerked open the door, having worked herself up into being the injured party, and demanded, “About time!”
“I agree,” her aunt Kit said, walking in. “You saw Aldo and I were back two days ago, yet I get nothing, not even an old-fashioned phone call wanting to know all about the honeymoon.”
“I’m not one to pry,” Temple said, shutting the door.
Her aunt snorted this time, a theatrical yet feminine snort of disbelief. “Hah! ‘Pry’ would be your middle name if my first name wasn’t.”
“I would love to have your nickname, ‘Kit,’ as a middle name,” Temple said, embracing her aunt. “Who on earth named you Ursula? And why?”
“Apparently there’s always been an Aunt Ursula in the Carlson family, but I never met the woman ahead of me in the ugly-name sweepstakes. She died young,” Kit reported in a dire tone, perching on the living-room sofa. “And unmarried. Unlike me, who is old and newly married.”
“You don’t look a day over forty,” Temple said.
In fact, petite women like Temple and her aunt Kit Fontana, née Carlson, and Sally Field did seem ageless. Temple was very glad of that fact. Right now, she felt she’d aged twenty years in one transatlantic phone call.
Kit’s head was poking into a chic Parisian bag she’d brought with her, her hair a soft silver-and-copper Brillo pad of loose chin-length curls. She still wore the large-framed, dated, fashion-editor glasses that made her look chic anyway. She hefted a wine bottle.
“I brought you a ton of Italian goodies, but this is a bottle from the vintage Aldo and I drank during our honeymoon at Lake Como. Scenery, water, flowers, swans, wine, walks, talks, nights of not talking. Since you’re about to become a married lady as well, I thought we could share a good mother-daughter chat over this vino.”
Temple took the gift to the kitchen to open it, calling, “You’re not my mother” from around the partition.
“My sister Karen would never drink wine and talk at the same time. Very wise, but not much fun.”
“So.” As Temple came back with two glasses of red, Kit glanced around. “Looks the same. No Midnight Louie peering over my shoulder, though. No Matt doing likewise with you?”
“He’s in Chicago,” Temple said, sitting.
“Still?”
“Some things came up.”
“Family? You said there were ‘issues.’ Maybe the Chicago ‘Family’ swarmed him and whisked him away, like the Fontana brothers here. Aldo is now off on some apparent ‘Unbachelor party’ with Fontana, Inc. That’s why I’m here crying on your wine-soaked shoulder, a deserted bride already.”
“You look in the pink for a deserted bride,” Temple said. And then she sighed.
“What?” Kit asked, sitting up straighter, as alert as a fox terrier scenting fox. “You’re not telling me something. I’ve felt it since you opened the door.”
“Well, this time and place is not of my choosing.…”
“Don’t tell me you and Matt—”
“Are fine. He’s on the brink of some big-time career opportunities, that’s all.”
“Involving what?”
“The Big O.”
“Are we back on my honeymoon topic again?”
“Decidedly not, Aunt. I was referring to Oprah. She’s ‘retired’ from network TV. Even bigger news, if you must know. I’ve heard from Max.”
“Max? What excuse did he have for disappearing this time? His nine lost brothers whisked him away?”
“Only one unrelated man,” Temple said. “A gutsy old guy who’s now dead.”
Kit stared at Temple for what felt like a full minute. “Oh. I entered stage right in a romantic comedy and here I find myself center stage in an unfolding tragedy of some sort. Drink up and tell Auntie all, my dear, because who else knows the cast of characters, and you, so well?”
“Oh, Kit, it’s a bloody mess.” Temple hadn’t wanted to dwell on this today, but Aunt Kit was like her big sister. She kicked off her heels and folded her feet under her on the sofa. “Max is a bloody mess.”
Kit’s eyes widened behind her magnifying lenses.
Temple related the sequence of his accident, his being spirited away by Garry Randolph, the coma, memory loss, and escape, Switzerland, Ireland, his tangles with the ex-IRA and alternative IRA, Kitty the Cutter’s possible death and resurrection, Gandolph’s resurrection and death. Max’s disappearance and return.
“This is a three-play cycle, at least,” said Kit, ex-actress-turned-novelist, after digesting all. “I should have brought two wine bottles. Max is really and truly amnesiac? It’s not just a sympathy ploy? No, drop that rebuking look. He is a master of deception.”
“Whatever Max is, how am I going to convince Matt I couldn’t just leave the man hanging out there among his mortal enemies, his mind blasted and his body in shock?”
“Max really does look and act that bad?”
“It’s not ‘acting.’ He’s been through hell physically, and the death of his mentor is devastating. He was at the wheel, Kit. He was driving. The bullet that killed Garry Randolph was meant for Max. It missed him by only a fluke … which was the seat belt Max insisted Garry wear. That’s what killed him. Max had no time to take safety measures himself and was jolted free of the oncoming bullet.”
“Dramatic irony fit for the Greeks,” Kit mused. “Men will get all Oedipus Rex-y about battle guilt as well as that mother thing. Obviously, Max needed a sensible woman to talk him out of his self-destructive post-traumatic stress. And he knew just where to go. Don’t worry. Matt, ex-priest or media performer, is a professional counselor. He’ll have to understand the situation.”
“He’ll understand it,” Temple said, “he just won’t like it. He also understands the appeal of a lost, wounded puppy.”
“You can’t possibly be describing Max!”
“Don’t laugh, Kit. He’s weak, he’s gaunt, maimed in body and soul. And he’s still being hunted. We all may be if Kathleen O’Connor isn’t dead. Oh, not you, Kit. I’m sure she doesn’t know about you.” Temple frowned. “Probably.”
“Well, if that bitch does know and messes with me, she’ll have Fontana, Inc., on her tail. I am Family now.”
“Kit! I’ve never seen you so fierce.”
“This is a fierce situation. There’s only one way you can soften the blow for Matt.”
“Keep this to myself?”
“Arrange a meeting between him and Max as soon as he comes back into town.”
“Are you crazy?”
“The only way to meet impossible situations is head-on. I’ll mediate, if you like.”
“No,” Temple said, taking a thoughtful sip of bloodred wine. “That’s my job.
“Again.”