Like Father Hernandez, his swell of self-acceptance put him on the brink of tears. Instead of the altar boys, he saw his former self carrying the tall candelabra. The small boy from that house of shouts and sudden crashes, whose inner mantra was "I will never cry, never."
Matt had never before seen it as so adult to cry. He didn't know whether this moment's epiphany was a symptom of a fresh peace with the past, with his new role in his religion, or of falling in love with Temple, or something as simple as falling in love with life, with being alive in ways he had never allowed himself to be before.
He would need time to decide, to deal with these galloping new emotions arid insights.
He and Temple filed out with the shuffling crowd, silent. He slipped past the clogged line waiting to greet Father Rafe afterwards; he was too overcharged to trust himself. Leaving church always meant a plunge into the bright of daylight. Here in Las Vegas, the sun was even more shocking, almost blinding as it bathed the pale buildings. The eyes hurt for a second, and he wanted to reach for sunglasses.
He waited for a moment, hoping the welling tears in his eyes would mimic a response to strong sunlight, but also not anxious to shield himself from too much illumination. He had done that for far too long.
"Father Hernandez seemed uncharacteristically upbeat at the . . . end," Temple was saying, digging in her tiny purse for sunglasses. Like all redheads with blue-gray eyes, she was sun sensitive.
"I imagine he's relieved to have the parish troubles pretty much over." Matt was conscious of speaking on two levels. He took Temple's arm to guide her down the shallow front steps as she concentrated on searching her bag. ''Let's go to breakfast."
"Great."
"How about that tacqueria--Fernando's?"
Temple stopped. ''I don't know. . . ."
"Isn't it open on Sunday?
"Sure, I suppose so."
Matt was conscious of people streaming around them as they paused, chattering of family plans and food. He'd never been part of this exodus before, had always stayed behind, disrobing, putting away the artifacts of faith, thinking about his Sunday schedule of visits and duties and paperwork.
He felt as free as a schoolboy now, but Temple was looking oddly hesitant.
''Don't you want to eat out?" he asked.
''Yes, but Matt--isn't that hot Mexican food kind of hard on the mouth?"
What was she talking about, she had dived right into Fernando's hottest the last time? Then.
. . .
Matt discovered' that despite his recent epiphany of self-acceptance, spiritual release and preceding sexual sophistication, his ears felt hotter than Fernando's green chili sauce.
He started fumbling for his sunglasses too.
Chapter 44
Maximum Impact
Temple returned to her condo humming the only song from the service that she had recognized,
"Today While the Blossoms Still Cling to the Vine."
She unlocked the door and welcomed the familiar quiet, broken only by the eternal hum of her air conditioner.
Today the hum was amplified, for who sprawled like a sultan on the ivory sofa but His Majesty, Midnight Louie in purrson?
''You look proud of a job well done,*' she told the cat, opening the French doors across the room to let a butter-warm oblong of sunlight spill onto the walnut parquet floor.
She stepped onto the patio for a moment, standing in the shade of the overhang, taking approving inventory of the wooden tubs of cheerful blooming oleander and her white wrought-iron cafe table and chairs. A perfect place for breakfast for two. The air was cool, and the afternoon still new enough for her to enjoy it. She reluctantly returned inside to sit beside Louie, careful not to make the cushions jiggle, and stroked his side.
Louie's big black head lifted. He allowed his ever-vigilant eyes to slit half-shut in tribute to the tranquility of home, sweet home. Temple continued to stroke the solid, soft-furred body as Louie's purr escalated to the level of a Hoover vacuum cleaner.
"Looks like your wandering days are over for now," Temple said. "About time. For a while, I wondered if you were running out on me permanently."
Louie's eyes shut completely as he twisted his face to permit Temple to scratch his chin a little lower and to the left.
He looked almost as contented as she felt.
She sat in the quiet of her rooms, full as a tick on IHOP lingenberry pancakes with whipped butter, taking inventory.
Mass had not been as alien as she had dreaded. It was even rather inspiring, with the organ music, hymn-singing and sunlight seeping through the jeweled kaleidoscope of Our Lady of Guadalupe's stained glass windows. Best of all was the sense that Matt had crossed some threshold in accepting his new life that morning, and that he had invited her to partake in that transition.
He and Father Hernandez had also crossed some barrier between them. Temple suspected, one that had affected both men with a contagious sense of celebration.
She herself had plenty to celebrate. Temple decided. She kicked off her church-going beige medium heels, letting her stocking-clad toes explore the grass-long fibers of the synthetic white goat-hair rug under the coffee table.
Louie was back. Matt was coming back from the wrong road a harsh childhood had set him upon. Temple's work was rip-roaring on two fronts, what with her expanded ideas for the Jersey Joe Jackson attraction at the Crystal Phoenix and Spuds Lonnigan's place on Lake Mead.
Temple slumped against the big, soft sofa pillows and almost purred audibly to keep Midnight Louie company. He leaned against her hip and flipped his big tail over one leg, where it twitched now and then.
And, Temple thought with a lamentable lack of charity given her recent church attendance, Crawford Buchanan had been utterly, publicly, deliciously foiled in his scheme to hog the Gridiron and humiliate her. Talk about turning the tables on someone! Little did he know it . . .
yet, but Crawford had suffered his defeat under the spot-lit glare of an entire closing number.
Even the showgirls were snickering at his cowardice in not showing up, the deepest cut of all for a self-proclaimed ladies man like Buchanan.
Life is good. Temple thought, studying Louie's expression of utter satisfaction, and sharing the feeling.
Life is simple. Life is . . . open to anything.
The baddies who were sabotaging the Phoenix in hopes of pulling off a spectacular heist had been spectacularly exposed and corralled. The crowd's applause had voted Danny Dove's first Gridiron the best ever. Everyone obviously looooved Temple's put-upon skit, even with inadvertent last-minute additions, and Louie had merited another mug shot for the newspapers.
Temple yawned, then rose, giving Louie a farewell pat.
She picked up her shoes and skated into the bedroom on slick, stocking feet. Matt wanted to catch up on her martial art lessons, and she supposed turnabout was fair play. She had been doing all the tutoring lately.
She frowned as she changed into the shapeless set of sheeting called a gi. He was also nagging her about not giving up on group therapy, rightfully deducing--what a Sherlock he was becoming!--that she had missed several sessions.
Group therapy! Temple padded barefoot into the living room to dig her doorkey out of what had instantly become her Sunday, going-to-church handbag, a pale straw clutch purse buried in her closet for months until today.
She didn't need group therapy (although she had no objection to one-on-one sessions of the proper kind), not with everything in her life falling so neatly into place. Even Lieutenant Molina had treated her with an air of resigned collaboration last night instead of the usual official exasperation.
Let's see. Temple thought, eyeing Louie's impressive suburban sprawl on her couch, particularly in the southern region, i.e., the stomach. She had her key, gi and what else did she need . . . ?