He turned the display piece until an amethyst-set ornate cross came to the fore. "You want a souvenir?"
Her eyes widened, then emptied in wonder. "Souvenir?"
Matt took down the cross and put it on the counter. "Add this in," he told the clerk. It was only twenty-eight dollars. His sense of proportion had magnified.
Krys was all eyes. "For me, really?"
"I appreciate your help today. Besides, you can tell your friends you got the cross from an ex-priest who rides a Vampire motorcycle."
"Oh, cool. Oh, way, way, way too cool. Can I wear it now?"
Since no one disagreed, she left the shop with the amethyst cross swinging in her right ear.
"Does it bother you," she asked breathlessly, "crosses being such popular jewelry now? Are we being too shallow?"
"Those 'Y-shaped' necklaces in the Sunday-paper department-store ads are nothing but rosaries. Maybe it's a religious renaissance, huh?"
"I don't know. They're just. . . cool." She fingered the small box in the tiny bag she carried, with the blue topaz earrings. "She can wear these with gold or silver," Krys explained as they melded with the still-milling shoppers. "Did you see how the Indian guy at the shop thought these were for me when I tried them on? He took us for a couple, can you believe it?"
"No. I'm too old for you."
"Hey. You can't be over . . . twenty-seven, right?"
"Wrong."
"What are we, anyway? We never did decide. First cousins or what?"
"In any case, it doesn't matter."
She stopped to pout.
"Stop flirting with m
"I am not'"
"Catholic girls always want to flirt with a priest, or an ex-priest. It's a stage."
"A stage! You act like I'm a teenager, or something. Hey, it's almost three o'clock. Can we eat? I'm beat and I'm starving!"
"Me too. Sure."
She ordered a chili burger, jumbo fries and fried jalapeno cheese sticks. Matt almost got indigestion from watching her shovel every bit of it down.
The fast-food restaurant rang with the noise of raised voices, the cash register, transitory dishes and silverware, and the passing bustle in the mall traffic lanes alongside it.
Matt nursed a beer after nibbling on a club sandwich and watched her eat.
"This has been fun, after all!" Krys said, chewing happily. "You're way cooler than I thought you'd be. And I know your mother will love her stuff."
She knew more than he did, but he smiled anyway.
"My family's so stuffy! We don't even put up a mistletoe sprig for Christmas at our house."
"I remember. But I also remember your family having a beautifully carved, old-country creche scene."
She made a disparaging face. "I'm going to get a mistletoe sprig this year and nail it up and then I'm gonna catch you under it." She had a glob of ketchup on her chin.
"I don't think so."
"Can I have a sip of your beer?"
"No."
"Come on. It's not like I've never drunk it before."
"I'm sure you have, and I'm sure you will again, but it's illegal here."
She finished her fries and finally wiped her mouth, inadvertently fixing the ketchup chin. "I want to find something for a friend of mine. Have we got time?"
"Sure. You're the one who's giving up her Christmas break."
She shrugged modestly and looked pleased.
This time they wandered into the anchor department stores' menswear sections. Matt, used to shopping discount chains for the cheapest of everything, was amazed again by the profusion of unusual and costly things. Suede silk flight jackets, leather vests and dusters, designer suits.
"I know ten guys who would wear this," he noted, indicating an iridescent sharkskin suit that retailed for close to a thousand dollars.
"How do you know guys like that?"
"They're brothers, sharp dressers, and good Italian Roman Catholics except at confession time, and they live in Las Vegas."
"Wow. What are you going to wear for Christmas at my house?"
"What I brought." He glanced around the crowded area. "Maybe I could use a heavier sweater. It's colder here than I remembered, and I didn't have much notice that I was coming up."
But the sweaters were close to two hundred dollars a pop, and all had pictures woven into their patterns, ski chalets or St. Bernards or something Matt didn't care for.
Krys appeared from behind a rack of London Fog raincoats, apparently a perennial gift item.
"Look at this!"
She held up a brown velvet blazer.
"Depends who you're getting it for."
"You!"
"I'd never wear a thing like that. And you don't have the money."
"But you do. And I'm a personal shopper, right? You're giving your mother all that fancy stuff. She might go for it more if you were dressed for the occasion."
"A velvet coat? I'm not a . . . huntsman or whatever."
"Listen. Brown is the new neutral and velvet is very In. And it's on special. Only one forty-eight. What's your size?"
"Not one forty-eight. Put it back."
"Oh, please. I think it'd look divine on you."
"Where would I wear a thing like that?"
"Las Vegas? Use your imagination."
A salesman had overheard the classic male/female fashion debate and had scuttled over faster than a sharkskin leech.
"Marvelous new fabric, sir. Stain-resistant. The young lady is correct; brown is the must-have neutral of the year for both genders. A forty regular, I see. It also comes in eggplant, navy and moss green."
All versions were produced and before Matt knew it he was forced before a full-length mirror in the brown one, eggplant having turned out to be purple, navy too "harsh" and moss green too "decadent," by which Matt thought the salesman meant it reminded him of a fungus.
The brandy-colored brown velvet one, however, had subtle golden highlights, and even Matt could see it was sinfully flattering. First a red suede sofa, then a brandy velvet coat. These women were exactly as the church had represented them for centuries: seductive, frivolous creatures who knew the meaning of self-acceptance and emotional expression, not repression. He liked them very much.
And he had a cream turtleneck sweater that would go nicely underneath.
"Done," he said, producing the credit card again. The jacket didn't even need alteration.
"We're through here," Krys said as they moved briskly through the mall.
"What about your present for a friend?"
"He already got it for himself." Her eyelashes batted flirtatiously at Matt. "But I am definitely still in the market for mistletoe."
"Dream on. Where's the . . . vehicle."
"In the Wooki lot, why?"
"You've had your way. Now I have mine. I drive on the return trip."
"You don't like my driving?"
"It stinks. But your shopping is A-plus."
Chapter 31
CATNYP for Literary Lions
What is the sleuth out of water, the investigator out of time, the snoop out of suppositions to do when she, or he, hits a brick wall?
Hie thyself, not to a nunnery or a monastery, but to a public library.
Haven owed to rare Ben Franklin, a free retreat to which Emma Lazarus's poor, homeless and huddled tempest-tossed immigrants could turn in illiterate masses yearning to breathe free, to read all about it. In due time they did, unto the Washington Star and the National Enquirer.
Now, it was time that Temple caught up on her reading.
The cab dropped her off right in front of the place. (A Christmas miracle.)