Temple was wearing her solid Austrian crystal pumps with a black cat on the heels with a silver knit two-piece suit. Kit was electric in a teal satin dressy suit.
Temple choked when she saw them sitting at the table, eyeing the Strip, Dad in a navy sport coat, Mom in a lightweight blazer.
“Just think American Gothic,” Kit whispered, tightening her grip on Temple’s hand.
Temple had to laugh. She hadn’t seen her parents since leaving Minneapolis with Max to come to Las Vegas more than two years ago. She’d left under a blue-black cloud of parental skepticism and dismay, but she was almost nine years past twenty-one and had the right to follow her heart.
They surprised the Barrs, who turned to see them standing there, smiling, thanks to Kit’s little joke.
Karen gave a little cry and stood up to hug Temple. “Your hair! It’s. . . faded. But otherwise, of course, you look wonderful.”
“A cosmetological accident,” Temple murmured, not mentioning she liked the lighter strawberry blond-red so much she might keep it. An engaged woman had a right to change her hair color.
Her dad gave her the awkward fatherly hug perfected in the Midwest for occasions from weddings to funerals. Next it was Kit’s turn to be embraced by Karen and shake hands with Roger.
“This is a fairly subdued hotel,” Karen said after they’d all seated themselves again. First, Temple and Kit insisted the Barrs keep their seats facing the view. They’d been set on giving them up. “For Las Vegas.”
“It’s a client of mine,” Temple said.
Her mother was gazing at the padded closed menu as if it needed dusting. “That’s nice, dear. Roger, I hope you brought your bifocals, this menu is as thick as a phone book.”
“I know what I want,” he said, pushing the glasses in question up his nose. “I always get a New York strip steak and a baked potato.”
Kit and Temple exchanged agonized teenage glances. Too bad they were both so far past the teen years.
Temple eyed her mother. She wore a figured silk blouse and rose slacks under the beige blazer. Her father wore a sport coat and long-sleeve shirt, no tie. Their clothes were perfectly suitable for a fine restaurant in casual Las Vegas.
Why, then, did they look so stuffed shirt?
“I see,” Temple’s mother said, “you’ve opted for going barelegged.”
“It’s always hot here, outside at least, and I hate pantyhose. And this is a desert climate. . . .” Templelet her apologia trickle off.
“Me too,” Kit said. Karen eyed her over the menu. “I never wear hose in Las Vegas. This is the West.”
“But in Manhattan,” Karen began.
“Oh, in Manhattan. Yes, of course. All the time. Sliding into the hot, broken-down cab seats, out of the hot, broken-down cab seats; panty hose, every second. Racing crosstown on the crowded sidewalks, all of us women in panty hose. Every minute.”
“You chose to live there,” Karen said. “What is this cerviche stuff?”
“Spanish,” Temple said hastily. “Undercooked and overex-pensive. Not that we have to worry. Our meal is on the house.” She didn’t add that it was raw fish in lime or lemon juice. Min-nesotans didn’t eat anything but vegetables raw.
Her father frowned over his glasses frames. “We’re perfectly capable of paying.”
“I have a permanent free pass to all the Phoenix’s restaurants.”
“Food is very cheap here, Roger,” Karen explained. “They practically give it away.”
Temple took a deep, deep breath. Not these high-end days. A dinner for four here could run close to three hundred dollars. If they had cocktails and wine with the meal, it would be more. Temple desperately wanted cocktails and wine with the meal.
She met Kit’s eyes as the waiter breezed by with a question. “Cocktails?”
“A green apple martini for me,” Kit said smartly. “Temple will have one too. Karen? Roger?”
“Do you have beer?” Roger asked.
“A hundred and forty varieties, sir. What would be your pleasure?”
“Schlitz would be fine.”
The waiter was momentarily tongue-tied.
“Anything Scandinavian,” Temple offered.
“Certainly,” the waiter said.
“I’ll have a daiquiri,” Karen said.
The waiter blanched and asked, “And wine for dinner?”
“A nice Chablis,” Roger said decidedly.
“Very good, sir,” the waiter boomed, as if just asked to deliver a jeroboam of champagne.
Roger beamed. “Nice fella.”
“This is a hospitality industry,” Temple said cheerily.
“Are you eating enough?” her mother asked. “You’re not drinking too much?”
“Green apple martinis are a health food,” Kit said. “No nasty salty olives or onions, just fresh Granny Smith apples and a touch of vermouth.”
And a few jiggers of gin.
“They do have a strip steak,” Karen told Roger encouragingly. Then she smiled at Temple. “I’m glad we managed to come for Kit’s wedding. It’s so good to see you. You haven’t been managing any visits home.”
“It’s been so busy—” she began, sounding lame even to herself. Her mother certainly wouldn’t want news of Max Kin-sella. Even if it was bad, which it was, as there was still no news of Max Kinsella. Which would be good news to Karen Barr, so Temple was going to be very vague about how and when Max split, and they split up.
“I can’t believe it,” Karen went on, eyeing Kit. “You, getting married! After all this time single. And you had to leave that miserable New York City madness and come to Las Vegas to visit Temple to find Mr. Right. Is he . . . retired here? I understand a lot of people do that.”
Aldo? Retired? Temple was glad her martini had arrived and she could take a tart sip and cough slightly. Only in a circular water bed.
“No,” Kit said. “He’s in business with his brothers.” She sipped, savored, and added, “One of whom owns this hotel-casino.”
Minnesota eyebrows raised in tandem.
“The Fontanas are an old Las Vegas Family,” Kit added demurely.
Roger folded away his reading glasses. “How ‘old’ can a Las Vegas family be,” he joked. “They didn’t start up the place until the 1940s.”
“If that’s when you arrived here, then you’re an old Las Vegas family,” Temple explained. “They also call this end of the country the ‘New West.’ It’s all spin.”
“Is it exciting,” Karen wanted to know from Temple, “to be doing public relations work in a tourist destination like Las Vegas?”
“Oh, yes. Sometimes too exciting.”
“And cultural too,” Kit said. “Temple handled the opening of the Treasures of the Czars exhibition here just last month. Fabulous Imperial artifacts and stacks of uplifting, interesting information about the new order in modern-day Russia.”
“And, then,” Temple added, “I do PR for a lot of conventions that come to town. My most recent was for the Red Hat Sisterhood. They’re—”
“I know who they are,” Karen said excitedly. “Some of my friends belong and have been trying to talk me into joining, since Roger’s retired and you’re gone and your brothers are all busy with young, growing families.”
Temple counted two possible digs: her moving away and her not producing children. Her brothers were in their forties, as Temple had been either an accident or an afterthought, and coming from a family with five kids, they had gone forth and had three each, defying statistics of the times. Not that her brothers had done the actual having, which made it a lot easier to do.
Karen was watching Temple closely, no doubt with Max in mind.
Luckily, the waiter buzzed by, recited the evening’s specials, and they spent the next ten minutes oohing and ordering.
“Won’t tournedos of beef be a little rich for your stomach?” Karen asked Roger in an undertone once the waiter had left.