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It was a darn good toast. Temple stared at her father. He winked. “Drink up, Karen, you don’t want to miss the Love Boat.”

And then the chatter started. Man-to-man. Woman-to-woman. Cross-gender, cross-table. Aldo, incredibly, knew about broomball, that skating-rink sport Roger got a kick out of. Hockey with brooms. Aldo said bocci ball was a lot like it. Temple doubted it, but gave him high marks for creativity.

Matt explained Temple’s important public relations coups to her mother, without mentioning any stray murder-solving or neck-risking. Karen became fascinated by the people and issues that surfaced on Matt’s “Midnight Hour” counseling program and his Chicago appearances on The Amanda Show. She watched that program, liked Amanda better than Oprah, who was getting to be “too much Oprah everywhere all the time.” She wanted Matt to e-mail her when his next appearance was coming up.

E-mail? Her mother?

“We’ve got a phone-Internet-TV setup now,” Karen told Temple when she spied her daughter’s amazement. “Roger is going to set me up with an e-mail identity and a Web page.”

They asked Matt about his own parents.

They lived, he said, in Chicago, not mentioning that it was separately and had been that way forever.

Chicago! Great city. Just four hundred miles from the Twin Cities. Where would Kit and Aldo be living?

Las Vegas and Manhattan. No way was Kit giving up her Greenwich Village redone condo. It was a very profitable investment. She was still writing a new novel now, but the industry wasn’t what it used to be and she was considering herself not so much semiretired as having a long ongoing narrative to write with Aldo. A trip to his native Italy, maybe some cruises. They’d both worked hard and it was time to enjoy leisure time.

“We should take a cruise,” Karen told Roger, resting her hand on his.

“We could go together,” Aldo said. “For a honeymoon, a second honeymoon for you two. Temple and Matt could come.”

Karen looked hopefully at Temple. She hadn’t seen much of her daughter for more than a year, and maybe now she realized that it was her fault for being so negative about Max.

Temple felt her throat closing up again. She was happy this evening was going so well for everyone, but Max hadn’t deserved her parents’ disapproval. She’d never regret a moment with him. And if he was dead now, with no one to know where or to mourn him, she always would.

Matt put his hand over hers and leaned close. “We’ll do what we want about the wedding and honeymoon,” he assured her. “Your way.”

She just nodded, not trusting herself to speak quite yet. It was nice to bask in astounded parental approval, but she’d never disown her own past. And Matt would never expect her to, as he could never renounce his past either.

They sat quietly for a while, listening to the others talk and discover common ground, content to be by their unspoken selves. Just . . . content.

Nuptial Nuances

From the May 12, 2008, Las Vegas Review-Journal

The wedding of the spring season was not a big-time celebrity do, or a shocking film-star wedding-chapel prank that became tabloid fodder for a week.

No, it was a lavish yet tasteful affair involving some less spectacular, but intrinsically Las Vegas names.

The Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino’s Crystal Court main floor reception area was a wilderness of ivory roses, tiger lilies, and bronze, mauve, and orange orchids. Baby’s breath floated like the airy spray from the plinths of freestanding metallic wall fountains where low-lit sheets of water shimmied over the textured surface like silk moire come to life.

The famed French crystal chandeliers had been lowered over the wedding site, providing a dazzling yet intimate ceiling of unimaginable iridescent glitter, as if the guests were inside the Hope diamond.

The white carpet was pristine and flanked by rows of ivory velvet Parson’s chairs for the guests.

An archway, covered like a Rose Parade float in a solid carpet of ivory roses, had every hotel guest rubbernecking the eight Men in Black (tails) milling nearby, especially since they were all Fontana groomsmen. The man-about-town clan of eligible bachelors lost one of their own in the ceremony to follow, but they willingly relinquished their trademark pale and perfect Italian tailoring for the day to become tall, dark, and handsome in midnight black.

Ladies, this was more sumptuous viewing than the Red Carpet at the Oscars!

The bridesmaids seemed to appreciate that fact, clinging to their handsome escorts’ arms. They were a pretty bevy of young women, radiant in shades of silver, gold, bronze, pewter, and pink and copper gold. Oddly, none of them can be identified, as none have been seen about town with the respective Fontana brothers they were paired with, and, like Cinderella clones, they all fled the festivities before this reporter could get their names.

While all were here to celebrate (or mourn) the nuptials of the eldest Fontana brother, Aldo, the only other married man in the clan of bachelor brothers played best man, with his wife as matron of honor. Mr. Nicky Fontana is the youngest of the brothers and owns the Crystal Phoenix, which his wife, the Continentally elegant Miss Van von Rhine, manages. Together they have made the Crystal Phoenix the biggest little boutique hotel in Las Vegas. The Crystal Phoenix led the way to “high-end” Las Vegas hotels long before the Bellagio, Paris, and Venice arrived on the scene.

The groom’s uncle, Mr. Mario Fontana, whose name has many long local associations, was resplendent in a striped silver-and-black satin vest under a white dinner jacket. He escorted a lady who would only identify herself as “Miss Kitty.” She was a natural platinum blonde (that is, of a “certain” age), putting her Mae West proportions to great advantage in blond silk chiffon. Her appearance at the wedding caused much speculation about the widowed paterfamilias and his current affiliations.

The maid of honor, the bride’s niece, is that well-known publicist around every major Las Vegas media event, Miss Temple Barr. She was escorted to her position by a rising Las Vegas star, Mr. Matt Devine, better known as “Mr. Midnight” on his WCOO-AM late-night, nationally syndicated, radio advice program. In an unobjective aside, this reporter must admit that Mr. Matt Divine makes Blond the New Black.

Miss Temple Barr was a vision in a short, trained gown made of changeable silk organza, which was a bipolar blend of metallic red bronze and lavender mauve. Her shoulder-length corona of red-gold curled hair was a crowning glory in need of no additional diadem.

Now for the happy couple. Mr. Aldo Fontana wore silver-gray tails, British-formal with yet an air of elegant Italian gusto.

And here comes the bride, Miss Ursula “Kit” Carlson of Manhattan, actress and novelist. This is her and the groom’s first wedding, though both have passed the first flush of youth. She wore a gleaming ivory cut-lace leather Thierry Mugler suit that rocked, rolled, and took no prisoners. A petite woman, like her niece, she obviously believes in living large. The suit skirt was conventionally short in front to display her Jimmy Choo bronze ankle boots, but had a cut-lace leather bustle that changed into an ivory fall of lace that dusted the champagne-beige marble floor and white carpet as a train.

Officiating as justice of the peace, was Miss Electra Lark, owner and operator of the Lovers’ Knot Wedding Chapel. She wore a white instead of a black robe for the ceremony.

Perhaps the star of the show was the flower girl, an adorable toddler with her father’s dark hair and her mother’s poise, Cinnamon Fontana, her dotted Swiss pale green frock sashed in brown satin. Her bouquet mixed the same sophisticated metallic shades as other floral displays. The ring bearer was a black cat with the box affixed to a bow-tie collar. The best man lifted him to extract the rings, then placed him back on the white carpet, where he remained as obediently in place as a well-trained dog. The Fontana magic can tame even the feline nature.