Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

dating from the fifties, had been erected amazingly close to the Strip. Nowadays, it couldn’t afford the location, had it not already snatched it. In moments, they were cruising the Strip’s overheated neon length. The Paris Hotel’s festive balloon floated above the traffic like a tattooed moon fallen to earth. The Mirage’s volcano flashed fire and outroared the MGM-Grand lion. The Hilton’s chorus line of neon flamingos pulsed their hot-pink plumage.
    They were heading south.
    “The Bellagio—” Temple was about to point out that the hotel was north from where they were now. They were heading away, toward the Crystal Phoenix Hotel’s neon namesake looming large on the right. It vanished into their wake.
    “I decided someplace off the beaten tourist path would be better,” Matt said. “That all right?”
    “Uh, sure. All the restaurants in the Bellagio cost an arm and a leg and a first-born child, anyway.”
    He just smiled at her. The dashboard lights made his features look, not eerie, as that kind of theatrical uplighting usually did, but gilded.
    For some reason, Temple felt that the tiny metal purse on her lap required the tight custody of both hands.
    In moments, the Strip was glittering history in the rearview mirror. Oceans of bedroom communities twinkled across the broad valley floor.
    Max’s place was somewhere out there.
    And then the desert darkness swallowed even that, leaving only the Crossfire’s headlight beams sweeping the deserted highway ahead. From the darkness all around came the intermittent rhythm of the one mysterious light glimpsed now and then. Who lived way out there alone, you wondered. What were they doing now?
    What were they doing now?
    Temple racked her brain for some new chichi restaurant out in the boonies but she could only think of Three O’clock Louie’s at Temple Bar on Lake Mead. That was definitely not chichi and not in the direction they were heading.
    An antsy little spasm started in the pit of her stomach. This was ridiculous! She was with Matt. He wouldn’t take her anywhere she didn’t want to go.
    He wouldn’t take her anywhere she didn’t want to go.
    Oh.
    When he reached a break in some barbed wire (all this land was owned, no matter how deserted looking), she glimpsed another of those cryptic highway mile markers. Fifty-one, it read.
    Fifty-one! Area 51. But, no, that was farther north than this.
    Temple cringed as the Crossfire jolted over a winding sandy road. Hard on the brand-new suspension.
    “Where are we—?”
    “The horses know the way,” Matt said. “Don’t worry.”
    “I’m not worried.” Liar.
    He’d had such a huge shock back in Chicago. Finding a father he’d never known and thought was dead. She remembered the Matt who’d been obsessed about tracking down his stepfather. He’d been relentless, angry, explosive sometimes. She hadn’t glimpsed that side of him for a long time. Still...
    The headlights finally revealed another sign.
    Salt Cedar Springs.
    For a moment, Temple had thought it read “Saltpeter Springs.” She giggled to herself. Nervously. “I didn’t know there was a restaurant way out here.”
    Matt turned off the engine. Turned to her. “It’s Alice’s restaurant. You can get anything you want.”
    Then he came around and opened the door. She stepped out onto sand.
    The car’s headlights revealed an expanse of water. The surface was so gently riffled by the wind that it resembled the tiny ridges of sand dunes in the uncertain light. Silk moiré.
    Temple peered around for a source of light. There was none but the sickle moon and the shimmer of headlights on the water. And, if she turned around to look back, the distant ground-bound aurora that was Las Vegas. “Matt—?”
    “You remember. Isn’t this familiar?”
    “Yes and no.”
    “It’s a natural spring in the desert. Been here for centuries. That salt cedar tree, the giant weeping willowlike one there, is maybe five hundred years old.”
    “It’s spectacular, but—"
    But... Matt was leaning back into the car. Music started pouring into the empty desert night. “Sometimes When We Touch.”
    He came around the open door, carrying a white box. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
    Temple nodded. “Call me incomprehensible.”
    He took something out of the box and slid it around her left wrist. Scent exploded on the dry desert air, intense, sweet as syrup, yet amazingly delicate.
    A white moonflower blossomed on her arm. Three of them.