He laughed. “It’s soap.” He turned on the bedside lamp.

“Soap and you, that’s different.” She hugged him for a long moment and then said as an afterthought, “I’m hungry.”

He grinned. “I’m not surprised.”

“Is there anything downstairs?” Marisa asked, rolling over and feeling on the floor for her clothes.

“I don’t remember. I’ll take a look.” Jack slid off the bed and into his jeans as Marisa headed for the bathroom.

“I’ll be down in a couple of minutes,” she called after him.

The bathroom had a modern stall shower, obviously a recent addition, and as Marisa adjusted the nozzle and stepped under the spray she examined the shampoo and other items stashed in the hanging mesh rack. It did not seem odd to be in Jack’s house or his bed. She didn’t know what that meant, but it was true.

When she was through, she dried off on one of Jack’s huge bath towels and dressed haphazardly in her slacks with her blouse tied loosely at the waist. Then she followed him down to the kitchen, blinking in the harsh overhead light.

“I feel like a Morloch,” she said.

“A hungry one,” he replied, opening the refrigerator.

“Yes. What have we got to eat?”

“Well, let’s see. In here we have ketchup, pickles, three grapefruits, an onion, and a bottle of mineral water.”

“Mmm.”

He turned and pulled open a cupboard above her head. “And in here we have crackers, mayonnaise, potato buds and oatmeal.”

“Yech.”

“I have been eating out a lot.”

“So it would seem.”

“There’s a Chinese place about three miles away that stays open late, and delivers,” he suggested.

“Oh, good. Then I won’t have to get dressed up.”

“I’m in favor of that,” he replied, rummaging in a drawer. He held out a takeout menu for her to see.

“I knew I had this someplace,” he said triumphantly.

“Shanghai Sam’s?” she said, reading the heading.

“Despite the name, the food is good.”

“What’s that interesting stain on the edge of the menu?” Marisa asked, laughing.

“Moo goo gai pan?” he said.

“Don’t ask me.”

“Probably chicken lo mein,” he amended. “That’s always been a favorite of mine. What would you like?”

“Anything. I’m in no mood to be particular.”

He lifted the receiver of the wall phone and frowned. “It seems to be dead.”

“It’s off the hook upstairs,” Marisa reminded him.

“Oh, right. Would you go up and replace it?”

Marisa did so.

“Do they know you at Shanghai Sam’s?” Marisa asked, grinning as she reentered the kitchen.

“I am the best customer of Shanghai Sam’s. Also of Bay Point Pizza, Mabel’s Lunch, and Uncle Morty’s Subs.” He tossed the menu back in the drawer and slammed it shut.

“Not to mention Leduc’s, and that sawdust wonderland we patronized the other night.”

“Correct.”

“I gather you don’t like to cook.”

“I can’t cook, there’s a difference. I have tried. Everything always winds up burned, dried, flattened, or whatever it’s not supposed to be. I gave up a long time ago.” He extended his arms invitingly and she walked into them.

“I suppose you can cook, of course,” he said, nestling his cheek against her hair.

“A little. I’m no chef.”

“I ordered shrimp in lobster sauce with saffron rice and sauteed string beans.”

“Sounds good.”

“Low sodium, no MSG,” he added.

Marisa drew back to look at him.

“That’s what it says on the menu,” he said, shrugging. He undid the knot at her waist carefully and pulled back her shirttails to reveal her bare midriff.

“Jack,” Marisa said warningly.

“Yes?” He bent to plant a kiss on her skin just above the button on her slacks.

“Someone is going to be delivering that order in about five minutes,” she said.

“Ten.”

“What’s the difference? I need sustenance, Jack, I’m not used to this pace.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m wearing you out?” he said.

“If I faint it’s your fault,” she said impishly, slipping out of his grasp.

“Oh, all right, I suppose I do have to feed you.” He got a couple of glasses out of another cupboard and rinsed them under the tap.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?” He looked over his shoulder at her.

“What’s going to happen when all this is over?” she asked.

“All what?” He put the glasses on the table.

“The case, you know.”

“We’ll go on as before,” he said lightly, not looking at her

“But I live in Maine, for heaven’s sake.”

“So what? It’s not the moon. There are planes and trains and roads that go there, right?”

“Do you mean that?” she said quietly.

“Of course. Did you imagine that I would leave here and forget you?” he asked, taking napkins from a box on the counter.

“I... I didn’t know.”

“Come here,” he said, putting the napkins down.

Marisa stepped into his arms again.

“What do you think, that this is a casual fling for me?” he said gently, stroking her hair.

“I was hoping not.”

“But you were still willing to take the chance?”

“I wanted you, Jack. But I knew you must have done this sort of thing before,” she said lamely.

“Not this sort of thing,” he replied quietly.

The doorbell rang.

“Saved by the bell?” Marisa said.

“Don’t make light of it,” he said soberly, releasing her. “I meant what I said.” He went to answer the door and when he returned he was carrying two brown bags and a newspaper.

“I forgot to take this off the steps,” he said, putting the paper aside and diving into one of the bags.

Marisa went to join him, postponing the subject of their relationship until later.

“Can you use these?” he asked, indicating the set of wooden chopsticks included with his order. He took the mineral water out of the refrigerator and filled their glasses.

“Hold one stick like a pencil,” Marisa said, demonstrating.

Jack sat down, opened a carton, and attempted to imitate her. A shrimp slid into his lap.

“Thank you,” he said, staring down at his jeans.

“You asked.”

“Stop showing off,” he added, as she manipulated the chopsticks dexterously.

“I’d advise you to get a fork, Jackson,” Marisa commented, grinning wickedly.

He went for some silverware and sat again, saying, “It must be genetic. Native Americans aren’t meant to use those things.”

“I’m no more Chinese than you are.”

He used his fork as a slingshot and sent a string bean flying in her direction.

“That was mature,” Marisa said.

“My specialty, maturity.”

“So I’ve noticed.” Marisa opened the newspaper and riffled through the pages.

“You’re not reading the newspaper tonight,” he said, around a mouthful of rice.

“It says here that Deception is playing on the movie channel at twelve o’clock.”

“You’re not watching television tonight,” he added.

“Oh, come on! It’s a great movie, Bette Davis at the top of her form. Terrific music, too.”

“I can’t watch that—those shoulder pads she wears are too distracting.”

“You’re thinking of Joan Crawford.”

“I am not. Crawford is the one with the bug eyes and Davis is the one who’s always spinning around, flipping her skirts. And smoking.”

“They’re both always smoking. I can see you’re really a fan of forties movies.”

“They’re so dated, aren’t they? And the dialogue, so corny!”

“That’s part of their nostalgic appeal, something a writer should be able to appreciate. And Davis is really good in this one.” Marisa popped the last string bean in her mouth and chewed industriously.

“I feel I should warn you that if you’re addicted to Bette Davis weepers, the future of this relationship is in doubt.”

“Watch out or I’ll tie you down and force you to watch Dark Victory with me.”

“Which one is that?”

“Bette is a playgirl with a brain tumor who falls in love with her doctor.”

“Spare me. I thought you didn’t like television.”