“I don’t, not today’s television. I like old movies, pre-nineteen-sixty, preferably.” She smiled invitingly. “We could build a fire and watch it together on that old console TV in the living room.”

“How about the portable in the bedroom?” he said, grinning.

“Not a chance. I want to see the film, Jack.”

He shrugged. “I’m sure it’ll be better than the programs on the tube. The only television I really watch is CNN and sometimes the sports channel, anyway.”

“Liar. You’re probably addicted to Saturday morning cartoons.”

“Well, I am partial to Scooby Doo.”

“I knew it!”

He scraped the bottom of the rice carton and tossed the empty container in the trash.

“But in all honesty I’d have to say I’m equally fond of Spiderman,” he added, smiling.

“Hah! And I’ll bet you watch the shopping channel all night and buy onyx rings at three o’clock in the morning.”

“I confess that when I’ve been up late with a manuscript I’ve had it on occasionally. Some of those people who call in during the wee hours really do bear watching.”

Marisa looked at the wall clock pointedly. “I rest my case. Bette’s waiting.”

“You owe me one.” He rose, grumbling, and Marisa heard him laying a fire in the living room as she straightened the kitchen. By the time she joined him the movie was on and he was using the bellows on the fire to get it going.

“Isn’t that the guy from that Ingrid Bergman flick?” he asked, gesturing at the screen.

“That’s Claude Rains. He was in every Ingrid Bergman movie. And every Bette Davis movie too, I think.” Marisa settled on the couch and turned up the volume slightly.

“No, no, you know the one I mean, the famous one. Humphrey Bogart in North Africa, World War II?”

“You are referring, I believe, to Casablanca?”

“Right. This guy was the crooked police chief or something?” Jack put the bellows back on the rack and stood up.

“Yes. He’s a symphony conductor in this one.”

Jack sat next to her and folded his arms behind his head. “And how about the one where he’s a neo-Nazi married to Ingrid and Cary Grant is the government agent?”

Marisa stared at him. “Notorious. I thought you hated old movies.”

“I never said that. I said they were dated and corny but I’ve seen my share of them.”

“Apparently.”

“I’m a night owl. I do a lot of my writing late at night. If I get stuck I sometimes turn on the TV. That’s when they’re on, okay?”

“You would never be caught renting one, of course.”

“Of course.” He leaned forward to adjust the color knob. “I guess this one hasn’t been ^,colorized,”’ he said, when the picture remained black and white.

“Thank God. I saw the colorized version of Little Women and everything and everybody in it was sepia, like those daguerreotypes from the Civil War.”

He chuckled.

“Who’s this?” he inquired, as the screen featured a close-up.

“Paul Henreid.”

“Looks familiar.”

“Ingrid’s husband in Casablanca,” Marisa said dryly.

He snapped his fingers. “Right!”

Marisa shot him a sidelong glance as he settled back and fixed his gaze on the screen.

“What?” he said, looking at her.

“I thought you were enduring this for my sake.”

“Well?”

“Don’t look too much like you’re enjoying yourself or I might get the wrong impression.”

He reached out suddenly and yanked her into his lap.

“Forget Paul whatever his name is. He’s dead. I’m right here and I’m alive.”

“So I see.”

He untied her blouse and eased the sleeves off her arms.

“What about the movie?” she asked.

“We’ll just have to watch it another time,” he replied, unbuttoning her slacks.

The screen flickered in the background as they made love.

* * *

In the morning Marisa woke to find herself in Jack’s bed, having no recollection of getting there. She slipped into a shirt she found lying on the dresser and padded downstairs barefoot, to find him scrambling eggs in the kitchen as the delicious smell of brewing coffee wafted around him.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he said, saluting her enthusiastically with a spatula.

“I thought you couldn’t cook,” she said, putting her arms around his waist from behind as he stood at the stove.

“This is the limit of my repertoire,” he replied, leaning back into her embrace.

“How did I get upstairs last night?” she asked, opening the refrigerator to discover it stocked with new items.

“How do you think? I carried you.”

“And when did you buy all this stuff?” she asked, removing a carton of cream from the refrigerator and putting it on the table.

“I got up early and went to the store.”

“You must think I have a big appetite,” she said, laughing.

“I know you have a big appetite, darlin’,” he answered, grinning wickedly.

“Stop making fun of me. You started me on the path to destruction,” Marisa replied.

Jack turned off the burner on the stove and carried the pan to the table. It was already set with dishes and cutlery, and a plate of toast sat in the middle of it.

Marisa selected a piece and bit into it.

“Not bad,” she said optimistically.

“Liar. I burned it.”

“Only slightly. I hate pale toast anyway.”

“You won’t get that around here, mine is always charred.” He scooped the eggs onto her plate and then sat across from her, watching as she took a sample.

“Very good,” she said brightly.

He took a bit himself.

“Not bad, if I do say so,” he agreed, digging in with relish. “So, what are we going to do today?”

“Jack, I have to work.”

“Come on, you can play hooky for one day.”

“I don’t think so,” Marisa said. “I didn’t come to Florida to socialize with you, Jackson, I came to represent a client.”

“Socialize?” he said, raising his brows. “Is that what we’ve been doing?”

“If you’re going to take a double meaning from everything I say, I’m going to stop talking to you.”

“As long as you don’t stop sleeping with me,” he said, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

She kicked him under the table.

“Ow. You’re on a break from court now. Can’t whatever you have to do wait until tomorrow?”

Marisa hesitated, sorely tempted.

“You’re a bad influence,” she finally said.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied.

“What about you? Don’t you have writing to do?”

“It can wait.”

“We’re both going to wind up unemployed,” Marisa said gloomily, munching toast.

Jack got up and took her hand, leading her out of her chair and into his arms.

“Let’s use this time while we have the chance,” he said against her hair. “It may be difficult for us to get together in the future.”

Marisa felt a chill. What was he trying to say?

“We’ll find a way, won’t we?” she asked anxiously.

“Of course we will. But this interlude is a gift. Let’s take advantage of it.”

“All right,” Marisa said, looking up at him.

“I have an idea.”

“Somehow I thought you might.”

“My friend who owns the boat also has a beach house.”

“What is this guy, a millionaire?”

“He’s well off, yeah.”

“Why doesn’t he keep his boat at the beach?”

“You can’t dock a boat on the open ocean, it would get battered to pieces. Are you sure you live in Maine?”

“I forgot,” she said sheepishly. “So what about the beach house? And I think I should warn you that despite your recent swimming escapades, the water here is a bit too chilly for me.”

“So we won’t swim. The view is beautiful. We’ll walk on the beach, take a lunch along with us, okay?”

“Okay,” Marisa said, ducking her head against his shoulder and clutching him tightly.

It was sunny when they left the house. Twenty minutes later it was overcast, and by the time they got to the beach it was pouring rain. They trudged through the wet sand and climbed up the exterior stairs to the deck, and then Jack unlocked the sliding glass doors. They bustled through them and turned glumly to watch the rivulets of water running down the glass, obscuring the shoreline in a gray wash.