"Whatever turns you on."

She looked at me with a crooked smile. "I asked Chauncey the same thing earlier this evening. He said the water might be too cold, I might cut my bare feet on shells, and the Beach Patrol might pick us up for loitering."

"Well, yes," I said. "All those things could happen."

"But you don't care, do you, Archy?"

"Not much."

She reached across the table to clasp my hand. "I told you how alike we are," she said. "I wish you were the marrying kind."

"What kind is that?"

"Chauncey," she said, almost bitterly. "Let's finish this divine wine and go."

And so we did. When I signed the tab, Priscilla looked about to make sure Theo was out of earshot and then whispered, "You're asking for trouble, son."

"What do you mean by that?" I demanded.

"I just know," she said and moved swiftly away.

I drove back to the shore and parked the Buick in the McNally driveway. Hand in hand, Theo and I trotted across Ocean Boulevard and stepped down the rickety wooden stairway to the sea. That splinter of moon was obscured by clouds, and an easterly breeze was warm and clammy. We didn't care. It was the wine, I suppose, and the joy of being alone on the beach at midnight.

Theo kicked off her sandals, rolled the cuffs of her pantaloons above her knees, and strode into the milky surf, kicking her way through. I stood on dry land, bemused, and watched her cavort. She seemed suddenly released, laughing, bending to scrub her face with cupped handfuls of saltwater. I wouldn't have been a bit surprised if she stripped starkers and plunged in. But she didn't.

I walked back to the wall, sat on the sand, lighted a cigarette. I had finished it before she came gamboling out, flicking glittery droplets from her fingertips and caroling, "Super, super, super!" She plumped down beside me and asked for my handkerchief to dry sodden strands of her chestnut hair. There wasn't much moonglow, but I could see her face was shining.

"Was that what you wanted?" I asked.

"It was what I needed," she said, and then gestured toward the dark, rolling sea. "What's out there, Archy?"

"Water. Lots of it."

"No, I mean eventually."

"Eventually? Africa. Around Morocco, I'd guess."

"Let's go."

"Tonight?"

"Whenever."

Her voice was light but I felt she was serious. Certainly half-serious.

She turned, took my face between her cool palms, kissed me, drew away. She leaned forward, hugged her knees. "Do I scare you?" she said.

"Of course not," I lied valiantly, because to tell you the truth she did. A little. There was a wildness in her, a willfulness that was daunting.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked suddenly.

"More than pretty," I said. "Lovely. Beautiful."

"Yes," she said, nodding, "I know. And I thought it would bring me happiness but it hasn't. Like an actress who knows, just knows she has a special talent. But she can't get an acting job so it doesn't do her a damned bit of good. Just goes to waste. Do you understand what I'm saying, Archy?"

"Yes."

"I've got the looks and the body," she went on. "It's not conceit; I just know. But things didn't work out the way I thought they would. Bad luck, I guess."

"Your father spoke to me about luck," I told her. "He said, in effect, that when you need it desperately, it doesn't appear. But when you don't give a damn you have all the luck in the world."

"Did daddy say that? Well, he should know. Take off your clothes."

"What?"

"Take off your clothes," she repeated, unbuttoning her jacket.

"All right," I said.

I must inform you that anyone who attempts to make love on a sandy beach soon learns the meaning of true grit. But we managed, and we were so enthusiastic, so joyously vocal that I suspect both of us were tempted to wonder "Was it as good for me as it was for you?"

I shall not fully describe the scene-dying moon, scudding clouds, sultry wind-because I've always felt love scenes are best played on bare stages. There may be scenery artfully arranged but it becomes invisible when the butterfly flutters-as it did that night.

And then, triumphant, we both laughed. At our own madness, I imagine. It was a sweet moment, but brief. Because as we nakedly embraced, Theo murmured, "Tonight at dinner I told Chauncey I'd marry him. That's why he hurried home, to tell mommy the news."

"Oh," I said, which I admit was not a very cogent reaction. But I was stunned.

"Do you blame me?" she asked softly.

"Blame?" I said. "Of course not. What right do I have to blame you? It's your life and you must live it in whatever fashion you decide. Believe me, darling, I wish you all the happiness in the world."

She made no reply but rolled away from me and slowly began to dress. I did the same, and we made ourselves presentable in silence. Finally I stood shakily and helped her to her feet. We hugged tightly a moment. I was affected, thinking it a final farewell.

"Thank you for tonight," I said huskily. "The only word for it is memorable. I know we shan't be seeing much of each other from now on."

She drew away far enough to tap my cheek lightly with her fingertips. "Silly boy," she said.

I don't believe we exchanged a dozen words during the drive back to her condo. When we arrived I saw a white Lincoln Town Car parked outside, next to a gunmetal Cadillac De Ville.

"Daddy's home," Theo announced. "The Lincoln is ours. The Caddie belongs to a friend."

"Oh?" I said. "He's got Michigan plates. Down for a visit?"

"No, he moved here recently. Just hasn't switched to a Florida license yet."

I didn't push it.

She gave me a parting kiss. "Thank you, Archy," she said. "Fabulous night." She whisked out of the car. I waited until she was safely inside, then I headed homeward. I was not as fatigued as you might expect. I wasn't eager to dance a polka, but I was more replete than exhausted.

It was too late to shower since the gurgling of the drain would disturb my parents. I did my best with a washcloth to capture the vagrant grains of sand that remained on my carcass. Then I brushed the old choppers and donned a pair of silk pajama shorts emblazoned with multicolored crowns and scepters. Fitting, for I felt like royalty that night. Don't ask me why.

I waited patiently for sleep to come, knowing it would not take long. Meanwhile I did some heavy brooding on The Case of Madam X. I was not so concerned with the murders of Silas Hawkin and Shirley Feebling as I was with the unaccountable personality of the lady herself. I simply could not solve her.

Did I know any more about her than I did when our evening began? Yes, I did, but what I had learned was disquieting. Her character seemed so complex, with nooks and crannies I had not yet glimpsed, let alone explored.

Surely you've seen matryoska. (I think that's the correct spelling.) They're Russian nesting dolls. Remove the top half of the largest wooden doll and within is a smaller. Remove the top of that one and an even smaller doll is within. This continues for five or six dolls. You finally come to the last, which is solid wood and no larger than an unshelled peanut.

That's how I thought of Theodosia Johnson. She was a series of nesting women, and I had hardly begun to get down to the solid core. I was slowly unlayering her, and the awful thought occurred to me that when I finally uncovered the penultimate woman, there might be nothing within.

I could not forget her final comment on the beach after I had suggested our just completed coupling would be the last. "Silly boy," she said, an obvious implication that her affiancing to Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth, or even her marriage to that bubblehead, need not bring our fun and games to a screeching halt. A very amoral attitude, and it disturbed me.