“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.”
“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.