Marlowe rolls her eyes. She folds arms over her chest, listening to the machine gun click of the clerk's fingernails on the keyboard. She'd wanted to drift off to the side and wait, but Lucas dragged her into line next to him. Marlowe absently wonders if people think that they are together.
"I have two open flights into Norfolk," the clerk suddenly chirps. "One at 10:20 a.m on Tuesday and one at 3:42 p.m."
Lucas turns to Marlowe. "They're leaving in the morning?"
"9:45," Marlowe replies.
"When are you leaving?"
"Just after ten."
Lucas frowns slightly. He'd imagined them having the rest of Tuesday alone, getting to know each other. But Marlowe isn't wasting any time getting out of town. "10:42," he says to the clerk.
"Okay then!" The clerk smiles brightly at him, a little too brightly.
She clearly doesn't think that Marlowe and Lucas are together. And though she expected to be relieved, Marlowe is in fact somewhat irked. Lucas is, as she'd thought, the kind of man that women notice; more than one head turned as soon as they entered the airport. But no one noticed her.
It doesn't occur to Marlowe that her body language reveals as much about her relationship to Lucas as the cross expression on her face. She hovers as far away from him as is comfortable for speaking, her arms locked tightly. She seldom looks him in the eye; instead, she speaks to him over her shoulder or out of the corner of her mouth, as though speaking to him is an irritation. No one would think that they are romantically linked. No one would think that she even likes him.
Lucas tucks his freshly minted tickets into his back pocket and nods to the clerk. "Thank you." Out of habit, he reaches out to touch Marlowe's back. He withdraws his hand. She's in another world, a cold distant place that she's been stuck in since the moment they climbed out of Roderick's truck. He can't imagine what he might have done to upset her. He had, in fact, made every effort to restrict his remarks to answering the questions she asked him about his job. There seems to be no end to her interest in that subject.
"Ready?" Lucas asks quietly.
"Yeah, let's go." Marlowe turns left and bustles along like a steam train, making a beeline for the exit.
Instead of catching up to her, Lucas follows at a short distance, observing her long strides and heavy gait. This is the Marlowe that he remembers from Sunday morning, the Marlowe who didn't think that he should be in her hotel room, in her personal space. Starting from scratch again, Lucas muses. He sighs.
The drive to Roderick's house passes in total silence. Whatever his desires, Lucas clings to the thought that she has to come to him willingly, or not at all. And whatever her thoughts, Marlowe cannot exorcise the feeling that any space she occupies with him is entirely too small. His arm rests on the console between them. She draws her arms inside the confines of her seat and squeezes her hands between her denim covered thighs.
Tamara and Roderick are waiting in the foyer when they arrive at a quarter to ten.
"Right on time," Roderick hoots with a sigh of relief. "We'll be back in an hour or so. We're gonna stop by the grocery store on the way back. Ya'll feel like barbeque tonight?"
Marlowe and Lucas are crowded together in front of the entry door like suspects in a line up. They each shrug and make vague gestures of approval.
"Wake up, people." Roderick thumps Lucas on the shoulder. He takes Marlowe by the shoulders and moves her away from the front door. Then he kisses her forehead. "Good to see you this morning," he says warmly.
"You too." Her arms go around him when he hugs her, briefly but tightly, before hustling Tamara out the door.
Tamara alone notices the chill between her sister in law and her husband's friend. "See ya'll later," she murmurs, her eyes drifting over them both as she exits.
"Bye," Marlowe and Lucas chime together. The front door closes with a loud thud that echoes off of the ceiling. They face each other like adversaries bowing gravely before the skirmish begins. Then they simultaneously turn and step towards the living room.
"After you," Lucas murmurs, pulling back.
Marlowe nods, sidesteps, and hustles to the sofa.
Lucas proceeds to the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator and stands there for what seems like an hour contemplating the choices. He isn't hungry but he needs to do something to pull out of the vacant place that he retreats to when he's trying to escape his feelings. He thinks that it is better to be cold than hot; he thinks that it is kindness and good sense to spare others the fluctuations of his temper. Sometimes it is. He can't afford to negotiate his emotions in public; most men can't. But Lucas tends to retreat beyond reach of the women who would seek him out. One after another, his old girlfriends complained that they never could get through to him, that he was somehow untouchable. He wants to keep his line open for Marlowe. She is a woman of careful acts and considered opinions. Though he doesn't enjoy being the object of her caution, he accepts it - caution is usually his way of life.
He scoops a bowl of fat green grapes out of the fridge and then wanders toward the crackle of the television. Because they are adversaries, Lucas sits on the far end of the sofa, leaving the field open between them. "The Price Is Right?" he asks, setting the bowl of grapes in the center of the coffee table.
"It cracks me up what people record on TiVo. Tamara loves game shows. I'm surprised she didn't take her honeymoon in Burbank, CA."
Her answer is polite and informative, but nothing more. Lucas makes an effort to reply in kind. "I'm surprised they're going to Hong Kong. I like the beach; there's nothing to do but lay out, eat, and make love. Honeymoons aren't for sightseeing."
Marlowe peers at him out of the corner of her eye. He delivers his opinion in the same gravelly deadpan with which he delivers compliments and innuendos. The lack of the intense focus that he shines on her like a spotlight is the only way she knows that he isn't flirting with her. "Right," she replies dryly. She is again struck by the odd liberty of his conversation. The private world of Lucas Klein is a hedonist paradise, Marlowe muses. She snickers.
Lucas looks at her.
"Nothing." She clears her throat and draws up her legs beneath her. They sit through most of the show in a comfortable silence until the showcase showdown. The second contestant bids $25,000 on a package including a car and a one week vacation to London.
Marlowe snorts. "Too high."
Lucas drapes his arm over the back of the couch, considering. "London is pretty expensive."
"Not that expensive."
"There's a car."
"It's a Ford Focus. She overbid." They wait in tense silence for the price. "Ha!" Marlowe slaps her thigh. "$24, 475. I won."
"That's almost twenty five," Lucas replies.
"Doesn't matter." Marlowe leans forward and snatches a grape from the cluster. "You can't overbid. I won," she repeats.
Lucas blinks. "You won? I didn't disagree with you."
"You did."
"No."
"Yes you did."
Lucas narrows his eyes. "There's another episode recorded?"
Marlowe picks up the remote, scrolls, and nods.
"Put it on," Lucas says gruffly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.
They bid on every item, debating the suggested price and what they call the 'real world' price. The bowl of grapes rapidly dwindles down as the winner of each round takes more and more grapes for a prize. Marlowe pops hers into her mouth one by one, heckling Lucas with exaggerated trills of pleasure. Lucas crams a handful into his mouth all at once. Then he leans back, drapes his arms across the sofa, and smiles like a satisfied giant. Finally the showcase showdown comes round again. They perch on their knees and lean toward the coffee table like linebackers. The first showcase has a fitness theme; it includes a spa, a nautilus machine, and a selection of skiing and camping equipment.
"Seventeen thousand," Marlowe shouts.
"Sixteen two fifty two."
Marlowe glares at Lucas. "Two fifty two? Where'd you get that from?"
Lucas shrugs. "That's my bid. Yours is too high."
"If I'm too high, why don't you just say sixteen nine ninety nine? How are you gonna say 'sixteen two fifty two' like you know exactly how much everything costs?"
Lucas smirks at her. "You're nervous because you know you're too high."
"I am not too high."
"We'll see." They talked over the second showcase so they don't bid on it. As they wait impatiently for the prices, they each gravitate towards the center of the coffee table, eyeing the three tender grapes that remain. Silence reigns when Bob Barker speaks.
"And the actual retail price of showcase number one is nineteen thousand one hundred forty seven dollars."
Lucas snorts. "Bullshit."
"What?" Marlowe cries, outraged. Indeed, she had thought that her bid was too high. Nineteen grand strikes her as ridiculous. But suddenly she smiles. She may have underbid, but Lucas underbid her by seven hundred forty eight dollars. Marlowe sighs belatedly. "I won," she announces, reaching for the grapes.
Lucas strikes like a bolt of lightening. He grabs the bowl and transfers it to his right hand out of her reach. "How's that?"
"I was closer."
He scoffs. "A minute ago, you said that being close didn't matter."
"That was overbidding. This is underbidding."
Lucas quirks an amused brow. "I'm not buying it. You're trying to hustle me."
Affronted, Marlowe lifts her chin and summons her inner teacher. "It's a different situation, Lucas. When the contestants underbid, the one who comes closest is the winner. Those are the rules."
Lucas studies her carefully. "You think that stuff really costs nineteen thousand dollars?"
Marlowe purses her lips. "That's not the point."
Lucas grins at her, chuckles, and settles back against the couch. He sets the bowl of grapes on the arm of the sofa. "We agree about the price; we can agree to share."
"Share three grapes?" Marlowe says caustically. She stands up and steps towards him. "I'm right and you know it."
Lucas shakes his head. "No way."
"Gimme those grapes, boy."
Lucas taps the edge of the bowl with his fingertip. He's looking at the television but he's watching Marlowe in his peripheral vision. "You want these grapes? Come take them."
She does. She steps right between his knees and leans over. "You are a sore loser," she declares indignantly.
Lucas strikes without warning. He leans forward, grabs her around the waist, and stands, hoisting her over his left shoulder. "You're the sore loser," he says, bouncing her up and down. "You're trying to hustle me. Admit it." The grapes are within reach of her outstretched arm. Lucas pivots, setting her torso flying, and grabs the bowl. He holds out his right arm like a piece of plywood.
Marlowe doesn't shriek or squeal. She straightens and leans over in front of his face, grabbing for the bowl. The shift in her body weight sends them sprawling backwards. There is a frightening screech when the legs of the sofa scrape over the tile; the springs creak and the cushions huff.
They are stunned to silence; they look at each other. Then laughter explodes between them like a burst of confetti. Marlowe climbs off of Lucas' lap and doubles over with a fit of giggling that draws tears from her eyes.
"You think it's broken?" Lucas asks, wheezing.
"If it is, it's your fault," Marlowe replies, sniffing and wiping her eyes. "You fell on it."
"You fell on me."
"You picked me up!" Disbelief tickles her belly and she starts laughing again. She feels so foolish, but it is a good foolishness, the kind that keeps the heart soft and young. She shines the light in her eyes on Lucas.
Her amusement relives him. He acted in the spirit of competition without thinking about the sexual implications of touching her, picking her up, having her fall in a compromising position on his lap. He is struck anew by the fact that she is less aware of him as a man than as a person. The knowledge puts Lucas at ease; it lightens a load that he didn't realize he was carrying. A man's life has the peculiar feature of often standing in the path of rejection, and it is just as often difficult for a man to know what he is being rejected for. Lucas takes comfort in knowing that Marlowe isn't judging him on his dubious charm, tact, and romantic sensibility.
She is bent over the back of the couch now, her trim rump displayed for his viewing pleasure. "Looks fine to me," she calls out.
"Looks fine to me too," Lucas murmurs.
Marlowe rights herself with a huff, raking hair out of her eyes. She smiles. "You're crazy! But you're fun."
"Fun," Lucas repeats softly. He wants to kiss her now while her joy in him is high and her resistance to him is absent. There is something precious and fine in her smile that he has seen in the faces of women who belong to other men. He might call it love if he was sure of what love looks like. Whatever it is, it means that Marlowe belongs with him. "Why do you fight me?"
Marlowe shrinks back and shutters her eyes. "I don't want to make a mistake," she mumbles.
"I would be good for you, Marlowe."
"I know, but . . ." Marlowe pauses suddenly, realizing what she has admitted. All of her second thoughts scatter behind the force of that first one. She can't remember what else she was going to say.
The click and snap of metal against metal break the silence. Locks release; the front door springs open. "Somebody come help," Tamara sings out. "I can't carry this charcoal!" There is a thud as a grocery bag full of canned goods falls to the floor.
Lucas stands up. His gaze lingers on Marlowe before he turns to go to Tamara's rescue.
Marlowe sighs, rises, and bends down to move the couch back to its previous position. She finds the much contested bowl of grapes on the floor. Marlowe plucks the remaining grapes from the cluster and eats them. They are over-warm and soggy, but their soft skins and sweetness burst in her mouth like a long anticipated kiss.
