He looked terrible. Exhausted, overworked, and not himself. She would have thought he would never allow a strand of hair to fall out of place, but his hair wasn’t the only thing rumpled; everything about him looked unkempt. His clothes hung on him, and the top two buttons of his shirt were unfastened. He hadn’t shaved in a couple days, or so it appeared.

“I have had the most exhausting day of my life,” he announced, walking past her and into the apartment.

Bemused, Marjorie remained at the entrance, her hand on the doorknob. She’d expected contrition, guilt, grief, but not this out-and-out appeal for sympathy.

“It’s been one thing after another,” he continued, undaunted. Without invitation, he picked up her remote and cued up the guide at the bottom of the screen.

“Would you like something to drink?” she offered, choosing to ignore his opening statement.

“Please.” He sank onto her sofa and leaned forward to wipe the tiredness from his eyes. He’d planned on calling her hours earlier and inviting her to dinner. Before he could get to a phone, Nancy Brightfield had gone into labor, and he’d spent the next five hours at the hospital with her. The delivery had been difficult, and he hadn’t been able to get away until now. The unexpected trip to the delivery room and the arrival of Baby Brightfield had been a climax to a long, tedious day.

Sam realized that arriving unannounced on Marjorie’s doorstep probably hadn’t been one of his most brilliant ideas, but he wanted to straighten out a few things between them, and delaying the discussion was potentially unwise. He was beginning to know Marjorie Majors, and the message she was bound to read into the canceled appointment would be all wrong.

Marjorie went into her kitchen to survey her meager supply of refreshments. All she could find was a two-liter bottle of flat cola in the back of her refrigerator, a can of tomato juice with a rusty crust over the aluminum top, and a carton of milk she’d been meaning to toss for the past week.

“Is instant coffee all right?”

“Fine, fine.” He really didn’t care. All he really wanted was the chance for a long talk with her. He leaned back and inhaled deeply, paused, then asked, “Do I smell popcorn?”

Grinning, Marjorie stuck her head around the corner of her kitchen. Nothing smelled better than freshly popped popcorn. “Want some?”

Sam shook his head. “No, thanks. I haven’t had any dinner.”

“This is my dinner.”

His face twisted into a mock scowl that revealed his amusement. She had to be joking with him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

Sam jumped up from the couch with a reserve of energy he hadn’t realized he possessed. “You can’t eat that for dinner…It’s unhealthy.”