He could move in tomorrow if they were willing to surrender the idea of having more children, but then there would be nothing to work for or aspire to. This time she would not feel it alone. It was true that while he had been a cop he had had a sense of direction. He could settle no more than she for a life in which the goal was money. While they had this apparent impasse, they had the illusion of direction: they could believe that they were getting closer, closer to being able to do it all. The hope was that he could make his business big enough and important enough to fill the needs of both of them. Then she would not be afraid of what tending children could do. They had agreed on it long ago. She was thirty-seven years old and having children now would shatter her youth. Yet she looked forward to it. They were getting closer; beneath the illusion was a very real hope. It was still too soon to think about, much less discuss again. They stayed half in illusion, half in fact, and involved in a necessary myth they never discussed. He loved her more than ever, she loved him. They had accomplished that. And they were not worried about Steffie. From where they had found themselves, it was a long way to have come.

The shower stopped. He thought of her drying herself in the clouds of steam. He grabbed again at one of the magazines, then reached for the newspaper. He looked at his picture, “WAR HERO COP WHO TRACKED DOWN LEIKMAN’S KILLER.” That was enough. He put the newspaper and the magazines on the floor.

She came out. She was wearing a long flannel nightgown and she had brushed her hair back from her face. Her skin, the little he could see of it now, was pink from the hot water. Her powder and eye makeup were gone, and her green eyes seemed pale compared to the way he was used to seeing them. She opened the window. She could not sleep without fresh air; the nightgown was a guard against catching cold.

She got into bed and made herself comfortable on her back. She looked up at him. “Share a cigarette with me?”

“I thought I was smoking too much.”

She smiled mischievously. “You’re not afraid of a little cancer, are you?”

“There’s a joke about that.”

“You told me. That’s why I said it.” She watched him light the cigarette. He offered it to her. Her body radiated warmth. He could smell the soap mixed with the oils of her skin. “I didn’t check on you,” she said. “Did you look at the paper?”

“At my picture. If I had any sense, I’d send them a new one.” He took the cigarette.

“Turn out the light.”

He did. “The shower make you feel better?”