“No. I always take everything to the dry cleaner next door to the Challenger.” He poured the coffee, laced it with milk and sugar. “Let’s go. Are you still putting the matchbook in the door like I showed you?”

“Yes. Every time I leave the house.”

“Good.” He picked up the suitcase and went downstairs.

The MG, as if on its best behavior, started right up. “I’ll take you to Naomi Avenue,” I said, “so you can change before you go to work. I’ve never seen this famous place with its hot plate and garage.”

“No. I’ll go to Clara Bow Drive with you. I’ll call a cab from there.”

“I can take the time.”

“No. I’ll call a cab. It’s better that way.”

“What way?”

“Just let’s go to the office.”

“Why can’t I drive you to Naomi? What’s suddenly so wrong, Terrence?”

Terrence took a deep breath, like the kind you do when you’re out there in the ocean, and you see a really big wave coming at you, and you know the only way to avoid its crashing down on you is to go under, deep down, to duck beneath the onslaught. “When there comes the day, Roxanne, that whatever’s wrong or right with us is just you and me, well, fine, but it ain’t that day now. Not in Montgomery, and not in Malibu, and it sure as hell ain’t that way on Central Avenue.”

“I don’t understand.” I took my eyes from the road and glanced over at him.

His gaze was straight ahead, his mouth firm, emotionless as a figure on a medallion.

“I been gone five months to Alabama, and when I come home, I cannot be driving up Central Avenue, or anywhere near it, with you in a fine little British sports car.”

“Is it the car?”

Terrence gave a harsh, rueful laugh. “You are the living end, girl! Do you really think that?”

My birthmark flushed. “You don’t want to be seen with me.”

“It’s not personal.”

“You always say that.” We rode in silence. The tension between us seemed to generate toxic fumes, or maybe that was just more trouble with the MG. “Are you ashamed of me? Of loving me?”

“I came to you first. I missed you something terrible. Isn’t that enough for you?”

Terrence turned on the radio, and the Platters came on with “The Great Pretender.” He turned his face away from me, and switched off the radio before it finished. He kept his gaze out the window.

“You are ashamed, aren’t you? You are ashamed of me, of loving me!”