Carole was cooking dinner in the kitchen when he arrived, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk to her, so he called out a cursory greeting, threw his briefcase on the hall tree, grabbed a Newsweek from the magazine rack, and locked himself in the bathroom. He stayed in there for almost a half hour, until Carole knocked on the door and asked if he was going to spend the night on the toilet or come out and eat. He yelled that he’d be out in a minute, and when he walked into the dining room, the table was set and the good china was out. In the center of the table was a full salad bowl, a plate of mashed potatoes, and a small basket of rolls.

Uh-oh, he thought.

Carole emerged from the kitchen carrying a silver tray upon which sat a delicious-smelling roast.

“What is it?” he asked as she placed the tray on the table.

“What is what?”

“This.” He gestured around the table. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I’m in a good mood and I wanted to have a nice dinner. Is that a crime?”

“No, it’s not a crime. But you don’t usually go to all this trouble unless you want something. Or…” He looked at her. “Did you have an accident? Is the car dented?”

She glared at him. “That’s insulting. I told you, I was just in a good mood.” She paused. “Was.”

They stared at each other for a moment, then Carole turned and strode back into the kitchen. Norton sat down to eat. The food looked delicious, and he piled his plate high with generous helpings of everything. Carole returned, placing a glass of milk before him.

They ate for a while in silence, a welcome change and a state of affairs he thoroughly enjoyed, but Carole was obviously discomfited by the lack of conversation, and she finally broke down.

“Don’t you even want to know why I’m in a good mood? Why I’m happy?”

He sighed. “Why are you happy?”

“Because we had our first CLO meeting of the season.”

“So what are you doing this year? Annie again? The world always needs more amateur productions of Annie.”

She slammed her fork down on the table. “You pompous ass.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why do you always have to belittle everything that I do?”

“I don’t belittle everything you do.”

“What do you call it, then?”

“I’m not—”

“Not what? Criticizing? You sure the hell are. And for your information, we’re doing Sondheim’s Company this year.” She glared at him. “And don’t you dare say we don’t have the talent for it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said.