Chapter 26: In Pencil

On Monday night, at closing, someone knocked on the glass with one knuckle.

I knew whose knuckle it was.

I let him knock twice more, which cost me nothing and felt wonderful.

Then I turned the key and opened the door.

Cain stood on the step with snow on his shoulders and a thick folder under his arm.

"Ms. Bell," he said, and winced. "Mara."

"Come in before the heat gets out."

"I brought something."

"If it's a coat, I have one."

"It's a draft."

He put the folder on the counter and opened it.

It was eleven pages, stapled, with colored tabs down the side.

"You wrote a contract," I said.

"I wrote it myself. No lawyers. I want that on the record."

"It has a definitions section."

"It's short."

I read the first definition aloud.

"'Mara' means the person previously referred to as Ms. Bell."

"That one is for clarity."

"The second one says 'Cain' means you."

"I didn't want to assume."

I turned the page.

"Clause three. 'The parties shall ask before acting on behalf of the other.'"

I looked up.

"That's mine," I said. "You stole my clause."

"I developed it independently. It has an exception."

"Of course it does."

"'Except where the other party is in a burning building.'"

"Cross it out."

"It's a reasonable emergency."

"If I'm in a burning building, you may say 'she's talking' to the fire."

He took the pencil from behind my ear and crossed it out himself.

That felt like a good sign, so I read on.

"Clause seven. 'The parties shall eat dinner together on Sundays, menu to be approved by Mara.'"

"Approved by you."

"Cain, there's a footnote."

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