His touch was distorting whatever semblance of perspective she had - she was so confused. She shook herself from him and pressed him back with both fists. "Wait. Stop. Just what do you expect me to think? One minute that little bitch is sucking tuna fish off my husband's fingers, the next she's traipsing out your front door!"
"I don't expect you to think what you're thinking," he said calmly. Too calm, she was beginning to see, to be guilty.
"But Jean-Pierre," Greta said, still not sure, "why haven't you told me about her?"
He shrugged. "What is there to tell?" He took her wrists in his hands. "Do you really think she and I are something?"
"She's very pretty," Greta said. "And very young."
"Not as beautiful as you are to me," he said, kissing away the creases on her forehead. "Greta. I live here, and I make love to you. Ms. Maupin, who, as you are now aware, is your husband's lover, lives in San Francisco. How many times, Greta, has he told you he's working late at the office? Do you ever check on him when he goes away? Are you so certain he isn't just fifty miles from home and at her place, not where he says he's going." He touched his finger to her chin. "Need I go on?"
She met his eyes. "No," she said quietly, and he kissed her. Well, Matthew, she thought, tit for tat, and told herself to let it go. Then she remembered how this whole crazy afternoon had started.
She held up the receipt.
"When do I start packing?" she said and gave the form a little shake.
He took it and opened it and smiled and wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her chest and lifted her off the ground. "We're going home!" he hooted.