For a woman who'd been married for over twelve years, Marian Paroo Hill did an awful lot of blushing.

Yet this hadn't always been the case; it was only since she had returned from Paris that she had started to revive this irritating habit. Marriage to Harold, coupled with the birth of two girls who were far more adventurous and forward than she would ever dare to be, soon cured Marian of her maidenly innocence. Certainly, she retained the vestiges of primness that had always defined her character, but life with her vivacious husband and daughters had taught her just how enjoyable – and right – it could be to flout the stifling strictures of propriety.

Still, Marian prided herself on being the anchor and the moral compass of her family, ensuring that good sense and decency were maintained amidst the madness of their grand schemes and dizzying dreams. In one of their many moments of levity, Harold joked that their family could be likened to a hurricane: he and the girls were the whirling winds, and she was the serene eye at the center of the storm. Marian had laughed and rolled her eyes, but secretly, she thought it an apt comparison. And she imagined that many of the River City-ziens, had they been familiar with this particular force of nature, would have agreed with this assessment.

But that all changed on the warm day in the middle of May when Marian and Harold boarded the train for their trip to Paris. Since they were leaving on an evening train and wouldn't arrive to New York City until the next morning, Harold had insisted on booking a private compartment. Ever frugal, even when faced with the prospect of a second honeymoon, Marian had urged her husband to forgo such luxuries to keep their expenses down. But he waved away her objections, telling her he hadn't been saving up for this vacation for the last several years to begin skimping on comfort now. And since he had never taken her on a proper honeymoon tour, he meant to make up for it by traveling in the grandest style they could afford.

Touched by the lengths he had gone to plan a romantic getaway, Marian dropped the issue – in her years of marriage and motherhood, she had also learned the wisdom of choosing her battles wisely. And when the door to their compartment closed behind them, she was grateful for her husband's foresight. Marian hadn't traveled so great a distance on a train since she and her family had come to River City from Cincinnati all those years ago and, as exciting an experience as it was, it was also a bit nerve-wracking.

Harold began to draw the shades to give them even more privacy, but Marian motioned for him to leave them open for the time being; she had never traveled so far from home, and didn't want to miss a single sight. But as she stared out the windows, eagerly noting every landmark they passed, she felt herself start to nod off. Harold, ever attentive to his wife's state of being, led her away from the window and maneuvered her into a lying position on the couchette. Marian let him move her without protest; by then, the sun was sinking below the horizon, and it was getting too dark to see much of anything.

Exhausted, she fell asleep as soon as her head came to rest on the pillow Harold had placed on the seat for her. The steady motion of the train was as soporific as being lulled to sleep in a mother's arms; Marian slept soundly for the next several hours. It wasn't until the train went over a particularly rough patch of track that she was jolted awake.

Bewildered, Marian sat up and assessed her surroundings. The first thing she noted was that the shades were still open; the sun had just started to rise, bathing the sky in the pale, rosy light of early morning. Looking around the compartment, she spied Harold's suit-coat draped on the couchette opposite hers. Stretching out her arm, Marian managed to snag his jacket by the sleeve and bring it to her. Checking the front pockets, she located and retrieved her husband's watch. It was four fifteen – only three more hours until they arrived to New York City.

But why wasn't Harold on the other couchette, along with his suit-coat? Turning around, she saw he had ensconced himself in the space between her pillow and the wall. Despite sitting upright, he was sound asleep, his head lolling against the back of the seat.

Normally, Marian would have awakened him immediately; it wouldn't do to let him stay in such a cramped position. But her breath caught at the sight of her husband, and she could only stare at him. He had loosened his tie a bit and rolled up his sleeves, and a few errant locks of hair were tumbling over his forehead. By now, Marian was quite used to seeing Harold in such a state of undress, but something about this situation made her heart beat faster. Perhaps it was because even though they were behind closed doors, they were still in public.

Certainly, Marian was no longer the wide-eyed innocent she had been when she first married Harold, but she had always attempted to maintain an appropriate decorum while they were in public. Still, there were times when even she found decorum tiresome. And they were alone – the door to their compartment was locked and, even if it wasn't, everyone else on the train was likely to be asleep. Who would ever know if she bestowed a little well-deserved affection on the man she loved? Leaning in and brushing her lips against his, Marian coaxed her husband awake with gentle kisses.

At first, Harold flinched at her touch, but when he opened his eyes and realized what was happening, he gave her a broad smile. "Well, that's an awfully nice way to wake up," he said appreciatively. "What brought that on?"

"I thought you would be more comfortable stretching out on the other couchette for a few hours, until we get to New York," Marian replied, sensible even in her impulsivity. "Sleeping in a sitting position isn't good for one's back or neck."

Harold's arms encircled her waist. "The other couchette would indeed have been more comfortable," he agreed. "But also a lot lonelier."

"Oh, Harold," she scolded – though her amused smile ruined the effect.

"Well, being seated next to you as you reclined was the only way we could both fit on one couchette," he said in a teasing voice.

Even after so many years of marriage, Harold still enjoyed his little game of trying to turn her cheeks crimson. And he might just have succeeded in this instance – if Marian had been in a blushing mood. But she most decidedly was not. Perhaps it was giddiness at the prospect of carefree days ahead, or excitement at being this alone with her husband for the first time since the birth of their daughters, or even the dizzying sense of freedom that came from realizing not a soul on that train knew who they were. Whatever the reason, Marian was suddenly feeling quite brazen.

She raised an eyebrow at her husband's ribald remark. "Is that the only way, indeed?" she asked archly. "What a shame."

To her delight, Harold's eyes widened, and his jaw actually dropped. "Marian," he said wonderingly.

"Well, you did say you wanted to take me on a proper honeymoon tour," she reasoned, giving him a sly smile as her fingers slowly but deftly undid his bowtie.

It didn't take Harold long to get into the spirit of things. "That I did," he agreed with a grin, his mouth descending over hers as his hands made quick work of the buttons on the front of her blouse.

Even after they had disembarked from the train, cheeks still flushed from their exertions and clothes slightly rumpled, Marian felt no shame. After all, it really was no different than if they had stayed in a hotel room together. And it was delicious, the way Harold kept looking at her with an expression of dazed amazement. She had always been the predictable, steady presence in their relationship, and she was finding it extremely enjoyable to thwart her husband's expectations.

So Marian had continued behaving in a bold, unconventional manner while they were in Paris. Knowing no one, she felt immense freedom to indulge in liberties she would not have dreamed of taking while in River City; one of her first acts when they arrived to the City of Lights was to go to the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and purchase a few daring, fashionable dresses that would have made Mrs. Shinn and her ladies faint, should they have seen her thus clothed. Harold, of course, applauded his wife's newfound flapper tendencies and convinced her to complete her new ensembles with hats, gloves and shoes. With her blonde bob and still-slender figure, Marian looked as stunning as any Parisian woman and, with her elegant French, surprised and disappointed many a Frenchman when she revealed she was not only an American, but married, as well.

But as much as Marian enjoyed herself with Harold, she expected things would go back to normal once they had returned to River City. With her many responsibilities and scrupulous reputation to maintain, she couldn't engage in the idle frivolity of the flapper lifestyle indefinitely. Nor did she desire to do so; as their time together in Paris drew to a close, the librarian was looking forward to getting back to her regular routines. So when she and Harold returned home, Marian put her stylish dresses and other accessories into storage, and resumed her usual modest attire and demeanor.

But Harold seemed to have other ideas. He began showing up at the library every night to walk her home – often escorting her there by way of the footbridge. Sometimes he even visited her during the afternoons, whisking her off to a dim corner on some flimsy pretext so he could whisper heated endearments and steal breathless kisses. Though Marian knew it was silly for a woman of her age to be so thrilled by such gestures, she couldn't help reveling in Harold's attentions; she hadn't felt this giddy since they had courted all those years ago.

Of course, Marian was aware there were certain River City-ziens (or "jealous old cats," as Harold liked to say) who deemed it undignified that a man and woman who had been married as long as they should carry on like a couple of lovesick teenagers. But Marian refused to let this bother her; as long as she and Harold kept their ardor behind closed doors, it was no one's affair but their own.

However, the librarian was finding, to her great chagrin, that she and her husband had vastly different ideas about what "behind closed doors" meant.

One evening in early September, when Marian was washing the dinner dishes, she felt a pair of hands firmly grasp her hips and trail unabashedly lower, giving her a brazen pinch before coming to rest on the curve of her thighs.

"Harold!" she remonstrated, moving away. "Rather bold of you, don't you think?"

But he only laughed and slid his arms around her waist. "If a man can't goose his wife in the privacy of his own kitchen, then where can he indulge in such luxuries, my dear little librarian?"

"Where are Penny and Elly?" Marian asked in a pointed voice.

"Happily indisposed – I sent them off to the movies," he said nonchalantly, dropping a kiss on the curve of her neck.

"On a school night?" she said disapprovingly. "You spoil the girls too much, Harold."

Marian felt him shrug. "Why can't they go to the movies? They've finished their assignments. And I gave them strict instructions to be home by bedtime."

He continued his teasing and tickling of her neck with his lips. With a laugh, Marian scooted out of his embrace. "Harold, at least let me finish the dishes first!"

Harold caught her hand and spun her around to face him. "Madam Librarian, we have three hours, possibly four," he said in his low, velvety voice. "And I don't intend to waste a single second." To prove his point, he turned her hand over, lifted it to his lips and planted a gentle kiss on her upturned palm. From there, his mouth traced a languid path to her wrist.

Letting out a soft sigh, Marian surrendered willingly to her husband's ministrations – though she couldn't help eying the unfinished dishes. She knew from past experience that Harold did indeed intend to make use of every minute they had alone together and, though she eagerly anticipated his caresses, it wouldn't do for her to neglect her duties.

Sensing his wife's reticence, Harold dropped her hand with a sigh. "Marian, are the dishes really that important, right now?"

"If I leave the dishes, the food will set into them, and they'll take even longer to clean," she replied with a touch of exasperation in her voice. "And what kind of example would I be setting for the girls, should they come home and see a sink full of dirty dishes still sitting there, several hours after supper?"

After Marian said this, she braced herself for her husband's retort – they had been having these types of arguments often since their return from Paris – but Harold's shoulders slumped. "Very well, then," he said tersely, and left the kitchen.

For once, Marian had won, but it wasn't a victory she relished. It wasn't like Harold to cede without a fuss, and his strange behavior worried her. Anxious to make amends, she hastily completed the dishes and sought out her miffed husband.

Marian came upon Harold in the parlor; he was sitting in his favorite armchair and reading the paper, as if nothing was amiss. When he gave no indication he had heard her approach, she cleared her throat.

"Yes, dear?" Harold asked in a nonchalant voice, lowering the newspaper slightly so he could peek at her over the top of it.

"I've finished the dishes," she said shyly, a faint blush suffusing her cheeks.

Harold gave her a vague smile. "That's nice," he said absently, and went back to his paper.

If they had been in Paris, Marian wouldn't have hesitated to march right over, tear the newspaper from his hands, and give him a searing kiss to let him know she meant business. But since their arrival home, she had lost the nerve to attempt anything so brazen.

So Marian resorted to her usual coy hints. "I think I'll retire for the evening."

"You do that," her husband agreed, still ensconced behind his newspaper.

Marian's irritation overruled her timidity. "Well, aren't you going to join me?" she snapped.

"How can a man resist such an invitation, especially when uttered in such sweet, dulcet tones?" he said sardonically. Harold lowered the paper, and she saw he looked as annoyed as she had sounded. "But are you sure there isn't some other chore you have to finish first?"

"Not at the moment," she replied coolly, her eyes narrowing. "But I can find one, if you want. Cleaning up after you and Penny and Elly is a full-time job in itself!" Harold opened his mouth to respond, but Marian breezed over his protests. "And let me remind you, Professor Hill, I do that in addition to looking after the library, as well as all the hours I put in at the music emporium, helping you! What do you do outside the emporium but come home and eat the dinner I've prepared, console the girls with kisses after I've rightfully scolded them, give them treats and send them to the movies without even consulting me first – and then, when I don't immediately fall into your arms at the end of a long and tiring day, march in here and sulk behind that darn newspaper?"

Marian meant to deliver the last sentence in a blistering tone, but her voice cracked. Furious at herself for displaying such vulnerability, she turned and went back into the kitchen before she lost even more control.

As she gripped the edge of the counter, tears streaming down her cheeks, Harold came up behind her and drew her into his arms. "Forgive me, Marian," he said contritely. "I truly am grateful for everything you do for our family, even if I don't always say so. You're a wonderful mother, a wonderful librarian, a wonderful second-in-command at the emporium." He sighed. "But sometimes, darling, I wish you would just be my wife."

Marian, who had been about to apologize for losing her temper, pulled out of her husband's embrace and whirled around to face him. "And what, precisely, do you mean by that?" she asked, her eyes flashing with anger. When he didn't answer right away, she went on, "Perhaps I might have delayed our embraces, but when have I ever refused you outright?"

Harold shifted uncomfortably; from his rueful expression, it was clear he regretted bringing up the subject at all. "You haven't," he concurred – though he averted his eyes from her sharp gaze. "I know how busy you are, and I should have been more understanding about the dishes earlier. I should have been more understanding about a lot of things. I will be in the future, I can promise you that."

It would have been so easy for Marian to accept his apology and change the subject, but her pride wouldn't allow her to let his remark pass with no further challenge. And the bitterness in his voice alarmed her; as difficult and awkward as it was to broach such a delicate topic, she refused to live with a resentful husband. "Obviously, you aren't happy with me, Harold," she said in a measured, straightforward tone, striving to keep her own resentment at bay, "and I want to know why."

Harold met her gaze again, and Marian was startled to see a pained look in his eyes. "I just… want you, Marian," he said earnestly, his voice heavy with emotion. "I want you all to myself occasionally, if that's not too much to ask."

Stunned, Marian gaped at her husband. "You do have me."

Harold shook his head. "Not entirely. I want all of you, Marian; not you with one ear trained to the phone lest someone call with tales of the twins' misdeeds, not you with one eye casting worried glances at unfinished chores." He stepped closer to her. "I want to hear you moan when we make love – or sigh, or shout, or wail, as the mood suits you. I miss the way you used to let yourself go with me, the way you did in Paris."

"In Paris, we were alone," she whispered, close to tears.

"We're alone now," he gently countered.

Undone by the pleading look in her husband's eyes, Marian wrapped her arms around him. "Harold, I want you just as much as I ever have," she shyly confessed. "Even if I don't always say so."

"Oh, darling," he breathed, and gave her a fiercely passionate kiss.

When they broke apart, gasping for breath, Marian expected to see a triumphant smile on Harold's face, or perhaps a mischievous gleam in his eyes. But he simply looked at her with sheer longing. "Marian," he said solemnly, "do you know that I love you even more than I did twelve years ago when I first brought you home as my bride?"

Unable to think of an equally moving response to such a heartfelt declaration, Marian kissed him. But that was eloquent enough for Harold; with a groan, he pressed closer to her. As his hands feverishly roamed her body, she wrapped her leg around his hip. He immediately caressed her thigh, which made her moan and arch her back against him. Soon his hand slipped beneath her dress, his fingers fumbling impatiently with her garters as he attempted to unfasten them.

Her sense of decorum getting the better of her again, Marian's lips parted from his. "Perhaps we ought to continue this upstairs," she suggested.

"Are you sure, Madam Librarian?" he asked archly as he began to roll down her stocking. "We are alone in the house, after all… "

"We're not that alone," she laughed, covering his hand with hers. "Suppose the girls were to come home early?"

Harold sighed and stopped undressing her. Marian steeled herself for another argument, but before she could say anything, he swept her up in his arms and whisked her up the stairs to their bedroom.