Rose downplayed the day's difficulties when she told Jack about them. She knew he would understand and even sympathize, but she didn't want that. She wanted him to think she was capable and intelligent enough to handle anything, even real life. Most of all, she wanted him to be proud of her. Nearly failing and going back anyway, in her mind, didn't compare to succeeding from the start. "How is your job going?" she asked.
"It's pretty good," he replied. "I'm getting along with everyone; my boss's a nice guy. He's paying me every day instead of every week, so that's great."
"How did you manage that?"
He shrugged. "I just asked. Told him I'd just gotten here and needed the money to get by, that I had a wife—" He paused. When she didn't speak, he went on, "That's how I think of you. Whether it's technically true or not, that's what you are to me." She reached out a laid her hand over his.
…
The cold held on. The only way to keep their room even semi-warm was to keep the radiator on even when they weren't there. "We're gonna move soon," Jack assured her. "We'll find something better."
"This isn't so bad," she said. "I don't expect very much. Even with both of us working there still won't be a lot of money to spare, and we aren't staying in New York forever, are we?"
"No," he answered. "But we can't leave without saving up a little and definitely not before summer." Before, he would have traveled in any weather and with no money if the urge for going came upon him. He slept under bridges, on benches, in barns, hay stacks, boxcars, and even once in a cave. He worked for meals or rides to the next town. He walked and foraged for food when there was no work or no kind strangers. Jack hadn't forgotten the skills of his rural upbringing. He knew how to hunt and fish, how to mark a trail, which plants were safe to eat and to touch, how to tell the time by the sun and directions by the stars. He wanted to show those skills to Rose and to teach them to her. He wanted her to know what it was like to sleep beneath an open sky, to dive from summer heat into a cold lake, to cross the country seeing things no conventional traveler ever did. But he didn't want her to know the risks involved. He hated the thought of her cold or hungry, and he had been both plenty of times. He didn't want her to know what it was like to be pushed out of town for "vagrancy" or threatened. There had to be a way to preserve the dream without exposing her to its harshest elements.
Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. "Where will we go?" she asked, leaning toward him.
"Where do you want to go?"
"We can't do directly to California; what fun would that be?" she said. "But I want to end up there, eventually. Maybe we'll get there by next summer."
"You've been thinking about this, haven't you?" he said. Her excitement was infectious. He saw them doing in. He saw them leaving New York with just the few things they needed and heading somewhere—anywhere—new.
"A little," she admitted. "Actually, I've been thinking about it since that first afternoon when we said we'd go to the pier."
"Me to," he said with a grin. "Not just about going out there, but about all of it, traveling with you, being with you."
"Let's not move," Rose suggested. "Unless it's to somewhere cheaper. Why spend money on a a place if we aren't going to stay there? Jack, I want to go as soon as we're able."
"Alright," he agreed. "We'll save everything we can, and we'll go during the summer."
"Do you promise?"
"I promise."
She threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. Kissing his cheek, she said, "I know it's going to be wonderful."
For the next week and a half, Rose made it to work with time to spare. She put a pot of coffee onto brew before Mr. Wheaton arrived and had a cup ready when he asked for it. Her coffee was still far from the quality she had promised, but it improved each day. Unfortunately, it was one of the only things that improved steadily. Every time she mastered a task a new hurdle appeared. It felt like she was always running behind, desperately trying to catch up. There was no-one to ask for help. She had barely spoken to any of the other secretaries. They only appeared slightly friendlier than Myra, whom she had only seen one other time. To make matters worse, the heat in the office was uneven. In the hallways it was almost as cold as outside, while in her office and the other rooms, it was uncomfortably warm.
Rose kept wearing Cal's coat at Jack's insistence. By chance as she put it on to go home Friday afternoon, she stuck her hand in one of the pockets. It wasn't something she had done before; she preferred to put her hands in the sleeves to protect them from the cold. She carried nothing with her, aside from her room key, which she wore on a ribbon around her neck, and a small paper bag for lunch.
The diamond was cold against her hand. She knew what it was instantly. Her brow furrowed. Turning her back to the door, she pulled it out. It shone even brighter in the drab office. Rose turned it over in her hand. Cal must have put it there, but why? He hadn't planned to put the coat on her; he probably hadn't realized what he'd done until it was too late. He couldn't have demanded it back after they were in the boat.
In the other pocket she found two perfectly bound stacks of twenties, the kind Cal always carried in his safe. Uneasiness crept down her spine. It was hard to believe he would just let the money and the diamond go. He had to be looking for them, didn't he? She shoved both back into their respective pockets and hurried outside.
….
She rushed in, nearly slamming the door behind her. The further she walked, the more nervous she had become. Jack turned from the window, startled by the sound. "What's wrong?" he asked, moving toward her. She struggled to catch her breath. The frigid air burned her lungs. She reached into her pockets and held their contents out to him. He looked from one hand to the other, too surprised to speak. Finally, he said, "Where did you get them?"
"They were in the pockets," she explained. "They've been there the whole time. I just never noticed them. I thought it was a heavy coat, but I never imagined I was carrying around something like this. I can't believe they didn't fall out."
"What are we gonna do with them?"
"I don't know," she said. "I was hoping you knew."
Jack was at a loss. This was an entirely new kind of problem for him. "We can't sell the necklace," he said. He held it up to the light. It still impressed him, despite its origins. How could he not be awed by something so perfect? Its color was so rich and deep; it was the kind of blue he dreamed about painting. "He has to know it's gone," Jack went on. "He probably reported it stolen. Again," he added, an edge in his voice.
"I don't want to sell it," Rose said. "It means something to me now. I wore it the first time you drew me. It's a symbol of their night, and I can't help liking it now because of that."
"I hadn't thought about it that way," he replied. "You're right. We should keep it, if only for that. But the money—"
"I don't want it," she said firmly. "It would be like asking Cal for help, and I'm sure things will never be so hopeless we have to resort to that."
"You want to throw it away?" he asked, somewhat taken aback.
"What if we give it away?" she suggested. "There must be someone else who needs it more than we do."
"Are you sure you want to do that?" he said. He had never seen, let alone held, this much money, and part of him wanted to keep it—or at least a portion of it. It would make their lives infinitely easier, especially since they were just starting out. They would be assured of plenty of food, a place to live, and warm clothes. Disgust rolled over him. What was he thinking? Keep Cal's money? Spend Cal's money? They both had their health; they both had jobs. What was he so worried about? They were getting by. There was no reason to think that would change. He didn't know what each day would bring, but so what? He had never known. He never would have taken Cal's money before; he'd already refused it once, and he wouldn't take it now. They could manage to keep themselves clothed and fed on their own.
"I'm sure," she said. "I don't want anything that money can buy. I don't want anything from him ever again."
…
They gave the money to a home for orphans. They put it in a bag and dropped it in the collection box, leaving before anyone noticed them. Jack felt a weight lift off his shoulders as they walked away. Nothing had ever tempted him as strongly as those stacks of cash, and he was still reeling from the experience. He saw a side of himself he didn't know, a side that was grateful for windfall, no matter what the source. He didn't like it. He never wavered in his decision not to keep the money—not even a little—but he'd lain awake the previous night, listening to the doubts, to this new side's arguments.
Don't you want better food for her? Don't you want her to have more clothes? She has you to take care of her; she shouldn't have to work. How can you call yourself her husband? How can you call yourself a man and let that happen? He owes this money to you; he owes it to both of you. Have you forgotten what he did? He had you arrested for something you didn't do. You were left to drown. He hit Rose. He made her miserable. Keep it; make your life together better with it. It's the ultimate revenge.
But he didn't want revenge. He wanted to live. He wanted them both to have what they needed. He wanted to be happy and for Rose to be happy. But he didn't want Cal to have any part in that, and he didn't want Cal's misery. That would have been a waste of energy. And if he took the money it would be like admitting he wasn't good enough for Rose after all. If he kept it, he would be saying Cal was the better man, smarter, more capable, the one truly worthy of Rose. Jack was determined not to do that.
….
A flaw in Rose's thinking emerged the next day. It was all well and good to have high minded ideas about love and relationships alone with Jack, but the rest of the world had yet to catch up with them. She had just finished lunch and was about to go brew the afternoon coffee when Mr. Wheaton walked in. "Good afternoon, Miss Dawson," he said cheerfully. He was in his forties, Rose guessed, with dark hair beginning to grey at the temples and hazel eyes. His features were unremarkable, but his build was good. His suits were well-cut and fit him perfectly. She hadn't formed much of an opinion about him yet. Their interactions had been limited to greetings, farewells, and instructions.
One morning, when there was little to do, she had briefly wondered about his personal life. Did he have a wife? Did he have children? The most intimate thing she knew about him was his first name: Allen. Even in her head she never called him that; he was always Mr. Wheaton. No other name suited him.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Wheaton," she replied pleasantly. "I was just going to make the coffee."
He waved his hand dismissively. "There's no hurry," he said. "In fact, I'm back early. You still have a little time left for lunch."
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm finished anyway." She tried to move around her desk, but he blocked her path. He leaned against the desk's edge, his body relaxed, as if to suggest a casual meeting between friends. "Do you need something?" she asked. His behavior was a bit unusual, but she didn't attach any significance to it. Perhaps he was always this way with his secretaries, once he got used to them.
"No," he assured her. "There's nothing I need right now."
"Well, I'll just go make the coffee then."
But he kept blocking her path. A small anxiety knot began to form in her stomach. What was he doing? Why wouldn't he let her by?
"Miss Dawson—" he began. "It is Miss, isn't it? You're not married?"
Rose searched for the correct answer. Technically, no, she wasn't married, but would saying so mean denying Jack and what she had with him? Yes, she decided, it would. But saying she was married would be a lie, and if she was, why hadn't she once corrected him when he called her Miss instead of Mrs.? It seemed there was no correct answer. He looked at her expectantly.
"No," she blurted out. She immediately regretted saying it. His eyes gleamed; it was a look she recognized. Cal had often worn a similar expression. "I see," he said slowly. Was it her imagination, or was he moving closer? She took a step back. "That young man I've seen you with, he isn't your husband then?" he asked. He glanced down at her left hand. Rose slipped her hands behind her back. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. "No," she said, keeping her voice steady. "He's my fiancé." She hated herself for lying, but she wasn't sure what else to do.
"Oh," he said. "I see." But his expression didn't change. He stood up. "I'll be in my office," he said, brushing his hand down her bare arm.
When he was gone, Rose sank into her chair, arms clasped around her middle. The knot in her stomach was larger now. She rubbed her hand across the part of her arm he had touched.
…..
Rose left as early as she could. Nothing else happened, but she wanted out of there nonetheless. As she hurried home, she tried to decide whether or not to tell Jack. He had a right to know, but how would he react? He would be angry; she was sure of that. But would he be angry with her? She had said they weren't married. Did that make it her fault? Had she done something, expressed an interest in his attentions somehow?
A new thought appeared. What if she was overreacting? He hadn't actually done anything to her; he barely touched her. He hadn't threatened or propositioned her. Everything had been implied. Yes, it could be in her imagination. He would say it was all in her head, or worse, that she was deliberately making it up. She couldn't upset Jack over nothing. This was something she would have to deal with herself, if there was indeed something to be dealt with.
…..
The rest of the week went by without incident, and Rose put it out of her mind, sure she had exaggerated the exchange. When she woke up Saturday morning, Jack was already dressed. Breakfast was on the table, and a water glass had been filled with violets. "Good morning," he said with a smile. He leaned down and kissed her temple. "Well, good morning," she replied brightly. "What's all this?"
"Breakfast."
"You got up early on your day off to make it," she said. "And you went out to get flowers."
"Yeah," he shrugged. "Now, come eat. I got a whole day planned."
"You do?" Her surprise was visible. She slipped into a discarded shirt of his and took a seat at the table. "I do," he said. "But, I'm not gonna tell you anything. It's a surprise."
"A surprise? What's the occasion?"
"No occasion," he answered. "I realized we haven't done anything yet. We haven't explored the city at all. We've gone to work and come home every day since we got here, and that's unacceptable."
"I see." She couldn't help smiling.
…..
They spent the morning at an inexpensive art museum. The selection was small, but they were the only visitors and could linger as long as they wanted. After that, Jack took her to lunch in a small café. It was a cloudless, warm day. The cold snap appeared to finally be over. They sat at a sidewalk table, watching people go by and basking in the sunlight.
"Are you sure we can afford this?" Rose asked, scanning the prices on the menu. Nothing was over a dollar; most things were less than fifty cents, but spending money on a single meal rather than ingredients for several, made her uneasy. It seemed reckless.
"I'm sure," he said. "Don't worry, Honey-Rose. I know we said we'd save everything for traveling, but I put a little aside for today."
"When?"
"Remember when I said I needed more paper? I didn't get any," he explained. "And those pants I got the other day? I talked the guy down to half price. And I worked through lunch a few days, made a little extra that way."
"Jack, you shouldn't do that," she said. "You can't go all day without eating, especially not if you're working."
"Sure I can," he replied. "I've done it before. I've gone several days without eating and walked and worked. It's not that bad; I can handle it."
"I don't want you doing that," she said. "Not for me, anyway. If you had to it would be different, but—"
"But I wanted to," he interrupted. "Rose, I wanted us to have this day. I wanted to take you out for a meal." He grinned. "I wanted people to see us together."
"Do you promise you won't do it again?"
"Alright. I promise."
They wandered through a park for most of the afternoon. Jack had spent so much time in cities recently he had forgotten how good it felt to be surrounded by nature—or at least, partially surrounded. Rose's legs now carried her effortlessly. She actually felt better walking along the paths than when they stopped to rest. She still wished she had a pair of sturdy boots like Jack's, though. Women weren't supposed to wear shoes like that, but she didn't care. She was on her feet so much, why shouldn't she wear something comfortable?
"Jack, would you mind if I wore boots like yours?" she asked. They stood under a tree that hadn't begun to bloom yet. The sight of its bare branches made Jack sad, although he wasn't sure why. "No," he answered. "You should wear what makes you comfortable, and if that's men's boots, then alright."
"You mean it? It wouldn't bother you? You wouldn't think it was unladylike or there was something wrong with me?"
"No," he said. "Am I supposed to?"
"Most people would," she said. "Most people I've known, anyway. They would say it's a disgrace for man to let his wife wear something like that."
"Maybe, but not me. Rose, I grew up seeing work alongside men; it might have been at different tasks, but they still worked as much and as hard. They got dirty. They wore the clothes that were best for the job. It didn't mean there was anything strange about them; it just mean they doing what they had to do," he explained. "So, if you want boots, we'll get you some."
"That right there—that's what I fell in love with," Rose said. "You treat me like a person, Jack. You treat everyone equally. You don't think I'm delicate or that you have to handle me carefully because I'm a woman."
He placed his hands on her arms. "You're not a porcelain doll," he said. "You are a person; you're a grown woman, and I respect you. You should know by now that I'm not gonna make decisions for you, and I'm not gonna criticize you. But I am going to do my best to protect you. Because that's just what you do when you love someone, so don't think I've forgotten how strong you are when I do that."
The story of her encounter with Mr. Wheaton was on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't let herself tell it. Deep down, she knew it mattered. It wasn't anything big, not yet, but it could happen again. She was sure it would happen again. "I get to protect you as well," she said. And the best way to do that was to remain silent.
