It only took a few minutes. Rose didn't know what she expected, but when it was over she didn't feel any different. "I'll get you a ring," Jack promised, as they went up the street. "Somehow."

"Don't worry about that," she said. "We have more important things to think about."

"I'll figure something out," he said. "So, you're going to work now?" He sounded a bit disappointed.

"No." She grinned. "I already called and told them I wouldn't be in today." She was assuming she still had a job, and as much as she hated to admit it, she hoped she did now that Jack no longer had one.

"Really? But—"

"You don't think we should spend out wedding day together?" she said.

"'Course I do," he said. His face fell. "We can't, though. I have to be at the job site. They'll notice if I'm not there."

He felt her tense. "I wish you weren't involved in this. Jack, it makes me nervous."

"I'll be fine," he said reassuringly. "If it looks like something bad's gonna happen I'll leave. I won't be part of it." He pulled her closer. "I'm doing this for us, for our future. I'm not going to forget that."

"I know you won't," she said. "But I can't help worrying. If something happens, it may be bigger than you."

When they reached the picket line she said, "Do you want me to bring you something for lunch?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice." He kissed her. "Don't have too much fun without me."

She laughed. "I'll try and restrain myself."

…

Rose bought two different newspapers and settled on a bench to study the job advertisements. There was precious little under the Help Wanted: Female column, and she read the Male column with envy. She couldn't do any of the jobs listed, but that wasn't the point. The people dividing up the ads didn't know that. They could have at least let her try. Surely, some woman somewhere possessed those skills.

Secretary. Stenographer. Typist. Office Girl. So many ads all saying the same thing. Well, she had been a secretary, more or less successfully. She could do it again. She opened the second newspaper and scanned the columns. Shop clerk. "I could do that," she mused. "Why not?" Newly determined, she circled the most promising ads and set off. She walked briskly, keeping her chin up. She could take care of everything.

….

The first interview was over before it began. Rose recognized the look in the man's eyes instantly. He didn't hear a word she said, but she kept talking anyway, too angry to stop. What right did he have to stare at her as if she were a display in a shop window? He shook her hand as she left, and to her surprise, offered her a job. "It starts Monday," he said.

"Well, I—Thank you," she said. "Monday?"

"Yes, at nine. Sharp."

She couldn't help feeling more confident as she left. She hadn't read him wrong. If she accepted the job—and she supposed, technically, she had—there was another harassing scene in her future. But the offer was nice all the same. And she might be wrong. He stared, but he might be harmless. She very much wanted to believe that.

…

"Rose!" Jack moved through the crowd toward her. He kissed her happily.

"Is this because I brought you lunch?" she joked.

"Yeah," he said with a grin.

She gasped, feigning outrage. "Never in all my life—" She laughed as he kissed her again. "Jack, people are staring," she murmured.

"They're jealous."

"Nevertheless," she said, in her most aristocratic tone. "We must preserve the dignity of our marriage."

"Anything you say, Miss—I mean, Mrs.—"

She grabbed his hand. "Just come and eat."

They found a spot on a nearby bench. "And what've you been up to?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing much," she said lightly. "I've been looking for a new job."

"Really? Any particular reason why?"

"I thought maybe I could find something closer to home or that paid more," she answered. "I doubt I'll get much more, but why not try?"

"Rose, I'm really proud of you. I knew you could do anything you wanted to, and you are." He held her hands in his. "We're gonna make it."

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, searching his eyes for doubts. She found none.

"I know if we stay together, we'll be alright."

Rose carried his words, comforted by them, as she went from one interview to the next. Another job offer finally came, but it didn't start for another two weeks. "The girl we have now is leaving," explained Warren, a middle-aged executive with thinning hair. "We won't need someone until she goes, but I think you'll do just fine."

Rose held in her excitement. "You're sure you want me for the job?"

He nodded. "You're the second girl to inquire, and just between us, I don't have time to see any more. They can all type and make coffee and do everything else that needs doing around her. You're obviously intelligent. I'm sure you'll do fine."

Rose allowed herself a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Banks," she said, shaking his hands.

"Be here at nine on the twenty-first," he said. "Mary will show you around that morning. You'll get fifteen dollars a week."

Rose couldn't believe her ears. He couldn't be serious. It was too much. But she didn't question it. She walked out on a cloud. They would have more than enough money now, even without Jack working, as long as they acted sensibly. They could still save. They could get out of New York. She hadn't realized how badly she wanted to leave until then. She felt so closed-in; the streets were narrow and dirty; they were always crowded. She wanted to see trees, hills, to feel a warm ocean. She wanted Jack to spend his days drawing, not risking his life for a few extra cents.

It wasn't until she was almost home that she remembered they couldn't go two weeks without money coming in. What was she thinking? There was no way around it. She still had to go back to her old job, but, she reminded herself, just until the new one began. Her stomach turned. "We need the money," she told herself. "You'll just have to make it clear that you aren't interested, and if that doesn't work…" If it didn't work, she would think of something else.

….

Their room wasn't dirty, but like the rest of the city now, it seemed that way to Rose. She gathered what few clothes they had, along with the sheets and towels, and locked herself in the bathroom, oblivious to any possibility of complaints from the other boarders. She scrubbed until her neck was stiff. Satisfied, she wrung out each piece. Who would have ever thought she would be on her knees, doing laundry in a bathtub? Or doing laundry at all? She pictured her mother's horrified face and reproachful remarks. Well, it made her feel good to accomplish a task, even one which was supposed to be beneath her. Jack was so skilled; she often felt ignorant next to him. He didn't try to make her feel that way. He was as encouraging as anyone could be, but she held her lack of experience against herself, even as she tried not to.

With the laundry hung out to dry, she stripped down to her underclothes, to preserve her dress, and set about scrubbing the room. The floor gleamed, the brass bed frame shone, and the fresh summer breeze mingled with the strong, clean scent of soap by the time she was finished. Sweat dripped down her back. Her curls were limp and damp against her head. She took their dishes into the bathroom, leaving them in the sink to soak, while she scrubbed herself in the tub.

…..
She was pinning her hair back when Jack arrived. His tired eyes lit up when he saw hr. He forgot the heat and his ravenous stomach. "I don't want to touch you," he said, kissing her cheek. She smelled like soap and the coconut-orchid lotion she used. "I'm afraid I'll mess you up."

Rose laughed. "You can't be that dirty."

"I feel that dirty," he said. "You wouldn't think it, but marching in a circle and sweating can leave you filthy."

"Go have a bath," she said. "I'll bring you some clothes. They should be dry now, with this heat."

Jack noticed their room's sparkling appearance when he came back in. He whistled admiringly. "I thought it was fine before, but damn. It's like we were living outside before."

"It wasn't that bad," she said, placing plates on the table. "I just had an urge to clean. Clear everything out." She shrugged. "And I didn't have anything else to do. I suppose this is the sort of thing wives do."

"Wait for me next time, and I'll help."

"You don't have to," she said.

"I want to. No reason you should wear yourself out when we both can," he replied.

"That's a rather enlightened attitude."

"Hey, we said we were equals in this, didn't we?"

"Yes, we did," she said. "I'm glad you meant it."

….

Jack sat on the windowsill, watching the street below. He held his sketchpad on his leg, but he wasn't drawing. The sun was going down; the streetlights were blinking on. He heard children being called home. He could have found something to draw, but he actually didn't want to. It was nice just to watch. Rose lay on the bed, reading. He heard the soft rustle of the pages being turned and smiled to himself. At that moment, everything was as it should be.

Rose looked up as he sat down next to her. "Well, hello," she said. "I thought you were going to draw for a while?"

He shook his head. "Didn't feel like it."

She put hand on his forehead. "Do you feel ill?" she said, half-joking, half-concerned. "I thought you always itched to draw."

"Zat is true," he said in an exaggerated French accent. "But later. Now—" He placed a light kiss on her jaw.

"Now?" she said teasingly.

He slipped an arm around her. He brushed his lips across her cheek before finding her mouth. She was startled by the softness of the kiss. So often it felt as though they were trying to wring everything they could out of each kiss, each embrace, each moment, as if they still feared being parted. This was the way he had kissed her the first time, only now he was more confident. As she put her arms around him, she realized the fear was gone. They felt at ease, secure in the life they were creating together.

…

Rose walked in slowly, her arms hanging stiffly at her sides. Her hair was securely pinned up; the curls twisted and almost flattened in an attempt to subdue them. She knew it wouldn't help; it wouldn't change the way he thought he was allowed to see her, but she had taken extra pains to appear as neat and prim as possible. The office was empty. She sat down at her desk, determined to carry on as though nothing had happened. It was only two weeks, and she reasoned he wouldn't want another scene. Cal hadn't liked scenes; her father hadn't liked scenes. Most men, she decided, probably tried to avoid scenes when bothering women.

She braced herself as he came in. His gaze landed on her, and for a long moment neither of them moved. He seemed to be weighing his options. There was surprise but also amusement in his eyes. "Well, good morning, Miss—" he began.

She cut him off. "Mrs."

"Pardon?"

"Mrs. I've married," she said. She watched, blank-faced as reactions moved across his features. It was clear he didn't believe her, or he just didn't take her seriously. She didn't care as long as he kept his distance. You need the money, she reminded herself. It isn't just for you. It's for Jack too.

"I apologize, Mrs—Uh, what is it?" he asked.

Rose hesitated. Why hadn't she thought before saying she was unmarried and using Jack's name. Now, it would definitely look as though she were lying. "Dewitt," she answered. She felt guilty, but what choice was there? When the two weeks were over, she would never see this man again, so what harm would it do? She knew better than to use the full name; it was too cumbersome, and for all she knew, he might recognize it. The last thing she needed were questions about her family or past. Or worse still, a vindictive phone call to her mother. Now, you're just being paranoid, she thought. That would never happen.

"Congratulations," he said. "I didn't realize you had plans to marry so soon. Are you intending to—"

"I'll be here another two weeks." She stood up. "So, I suppose I'm giving notice, which gives you plenty of time to find another girl."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. She ignored the way his eyes roamed over her.

"It can't be helped," she said politely.

"Yes, well, I suppose we should get to work."

"Yes, we should," she said.

…

The table was already set. Candles were waiting to be lit, and Jack was clean and dressed in his nicest clothes. He greeted her with a smile and took her hand. "What is all this?" she asked. He handed her a rose. An oddly shaped, silver ring gleamed on the steam.

"It's for our wedding," he said. "You didn't have any flowers yesterday."

"But where did you—" She looked closely at the ring. "You—"

"I made it," he explained. "Out of a spoon. It's real silver."

"I can see that, but—"

"I got it from someone at work. Don't ask me where he got it. I don't know, and I don't need to know."

"He just gave it to you?" she said incredulously.

"More or less. He asked for a few drawings." Jack laughed. "I think he felt sorry for me. I didn't care."

Rose turned it over in her hands. It had an ornate design engraved on it; part of it looked like a sun. There was a J on it where a stone would be. He saw her notice it. "Yeah, that surprised me a little, but I thought that meant you were supposed to have it. I made another one," he said. He held it up. "For me." It had an R. "Thought it made sense for us to have the other's letter," he went on, becoming anxious.

"I didn't know you could do this sort of thing," she said.

"My mother knew how. She showed me. You can make just about anything from spoons. Or forks. Knives." He knew he was beginning to babble, but he couldn't stop. "Give me a little time, and I'll make you a bracelet out of spoons." He held his breath as she gazed into his eyes. Slowly, she leaned forward and kissed him. His hands found her waist.

"Can you really?" she said softly.

He grinned. "I really can."

"You're incredible, Jack." She reached up and took his face in her hands. "You make things; you know how to create beautiful things. I thought it was just your drawings, but I haven't been giving you enough credit. Why can't I be like you?"

"You're like you," he answered. "You're like Rose. You don't need to be any other way."

….

Rose sighed gratefully as Jack's hands moved over her shoulders. His thumbs pressed into the tense muscles, and she let out a cry, part relief, part pain. He kissed her back, brushing his cheek across her bare skin. "You're so tense," he said. "Why, Honey-Rose?" He moved closer, putting his legs around her. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"It's nothing." She gasped as he found another knot.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No." Rose closed her eyes. Slowly, he unwound each muscle, kneading away the knots. When he finished, he lay her down; she was almost limp in his arms. Her eyes opened. He held her close, her back against his chest. "Go to sleep," he said. "You need the rest."

"You—"

"I'm fine." He kissed her shoulder. "Don't worry so much, Rose, please."

She felt sleep overtaking her. "I have to," she said. "I have to take care of us."

Because I'm not. He knew she didn't mean it that way, but he couldn't help thinking it. He was trying, but who knew when his method would show results? It had only been two days, but things were already getting restless. He sensed danger on the horizon, though he tried to ignore it. He listened to her slow, even breathing as she slept. Only two days, and already she was worrying herself into knots. Except it had been going on longer than that; it was just getting worse now. Maybe—He tried to block it out, but the doubts crowded in anyway. Maybe it was a mistake to bring her with him. Maybe he was just ruining her life and telling himself their being together was for the best.

…..

The first week passed without incident, for either of them, but the temperature kept rising, and by the second week tension hung thick in the air. Jack was looking for a way to quit, but no matter how he did it, he was sure to make enemies. Why, he asked himself, had he just jumped into this without thinking? He said it was for Rose, for the future, and that was true. But it was also for the thrill of it. Jack loved a good adventure, and now that he had Rose to consider, his days of hopping into boxcars, talking his way onto boats, and into jobs that would take him across the map at a moment's notice were over. The others chanted while he sat on a crate, feeling more ashamed by the minute.

He didn't notice the fight begins. He head the glass shattering, and the chants become angry shouts. He leapt to his feet in time to see the right morph into a brawl, spreading through the crowd like a fire.

….

The day started out smoothly, but by mid-morning Rose knew something was going to happen. She kept her eyes on her work, but her mind refused to stay focused. Her heart pounded. She told herself she was just being silly, but the change in the air was undeniable. It had been steadily worsening for days. She had felt this kind of tension before, as a child when her father came home drunk and angry, or the next morning when he was hungover and still angry. The entire house held its breath during those times, and now she couldn't shake the feeling that she was holding hers, waiting for the anger show itself. She wished she had asked her mother about those times; maybe if she had explained about Cal, but no, it was too late. The door creaked open, interrupting her thoughts.

"Would you come into my office?" Mr. Wheaton asked. His expression was normal, but his eyes were cold. "Miss—ah, Mrs—Could I just call you Rose?"

"I'd prefer if you didn't," she said. Notepad and pencil in hand, she followed him into his office.

"You like things formal, don't you?" he said, amused.

"I think it held maintain a working relationship. And that is the only type of relationship we have," she added, meeting his eyes. She stepped away as he reached around her to close the door. "What do you need?" she asked.

He moved toward her. "I thought we should talk," he said. "You're leaving soon, and I didn't want that unpleasantness from the other day to—"

"My experience was decidedly more than unpleasant," she said coldly. "If that's all—"

"There's no need to exaggerate," he said. She stepped back again, only to find herself against the wall. "I made you a simple offer, a generous offer, and you turned it down. That's all that happened."

His hands were around her arms; she wasn't sure how it had happened. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. She tried to break his grip but couldn't.

…

It was all a blur; the memory would come back in pieces throughout the night. At first, all she was sure of was somehow managing to stab him with the pencil. That was how she got away. She lay curled up on their bed, her torn dress wrapped around her legs like a pitiful blanket. She couldn't bring herself to do anything else. The sun slowly sank, and the clock ticked. And she waited for Jack, but he never came.

AN: So, I've never actually made one, but I have several pieces of spoon jewelry, and you can make them with common tools pretty easily if you know how.