Morgan collapsed against the back of the sofa, pushed his legs out in front of him, and plowed one hand through his hair. He stared up at the ceiling and was confronted with the absence of smoke stains. That was Jane’s doing.
“Sorry,” he said.
Jane made no reply.
He turned his head and looked at her. “I am sorry.”
She nodded. “I believe you.”
Morgan looked at her for a long time before he slowly released the breath he had been holding. There was resignation in the long exhalation. “Tell me about the box,” he said. “Please.”
“I didn’t ask you for it because the case is a luxury. Any little box would have done to hold threads. When we walked through town that first morning, I saw this one in the milliner’s window, and I remembered it later when I realized I needed something like it. Or something exactly like it.”
“You could have asked me.”
“And feel small and foolish for wanting something pretty when I could have something practical?”
Morgan turned his head and looked up. This time he did not stare at the ceiling. This time he closed his eyes. “What a goddamn mess.” He heard himself. “Sorry, damn it. I mean, oh hell, you know what I mean.”
“I do,” said Jane. “It’s the damnedest thing, but I do.”
Morgan’s lips twitched, but he was quiet.
“Would you like a drink? I can pour you a whiskey.”
“Yes, I’d like one. Don’t move. I’ll get it myself.” He stayed precisely where he was, head back, eyes closed, slouched against the sofa. “In a minute.”
Jane let him be. She found the spool she wanted and threaded her needle. It was difficult. Her hands had a slight tremor that only the precise coordination required for threading a needle could reveal. She began mending the rent in Morgan’s shirt with an occasional glance in his direction.
“What are we going to do, Jane?”
Jane almost pricked herself with the needle. “I thought you had fallen asleep.”
“No. Sometimes I just think real quiet.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”
“I want you to ask me for things,” he said. “Fancy things, if you are of a mind to have them. I noticed you kept that Wanamaker liniment bottle. It looks real nice sitting on the sill. Come spring, maybe you’ll want to put flowers in it.”
“I was thinking I would.”
Morgan laid a forearm across his eyes. “I could show you some patches around here where they grow wild. Pinks and blues and yellows. Lavender.”
“I’d like to see that.” Jane’s vision blurred. She dashed away a tear. Another followed, and this one landed on Morgan’s shirt cuff. Instead of trying to rub it out, Jane used the cuff to quickly dry her eyes before Morgan lifted his forearm and looked in her direction.
“So you’ll be here in the spring.”
Jane heard the smallest inflection at the end of his sentence that made it seem more question than statement, but if he expected a response he didn’t prompt again for it. Jane was glad for that. Tears were still clogging her throat.
“I noticed you finished your courses,” Morgan said.
That non sequitur dried her eyes, dissolved the lump in her throat, and drove an invisible fist into her diaphragm. Jane hiccupped.
Morgan’s arm fell away as he sat up. “Maybe we could both use a whiskey?”
This time it was clear he was asking a question. Jane nodded. Her breath hitched again and she hiccupped. Her eyes were wide above the hand she clapped over her mouth.
“Yes,” he said. “Definitely whiskey.”
