Roslyn was waiting for him in the parlor. Just like the night before, she was sitting in a way that looked uncomfortable, but this time, when he entered the room she gave him a little smile. It was such a small gesture, but for Barton it contained all the light in the world and he was, for a moment, struck near blind with the joy of its brightness.
“You look so lovely,” he said. “You should be in a museum.”
“I went to a natural history museum once in Tacoma,” Roslyn said. “They had animals that had been shot and stuffed for everyone to look at. Is that the sort of thing you mean?”
Barton balked, ashamed she could think him capable of such a horrific suggestion. But no! He realized that wasn’t really what she meant. She was teasing him. Teasing was good in a romantic relationship, wasn’t it? Like flirting? He smiled but didn’t know what to say. Roslyn broke the silence.
“I’m feeling rather hungry,” she said. “Is there anything I could eat?”
Of course! Barton told her to wait right where she was. He hustled himself to the kitchen. He had a woman who cooked for him every other day. She delivered the meals while he was at work, leaving them in a wooden icebox on his back porch. He’d seen the woman only a handful of times in the years he’d employed her, but he liked her food just fine, so he saw no reason to augment their arrangement. He paid her by leaving money in the icebox.
That night’s dinner was pork with beans and bread. Barton heated the food on his stove, then put it on plates and found there was more than enough for two servings. He wanted his first meal with Roslyn to be nice, so he lit a candle on the dining room table. Then he went and retrieved her from the parlor as if he were a waiter at a restaurant. “Right this way,” he said, and was pleased when she followed.
Barton had thought after so many days without food, Roslyn would be ravenous. He was expecting to see her devour her plate. He’d been looking forward to that—watching her do something animal-like again. Instead she ate slowly, taking her time, her face slightly pinched, as if she did not like the food but felt obligated to consume it.
After a while of this slow, unenthusiastic eating, she paused.
“What’s it like downtown now?” she asked.
“It’s a smoldering hellhole,” Barton said. “Whatever wasn’t burned up in the fire, the looters and vandals have gotten to. It’s gang warfare in the streets, practically. Very dangerous. Very awful.”
“Is it true it’s the worst fire in history like the paper said?”
“If anything, I’d say that’s an understatement.”
“That’s terrible,” Roslyn said, her hand to her mouth. Barton was pleased to hear the wavery tremor of fear in her voice.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re safe as long as you’re here with me.”
“What about your bank? It wasn’t harmed?”
“No, no. The bank was saved. You and the bank, the two things most precious to me, safe and sound. I feel God must truly be watching over me. I think he’ll continue to do so. To watch over both of us, together.”
He was sawing with a knife at a piece of pork when he said this and did not look up to see Roslyn’s reaction. But he was confident that had he done so, he would have found her face alight with pleasure.
The woman who had nearly broken his heart the night before—that Roslyn was not the same person as the Roslyn seated before him now. Barton felt sure the previous evening’s Roslyn was still suffering the effects of her alcohol withdrawal and that had put her into a state of mind not quite her own. It had forced her to say things she didn’t mean—like that she should leave. Illness had made her paranoid. Or modest. Or ashamed. Barton wasn’t sure what feeling might have led to her desire to leave him. But he was certain now it was not a dislike of him or his home. Surely, right-minded Roslyn was fond of him. She felt indebted and grateful to him for all he had done for her these past few days, and now that she was well, she was excited to become a more active participant in their domestic life together, and their budding relationship.
All of this was confirmed for Barton when, after dinner, Roslyn took him by the hand and led him into his own bedroom. She took her clothes off and lay on his bed, a place where no one except him had ever been. He stood and stared for a moment, almost not believing what he was seeing. “Come on now,” she said, gesturing for him, welcoming him to join her. Just like the maybe-widow had that night in his father’s study. And for a second, he felt a rush of all the loneliness of his whole six years in Spokane Falls pulse through him, as if it were trying to leave his body. He thought he might cry. Never before had anyone known so completely and perfectly what he wanted. Not even his own mother when he was a little boy with simple little boy needs. He felt it possible that Roslyn could read his mind. That she knew him through and through.