"If you drink your milk and eat your cookies."
"Yes, I will. Bring four."
So he fetched the nourishment. He opened a book. He read to her.
Afterward, she licked a cookie crumb from her forefinger. She thanked him with a drowsy smile. . . .
Kenneth Gibson went into his room, which had by now acquired the look of all the places he had ever lived for long, the mellow order, the masculine coziness. He went to bed a little bewildered. He was beginning not to understand her.
Chapter V
ON THE 19th of May, Rosemary got up before him to make his breakfast. She had on a new cotton frock, for "around the house," she said. It was pink and a particularly springlike pink, somehow. She chattered away. She would like to try feeding the border with a new kind of fertilizer. Paul Townsend said it did wonders. Did he think $3.95 was too much to spend on it? And would he like roast lamb for dinner? Did he prefer mint sauce or a sweet mint jelly with his lamb? Wasn't the early sun on the little stone wall a lovely sight! Pale gold on the gray. Why was sunlight, in the morning, so crisp—and then, by noon, more like cloudy honey?
"Shadows?" he speculated. "Some day you should try to paint what you see, Rosemary."
She wasn't good enough, she said, although to try.,, At least, she announced, tossing her head, Mrs. Violette must wash and starch the kitchen curtains. They'd be nicer crisp to match the mornings. Didn't he think so?
Mr. Gibson sat there at the table, watching her and
Kstening, and his eyes suddenly cleared. Scales fell. He saw Rosemary, not as she had been, or as he had been thinking of her, but as she was, this morning.
The crisp frock showed a figure that, while slim, certainly could not be called skinny any more. Neither was it bent and hollow with the posture of weakness. On the contrary, she sat quite upright and above her snug waist swelled a charming bosom, and the shoulder bones were covered with sweet flesh. Then her hair! Why, her hair was thick and shining and full of chestnut lights! Where had it come from? Whence this face? This face was not pasty white nor did the flesh droop in sad rumples. It was almost firm, and sun-gilded to a rosy-gold, and the lines in her forehead were a maturity (more interesting than the bare bold brow of youth could be). Her blue eyes were snapping with the range of her thoughts among her projects for this day. The odd little fold in the flesh at the comers was so characteristic, so significant of her fine good humor. Her whole face was so animated and ... he didn't know what to call it but . . . Rosemaryish. And that low bubbly chuckle of hers was constantly in her throat.
His breast swelled. Why, she is well! he thought.
Mr. Gibson hid this for a secret temporarily while he smiled and patted all her plans on the back encouragingly .. . and said goodbye.
But he rode the bus with a joyful booming in his heart. She is well again! Rosemary is alive and well! He had as good as raised her from the dead.
All day long, the miracle rang in his heart. He would come back to it, back to it, and, every time, it boomed and rang like bells.
When he came home, to admire the lamb and watch her dainty hunger, and hear how the day had gone and was already only a foundation for tomorrow, he said firmly, "Tomorrow night, Rosemary, we are going to celebrate."
"Are we? Why?"
"Can you drive ten miles? Can the Ark go ten miles?"
"Why, sure it can," she said gaily. "I don't see why not."
"Then we are going out for dinner—to a restaurant I know. Out on the highway. Oh, you'll like it."
"But why?"
"To celebrate." He was mysterious.
"Celebrate what, Kenneth?"
"It's a secret," he said. "I may tell you tomorrow." "What on earth are you talking about?" "Never mind," he said shyly.' He almost hated to share his very miracle—even with her.
In the evening of the next day (which was a Friday), the ancient car proceeded noisily out upon the highway, west of town. It rode high and old-fashioned, in a gait that was both stately and lumbering, like a stout matron who nevertheless has her dignity. Rosemary, in a new white dress with a splash of red roses on the bodice, with a big soft red wool scarf tied around the top of her, drove them without seeming to try too hard. She is equal to this, thought Mr. Gibson with pride, because she is well. And there is no doubt about it.
Mr. Gibson had gone so far as to reserve a table, for this little restaurant was very popular, both on account of its fine French cooking and its atmosphere, which was dim and smoky and smelled deliciously of sauces. It wasn't cheap either. But this was a celebration.
They drank a little wine. They ate hugely of one delectable dish after another, and Mr. Gibson teased by refusing to explain the reason for the reckless expense of this expedition. It was delightful to be together in the midst of the smoke and the savory smells and the soft buzz of other people's conversations. Mr. Gibson knew he was preening himself. He knew that Rosemary was, too. As if they were actors or masqueraders, and out of themselves and yet being themselves in a freer truer way. He couldn't help feeling on the suave side, and a bit of a gay dog. He enjoyed it. Rosemary looked as if she felt that she was rather lovely. And so she was, he decided.
At dessert time, they had a drop of brandy with their coffee. Then without warning these two people-of-the-world fell into a fit of childlike hilarity.
Just something he said, a turn of a phrase.
And Rosemary capped it.
And he extended it.
And they were off. The whole thing spiraled up. It got funnier and funnier. They were behaving like a pair of maniacs. Mr. Gibson laughed so hard he had to retreat behind his napkin. He felt himself aching. Rosemary had her hands to the red roses printed on her bodice as if she
were aching too. They rocked together. Their heads bumped. This was an absolute riot. They shushed each other, faces red, eyes wet, and beaming, and daring each other.
People turned mildly worried faces to look at them, and this was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. And sent them off again. Nothing on earth had ever been so funny. But never could they explain why to sinyone else. Which was extremely funny in itself.
Now people were smiling by contagion and staring with real curiosity. So they controlled themselves and made their mouths stiff and sipped brandy. Rosemary thought of one more word and said it and off they went, careening on laughter right off the earth to some other place.
It took quite a while to simmer down. But at last, just as suddenly, the little sadness fell. It was over. They mustn't try to start it up again. No. Force nothing. Sit, with the sweet contentment in their throats,' the after-taste of laughter that lies so kindly on the very membranes like a salve.
"When will you tell me what we are celebrating?" asked Rosemary gravely.
"I'll tell you now." He lifted the last drop of his brandy. "We are celebrating you. Because you are well again."
Her eyes filled with tears. She didn't answer.
He said quietly, "Well, it's late. I suppose we should
go."
"Yes." She fished the red wool thing from behind her. She seemed to be trembling. The waiter pulled the table away and they rose, moving slowly, as if still entranced, still sweetly remembering the food and the fun. He took the soft wide stole and held it, and she turned her back, and he folded it around her. He wanted to tuck it close around her throat, wanted her safe and warm. He couldn't help it that his hands were tender. Rosemary bent her head, and for one quick wonderful stunning moment she pressed the warm skin of her cheek caressingly upon the bare skin of his hand.
It was only a moment. It changed the whole world.
Mr. Gibson followed her to the little lobby and opened the door which the proprietor was helping to open (saying good night, saying that a bit of a fog had come up, suggesting caution). Mr. Gibson may have replied mechanically. He was absolutely stunned.
He had just discovered that he was in love with his wife Rosemary, twenty-three years his junior—but that didn't matter. Why, he was crazy about her! Now he understood what they meant by "in love." In love... in love ... in love!