The Vanderbilt Review XXXIII (2018/2019 School Year)

papers free and set them on the end table, taking his hands in hers. “I’m a good woman to you, aren’t I?” He looked down at her. She wore apology as well as she wore blue and lace. “Do I have to be a good literary critic too? When May comes, and I wear white, are you going to make me promise God that I’ll keep your house, love you always, and know what to say about your plots?”

“Jeanie…” She smiled because she’d won.

“Don’t stay mad at me. You’re supposed to come have dinner tonight, and my father does not like you when you’re cross.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“You were.”

“Some two years ago before I realized I couldn’t stand it.” She laughed, and he pulled away from her, collecting the papers. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Please bring your coat and some grace for a girl who’s gonna be your wife.”

“Of course, of course.” He made for the door, and she followed him, resting her hip against the frame.

“I’m sorry I said the wrong thing. You know I love you and everything you do. I just need to read it again, that’s all. Sometimes it takes me twice.” She meant it, and that made it worse.

“You didn’t say the wrong thing. I wrote the wrong thing,” he said, just to make her brow furrow and her shoulders slump and her next apology start. He kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you tonight,” and he closed the door before she could say sorry again. ~~~ He came for dinner and brought all his grace. When he talked with Jeanie, he held her hand and did not mention the story. When he talked with her father, he talked about the publishing house and did not mention the unsteady work of writing. As often as possible, he disavowed the Northern winters, an implicit promise not to take Jeanie any above the MasonDixon line.

They had a pleasant dinner, and they ate lemon cake on the porch in the cool, early spring night. Jeanie brought out a pitcher of tea, and Jeanie’s mother feigned a yawn and pulled her father inside. Jeanie filled the glasses, then sat down beside Elias, her hand on his arm rest. He took it, and her grip pulsed back.

“I figured it out.”

“How to survive the winters?”

“No, enough of that. I figured out your story.”

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