“Why?”
Clara looked at him.
“Because I spent twenty-six years learning other people’s opinions do not change the amount of space my body deserves.”
Amos became quiet.
She continued:
“I don’t want you turning every fool into a battle.”
“What do I do?”
“Stand beside me.”
He nodded.
“That I can do.”
And he did.
Their relationship deepened through winter.
Kisses in the barn.
Long evenings by the fire.
Conversations after Henry slept.
Sometimes Clara spoke about her husband.
Amos listened.
Sometimes Amos spoke about his past.
His wife had died eight years earlier giving birth to a daughter who died with her.
Clara had not known.
He rarely spoke of them.
One night he finally did.
“She was called Emily.”
Clara sat beside him.
“Was she beautiful?”
Amos smiled faintly.
“Yes.”
“Funny?”
“No.”
Clara stared.
He laughed.
“She was serious.”
“More serious than you?”
“Impossible.”
Clara smiled.
“What did you love?”
Amos looked toward the fire.
“She made every place feel settled.”
“Even camps.”
“Even bad rooms.”
“She could put one cup on a table and somehow it looked like home.”
Clara touched his hand.
“You miss her.”
“Yes.”
“Still?”
“Yes.”
Clara nodded.
“Good.”
Amos looked surprised.
“Good?”
“If you stopped loving someone because they died, I’d worry what that said about you.”
He stared.
“You’re not jealous?”
“Of a dead woman?”
Amos smiled.
Clara continued:
“I still love Henry.”
“I know.”
“We can be ridiculous together.”
He lifted her hand.
Kissed her knuckles.
“Yes.”
The first time Clara invited Amos to stay the night, she almost changed her mind five times.
Not because she feared him.
Because she feared becoming someone’s wife again before marriage even existed.
Feared obligation.
Feared losing ownership of herself.
Amos noticed.
They stood beside the bed.
Clara’s hair was loose.
She wore a cream nightdress.
Amos looked at her.
Then sat in the chair.
Clara frowned.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For?”
“For you to decide.”
She almost cried.
“Suppose I ask you to leave?”
“I leave.”
“Suppose I ask you to stay and change my mind?”
“I leave.”
“Suppose I change it again?”
He smiled.
“We may not sleep much.”
Clara laughed.
The fear loosened.
She crossed the room.
Held out her hand.
Amos took it.
That night belonged to them.
Tender.
Adult.
Private.
What mattered most was not passion, though there was plenty.
What mattered was the moment Clara realized she was not enduring anything.
She was participating.
Choosing.
Stopping.
Beginning again.
Laughing.
At one point she became emotional.
Amos immediately stopped.