DIVERGING ROADS

The story of California's early days is an epic, a timeless anthem of bravery, hope, and the youthful desire to explore new paths, filled with struggle and heartbreak. Adventurers traveled across the vast American plains, leaving behind a legacy marked by sacrifice; they journeyed around the Horn in sailing ships, battling their way north in the mysterious Pacific; they pushed into the wilderness, waking California's hills from a centuries-long slumber, and set up their tents and built thousands of cabins in Cherokee Valley.

Those were the unforgettable days of Cherokee, filled with intense activity, tough living, and incredible events. Stories traveled down to Masonville, where the stagecoach would stop to switch horses, and drivers, express messengers, and prospectors would meet in Mason's bar. The Chinese laundry owner discovered a nugget worth sixteen hundred dollars next to his cabin; the stage to Honey Creek was robbed just north of Cherokee Hill; and Jim Thane had hit it big on North Branch.

Mason, doing well, had a billiard table shipped in from San Francisco and built a dance hall. Richardson arrived with his family and set up a general store. Cherokee was thriving; miners from Cherokee came down with their bags of gold dust, and Masonville was flourishing.

But the good days were over. The time came when placer mining was no longer profitable in Cherokee, and the camp moved on across the mountains. Cherokee Valley was left behind, a bleak little hollow among the hills, stripped of its trees, marked here and there by the scars of shallow tunnels where hope still battled against defeat. A handful of determined miners stayed behind, along with a few Portuguese families living in small cabins, scraping together a meager existence from the stubborn soil.

A few discouraged men went down to Masonville and claimed homesteads, clearing the brush from their rolling acres, planting grain or putting in fruit trees. They had wives and kids; eventually, they built a schoolhouse. Later, the railroad came through, and a station and a small bank were established.

But the exciting times of ambition and bravery were gone for good. The epic story had concluded poorly. Masonville quietly drifted off to sleep, like an old man basking in the sun with his memories. And youth, picking up its timeless anthem of courage and hope, moved on to further unexplored paths and new adventures.

There’s a strange vibe in the sleepiness of an old town where not much has happened for years. It’s the discomfort of being relaxed but not truly resting, like someone who stays in bed too long, knowing they should get up. The guys hanging around the street corners can’t be completely idle. Their hands have to be busy at least. The battered posts and notched edges of the wooden sidewalks show that; the paint on the small stations is worn down to shoulder-height to stop people from whittling there. Energy fights weakly against the burden of slow, uneventful days; but that pressure is always there, an urge that turns into an irritation for the young.

Helen Davies, pausing in the doorway of Richardson's store on a warm spring afternoon, thought to herself that she would be happy to never see Masonville again. The familiar view of its one sleepy street, the creaky wooden awnings over the sidewalks, and the boys tossing horseshoes in the shade of the blacksmith's shop was almost unbearable.

She didn't want to stand there staring at it. She didn't want to take the same old, tired road back to the farmhouse, which hadn’t changed since she could remember. She felt like she should be doing something, but she didn’t know what.

A long purple curl of smoke rolling over the top of Cherokee Hill was the plume of Number Five arriving. Two quick puffs of white above the bronze haze of bare apricot orchards silently signaled the whistle for the grade.

Men walked by, heading toward the station. The postmaster appeared in his shirtsleeves, pushing a wheelbarrow full of mail bags down the middle of the street. The afternoon hack from Cherokee rattled past, bringing in a couple of tired, dusty salesmen. The Masonville girls, without their hats, laughing and chatting in cheerful voices, hurried from the post office, from the drugstore, and from one of their Embroidery Club meetings to see Number Five arrive. Helen adjusted the weight of the package on her arm, pulled her sunbonnet further over her face, and headed home.

Depression and rebellion clashed in her mind. She walked past the large, empty doorway of Harner's livery stable and the bright forge of the blacksmith shop without noticing them, lost in her swirling thoughts. But at the corner where the gravel path started and the street openly turned into a country road sloping down between scattered white cottages, her self-absorption faded away.

A boy was slowly walking down the path. The way he carried himself, with an air of indifference and a tense, self-aware posture, made her realize he had been waiting for her, and a wave of overwhelming emotion pushed everything else aside. The sun was warm on her shoulders, the grass on the lawns was green, each lace-curtained window behind the rose bushes appeared to hide watching eyes, and the sound of her footsteps on the gravel echoed loudly in her ears. She finally caught up to him, making an effort not to walk too quickly. They smiled at each other.

"Hey, Paul," she said quietly.

He was a short, dark-haired boy with blue eyes. His father had died, killed in a mine over in Cherokee. He had come to the Masonville school, and they were in the same class, the class that would graduate that spring. He was working hard, trying to get as much education as possible before he had to start working. He lived with his mom in a small house at the edge of town, on the road to the farm.

"Hey," he replied. He cleared his throat. "I had to go to the post office to send a letter," he said.

"Did you?" she replied. She tried to come up with something else to say. "Are you going to be happy when school’s done?" she asked.

Paul and she stood at the front of the class. He was better at math, but she outperformed him in spelling. For a long time, they had shared glances of mutual respect across the classroom. Someone had told her that Paul said she was cool. He had beaten her in math that day. "She can take a hit just as well as a boy," was what he had said. But she had gone home and looked in the mirror.

The flutter in her heart had stopped then. No, she wasn’t pretty. Her features were too big, her forehead too high. She hated the face that stared back at her. She longed for delicate, attractive features, large brown eyes, a low forehead with wavy hair. The eyes in the mirror were gray, and her hair was straight and brown. Not even a nice, light brown; it was almost black. For the first time, she had desperately wanted to be beautiful. But now, she didn’t care. He had waited for her, anyway.

They strolled slowly down the country road, beneath the arching trees, through the branches that let the sun shine through in long, angled rays of light. A tinted haze hung over the bare orchards, and the hills were a fresh green from the recent rains.

"Well, I’ve got a job lined up as soon as school is done," said Paul.

"What kind of job?" she asked.

"Working at the depot. It pays fifteen a month to start," he replied. It was like they were reciting poetry. The words didn't matter. What they said didn't matter.

"That's cool," she said. "I wish I had a job."

"Man, I really hate to see a girl go to work," Paul said.

His lips were full and very firm. When he pressed them together tightly, as he did then, he looked determined. There was something stubborn about the line of his chin and the slight frown between his thick black brows. Her entire being seemed to melt and flow toward him.

"I don't understand why!" she exclaimed. "A girl like me has to put in the effort if she wants to succeed. I’m sure I could perform just as well as a boy if I got the opportunity."

The words were like a shield between her and her true desires. She didn’t want to work. She wanted to be gentle and beautiful, alluring and playful and sweet. She wanted to get what she wanted with tears, smiles, and persuasion. But she didn’t know how.

Paul looked at her with admiration. He said, "I guess you could, for sure. You're pretty smart for a girl."

She radiated happiness.

They had often walked along this road to his house when an accident made them leave school at the same time. But their conversations had never had this indescribable quality, as vague and beautiful as the misty hue over the orchards.

Sometimes she had stopped at his house for a few minutes. His mom was a small woman with a lively, energetic manner. She always stood at the door to make sure they wiped their feet before coming in. The house was really tidy. There was a carpet in the living room that had been swept so well that every thread was visible. The coffee table had a crocheted doily on it, along with a Bible and a polished seashell. This room popped into her mind like a picture as they approached the gate. She didn’t want to leave Paul, but she also didn’t want to go into that room with him right now.

"Hey, wait a second—" he said, pausing in the doorway. "I wanted to tell you—" He flushed and stared at one toe, digging it into the soft ground. "About being valedictorian—"

"Oh!" she said. There had been a heated competition between them for the honor of being valedictorian at the graduation ceremony. In terms of academic performance, they were equally matched, but Paul had come out on top. She was aware that the teachers had concluded she didn't dress well enough to take on such a significant role.

"I hope you don't feel bad about it, Helen," he continued awkwardly. "I told them I'd give it up because you're a girl, and you probably deserve it more than I do. It just doesn't feel right for me to take it."

"That's fine," she replied. "I don't mind."

"Well, that's really nice of you." She could see that he was extremely relieved. She felt good about having lied about it. "Come in and check out what I've got in the shed," he said, quickly changing the subject.

She followed him around the house, under the old palm tree that was there. He had cleared out the woodshed and set up a table and a chair. On the table sat a telegraphic sounder and key, along with a round, red, dry battery.

"I'm going to learn to be an operator," he said. "I've got most of the alphabet down already. Listen." He made the instrument click. "I'm going to practice receiving and listening to the wires in the depot. Morrison says I can do that after I finish work. Telegraph operators earn up to seventy dollars a month, and some of them, on the fast wires, make a hundred. I think the train dispatcher makes more than that."

"Oh, Paul, seriously?" She was full of excitement. He handed her the key. "I can do it. I know I can," she said.

He was supportive.

"Sure you could." But there was a slight air of condescension in his tone, and she felt that he was stepping into a life she couldn't follow him into.

"That's the problem with this messed-up world," she said bitterly. "You can go out and do things like that. A girl doesn't have any chance at all."

"Oh, definitely," he replied. "There are plenty of female operators. There’s one further down the line. Her dad is the station agent. And up at Rollo, there’s a couple that manage the station together. He works nights, and she works during the day. They live above the depot, and if anything goes wrong, she can call him."

"That sounds awesome," she said.

"He's pretty lucky, that's for sure," Paul agreed. "It’s not quite the same as having her there working like that together. I guess they couldn't have been married unless she did. He didn't have much, I suppose. He isn't that much older than—But anyway, I'd hate to see—anyone I cared about going to work," he finished desperately. He opened and closed the telegraph key, and the metallic clicks of the sounder echoed loudly in the quiet. Unspoken words lingered between them. Dazzled, trembling, shaken by the beating of her heart, Helen couldn't find her voice.

The tense moment was broken by the sound of his mother's voice. "Paul! Paul, I need some wood." They laughed nervously.

"I—I guess I should get going," she said. He didn’t argue. But when they were standing in the doorway of the woodshed, he said quickly:

"Hey, if I get a car next Sunday, how about we go for a drive somewhere?"

She took those words home with her, singing along the way.

He arrived early that Sunday afternoon, but she had been ready and waiting long before she spotted the buggy coming down the road.

She had attempted to style her hair differently, putting it in rag curlers the night before, and spent hours that morning in the cramped attic bedroom in front of the wavy mirror, combing it, putting it up, and taking it down again, feeling a nervous flutter in her wrists. In the end, she gave up. She twisted the long braid into its usual shape at the back of her neck and pinned a black ribbon bow on it.

She wanted a new white dress to wear that day. Her pink gingham, with its blue-and-white plaid pattern faded to blurry lines of mauve and light pink, looked terrible to her as she stared at it stretched out, freshly ironed and stiff, on the bed. But it was the best she had.

While she got dressed, the sounds of a warm, lazy spring morning drifted in through the half-open window. The whinny of the long-legged colt in the barnyard, the concerned neigh of his mother from the pasture, the cackling of the hens, blended together like the notes of a pastoral orchestra with the rising and falling whirr of steel on the grindstone. Under the stunted live oak in the side yard, her dad was sharpening an ax, while her little sister Mabel cranked and poured water on the spinning stone. The murmur of their conversation reached her, Mabel's high-pitched, nonstop chatter, her dad's occasional short replies. She heard it without really listening, and the sounds flowed like an undercurrent of contentment in her thoughts.

When she fastened her collar and put on her straw hat, she stood for a long time looking into the eyes gazing back at her from the mirror, caught up in a vague daydream.

"My goodness!" her mother said when she walked into the kitchen. "Why are you all dressed up like that at this time of day?"

"I'm going driving," she replied, feeling restricted. She had been dreading this moment. Her mother paused, the oven door half open, a fork held in her hand.

"Who are you with?"

"Paul." She aimed to say the name casually, trying to make eye contact with her mother like she usually did. It felt like they were looking at each other across a vast, empty space. Her mother suddenly seemed to view her as a stranger.

"But—oh my gosh, Helen! You're just a little girl!" The words were interrupted by Tommy's mocking chant from the table, where he sat licking a mixing spoon.

"Helen's got a boyfriend! Helen's got a boyfriend!"

"Shut up!" she yelled. "If you don’t stop talking—!"

But he broke free from her and, slamming the screen door, shouted from the safe distance of the woodpile:

"Helen's angry, and I'm happy, and I know what will make her happy—!"

She walked into the other room, closing the door with a trembling hand. She felt a deep hatred for the whole world. Yes, even Paul. Her mom called out to her, saying that even if she was dating someone, that was no reason not to eat something. Dinner wouldn’t be ready until two o’clock, but she should still drink some milk. She replied that she wasn’t hungry.

Paul would arrive around one o'clock, she thought. His mom only made a cold lunch on Sundays since they went to church. He showed up ten minutes late, and in the stress of waiting, she forgot everything else.

She met him at the gate, and he got out to help her into the buggy seat. He was wearing his Sunday clothes, a blue suit that was carefully brushed and pressed, with a stiff white collar. He looked odd and formal.

"It’s not much of a setup," he said, sounding sorry as he cleared his throat. She recognized the skinny sorrel and the rattling buggy, the cheapest at Harner's livery stable. But even that, she knew, was a luxury for Paul.

"It's tough to find a ride on Sunday," she said, "Everyone takes them out in the morning. I think you were really lucky to get such a good one. Isn't it a beautiful day?"

"It looks like the rain is almost done," he said politely. After their first bright glance, they hadn't looked at each other again. He talked to the sorrel, and they drove away together.

Enveloped in the top of the buggy, they saw the yellow road stretching out among the trees, disappearing and then reappearing like a ribbon looped around the hills. There was gold in the green fields, gold in the poppies along the road, gold in the bright young apricot branches. The clear air was filled with vibrant, golden sunlight. They drove through a golden haze. What did they say? It didn’t matter. They looked at each other.

His arm rested on the back of the buggy seat. Its presence felt like a secret they shared, a special understanding that was both valued and unspoken. When the awareness of it became too intense to ignore, they both reacted in a sudden panic, breathless. They got out of the buggy, tying the patient sorrel in the shade under a tree, and climbed up the hillside.

They said they were going to pick wildflowers. He took her hand to help her up the trail, and she allowed it, stumbling when she could have climbed more easily on her own, happy to feel that he was leading and wanting him to see himself as the stronger one. At the top of the hill, they found a low-spreading live oak with a patch of young grass underneath it, and there, forgetting the unpicked flowers, they sat down.

They sat there for a while, having a serious conversation about deep topics; life and its meaning, the vastness of the universe, and how it can make someone feel strange when they gaze at the stars at night and ponder things. She got it. She experienced those feelings sometimes too. It was surprising to discover how many feelings they shared. Neither of them had ever thought they would find someone else who felt the same way.

Then there was the question of what to do with your life. It was a pretty important decision to make. You didn't want to make mistakes, like so many people did. You had to start off right. That was the key, the beginning. When you hit around eighteen or almost twenty, you realize that, and you look back on your life and see how much time you've already wasted. You understand you need to start doing something.

Now here was the idea of learning telegraphy. That seemed pretty promising. If someone really committed to it and put in the effort, there was no telling what opportunities it might open up. You could become a train dispatcher or even a railroad superintendent. There were plenty of successful people who didn't have a better start than he did. Just look at Edison.

She agreed. She was sure there was nothing he couldn't do. Somehow, they started talking as if she would be with him. She could be a telegrapher too. Wouldn't it be fun if she were, so they could be in the same town? He'd help her with the train orders, and if he worked nights, she could make his lunch for him.

They turned it into a sort of game, laughing about it. They were just guessing, of course. They carefully avoided mentioning the thought that was pushing against everything they said, the thought that made her heart race and kept her from looking him in the eyes, the thought of that young couple at Rollo.

And finally, when they could no longer ignore the amazing fact that the afternoon was over, and only a golden western sky behind the flat, blue hills remained as a reminder of the gone sunlight, they stood up reluctantly, unsure. He took her hands to help her up. In the dimness of twilight, they looked at each other, and she felt the looming presence of a monumental, irreversible moment.

He was pulling her closer. She felt, with the force of his hands, a deep urge within herself, a compulsion like a strong current, sweeping her away, merging her with something unknown, immense, and beautifully terrifying. Suddenly, in a panic, she pushed him away without thinking and heard herself say, "No—no! Please—" The tension in his arms eased.

"Okay—if you don't want to—I didn't mean—" he stammered. Their hands held onto each other for a moment, unsure, then let go. They made their way down the dim trail and drove home mostly in silence.

Spring arrived unpredictably that next year. She unexpectedly graced the hills with long days of golden sunshine, encouraging wildflowers to bloom from the moist earth and causing buds to swell with her warm promise. Then she withdrew behind gray skies, leaving eager petals and sap-filled branches to the cold desolation of rain and the harshness of frost.

Farmers walking behind their plows sensed her arrival in the fragrant air, in the lively soil, and as they looked up at the bright skies, they felt a warmth in their veins even as they shook their heads in doubt. And with the dawn, they walked through the orchard rows, gently bending the tips of branches between their anxious fingers, stopping to open a few buds on their rough palms.

But to Helen, the days felt like notes in a tune. Linnet's songs and sunshine pouring through the attic windows, or gray panes and rain on the roof, blended together for her. She woke to either like it was a holiday. She slipped out from under the patchwork quilt into a chilly room and dressed with shivering fingers, barely hearing Mabel's sleepy complaints about being woken up so early. Life was too good to waste on sleep. She seemed full of energy as she dashed down the steep stairs to the kitchen. It surged through her like a river pressing against its banks during the spring floods.

Every sight and sound hit her senses with a new vibrancy. There was a thrill in the cold water against her skin when she washed in the tin basin on the bench by the door, and the aroma of coffee and frying salt pork was pleasant. She sang while she spread the red tablecloth on the kitchen table and set out the chipped plates.

She sang:

It felt to her like she was singing beautiful poetry so incredible that everyone around her just couldn't understand it. She moved among them, alone, wrapped in a brilliance they couldn't see.

Even her mother’s tense silence didn’t really interrupt her blissful focus. Her mother moved quietly, trudging around the kitchen, glancing every now and then out the window toward the barn. When her husband walked heavily up the path and paused at the back steps to wipe the mud off his boots, she went to the door and opened it, saying nearly sharply, “Well?”

He didn’t say anything, continuing for a moment to tap his boot heel against the edge of the step. Then he slowly walked in and started scooping water from the pail into the washbasin. The way he slumped in his sweat-stained overalls showed nothing but exhaustion.

"I guess last night decided it," he said. "We won't have enough of a crop to make it worth picking. Out of twenty buds I cut on the south slope, only four of them weren't black."

His wife went back to the stove and turned the salt pork, keeping her head back to avoid the splatters. "What are we going to do about the mortgage?" The question broke a long silence. Helen's song was quieted, but the echoes of it still lingered in some secret place inside her, safe even from this disaster.

"Same as we always have, I guess," her father finally replied, lifting a wet face and reaching for the roller towel. "Let me see if I can get young Mason to replace it."

"Well, he definitely will. There's no doubt about that," Helen said. Her cheerful tone felt fragile, like a thin beam breaking against a stone wall. "And there has to be some fruit left. If the crop isn’t that big, what we do get should still sell for pretty good prices."

"You're right, it should," her father replied bitterly. "A good harvest never brings them."

"Well, anyway, I'm done with school now, and I’ll be doing something," Helen said. She didn’t have a clear idea of what it would be, but all of a sudden, she felt in her youth and happiness a strength that her discouraged parents didn’t have. For the first time, they seemed old and worn to her, exhausted from an uneven struggle, and she felt that she could lift them up in her arms and carry them triumphantly to comfort and peace.

"Finish your breakfast and stop talking nonsense," her dad said.

But her victorious mood returned while she was washing the dishes. She felt older, stronger, and more confident than ever before. The news of the killing frost, which upset her mother and even silenced Mabel’s usual complaints about helping with the kitchen work, was a call to action for Helen. She splashed the dishes in the soapy water so quickly that Mabel felt annoyed.

"You know I can't keep up," she complained. "It's tough enough dealing with the frost and never being able to get anything good, and being stuck in this old kitchen all the time, without you being mean as well."

"Oh, don’t start complaining!" Helen said. They always fought about the dishes. "I’d really like to know who did all the work yesterday while you went off messing around." But when she looked at Mabel's sullen little face, she felt a rush of compassion. Poor Mabel, whose whole heart was set on a new dress this summer, who didn’t have anything else to make her happy! "I don’t mean to be harsh with you, Mabel," she said. She put an arm around Mabel's thin, angular shoulders. "Don’t worry, everything will be okay, somehow."

That afternoon, after finishing the ironing, she put on her pink gingham dress and her best shoes. She told her mom that she was going to town for the mail, and when her sister said, "But you went the day before yesterday!" she answered, "Well, I guess I’ll just go to town anyway. I feel like walking somewhere."

Her mother apparently took the explanation at face value. Helen was amazed by other people's blindness. It felt to her like every blade of grass in the fields, every patch of white cloud in the sky, knew she was going to see Paul. The roadside shouted it out to her.

She paused for a moment with her hand on the gate as she walked through. It was the gate where they leaned together when he took her home from church on Sunday nights. She could still feel his presence there; she could almost picture the dark shape of his shoulders against the starry sky and the pale blur of his face.

The long path by Peterson's meadow was filled with memories of him. Here they had stopped to pick poppies; there, right by the gray stone, he had knelt one day to tie her shoe. On the little bridge shaded by the oak trees, they always paused to lean on the rail and watch their reflections shimmer with ripples of light in the stream below. She was amazed by the beauty of the world as she passed all these places. The sky was blue. It was a revelation to her. She had never realized that skies could be that breathtakingly blue or that hills could be filled with golden light and violet shadows on their green slopes. She had never noticed that shadows in the late afternoon were purple like grapes, and that the very air had a hint of orange light. It felt like she had been blind her entire life.

She stood for a while on the small bridge, taking in all this beauty, and she whispered his name to herself, "Paul." A shiver ran through her at the sound of it.

He would be busy handling luggage at the station when Number Five arrived. She thought of his strong shoulders in the blue work shirt, the smooth forehead under his worn cap, the direct blue eyes, and the firm lips. She would stand a little apart, by the window where the telegraph keys were clicking, and he would pass by, pushing a hand truck through the crowd on the platform. Their eyes would meet, and the look would feel like a connection subtly uniting them in an intimacy unnoticed by the clueless people who bumped into them. Then she would walk away, making her way slowly through the town, and he would catch up with her on his way home for dinner. She could tell him then about the frost. Her thoughts didn’t go beyond that. They stopped with Paul.

But before she got to his house, she saw Sammy Harner playing in the road, super happy about the freedom of being barefoot in the first spring. He hopped from side to side, his wide straw hat bouncing; he threw a stone at a bird; he whistled sharply between his teeth. When he saw her, he quickly calmed down and trotted down the road, reaching her, out of breath.

"I was coming to your house as fast as I could," he said. "I have a note for you." He searched nervously in his pockets and found it in the top of his hat. "He gave me a nickel and said to wait if there's an answer."

She noticed that his eyes were curiously focused on her hands, which were shaking so much with excitement that she could barely open the railway company's yellow envelope. She read:

Sammy's curious gaze moved from her hands to her face. It felt like an intense spotlight. She couldn't concentrate with those calm, watchful eyes on her. She had to think. What should she think about? Oh, right, an answer. A pencil. She didn’t have a pencil.

"Tell him I didn't have a pencil," she said. "Tell him I said, 'Yes.'" And as Sammy lingered, watching her with unabashed curiosity, she added sharply, "Hurry! Hurry up now!"

It was a relief to finally sit down once Sammy had disappeared around the bend in the road. The chaotic world seemed to calm down a bit then. She had never considered that Paul might leave. She wondered blankly if it was a good opportunity for him, and if he was happy to leave.

She walked down the road again a little after seven o'clock. It was another chilly night, and the stars sparkled frostily in a sky nearly as dark as the hills. The road disappeared into darkness ahead of her, and the fields extended into a darkness that felt limitless, as endless as the sky. She felt connected to the night and the cold.

For what felt like forever, she paced back and forth on the road, waiting. At one point, she walked all the way to the top of the hill past the bridge and spotted the yellow lights of his house glowing against the darkness. She stared at them for a long time, thinking she would keep watching until he came out. But the urge to keep pacing took over, and she trudged up and down, tripping over the ruts in the road. Finally, she saw him approaching and stood still in the shadows beneath the oaks until he reached her.

"Helen?" he asked hesitantly. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," she replied. Her throat hurt.

"I came as fast as I could," he said. Somehow she knew that his throat hurt, too. They moved to the small railing of the bridge and stood trying to see each other's faces in the dark. "Are you cold?" he asked.

"No," she said. She then noticed that the shawl had slipped from her shoulders and was hanging over one arm. The wind fluttered it, and her hands felt awkward as she tried to pull it back into place.

"Here," he was taking off his coat. "No," she said again. But she let him wrap half the coat around her. They stood close together in the folds of it. The chilly wind flowed around them like water, and the warmth of their trembling bodies created a small island of comfort in a sea of cold.

"I have to go," he said. "It's a decent job. Fifty bucks a month. I need to support my mom, you know. Her money is almost gone, and she spent a lot to get me through school. I really have to go. I wish—I wish I didn't have to."

She tried to keep her lips still.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm really happy you found a good job."

"You’re saying you won’t miss me when I’m gone?"

"Yeah, I’ll miss you."

"I'm really going to miss you," he said softly. "Will you write to me?"

"Yeah, I'll write if you will."

"You’re not going to forget me—you’re not going to start dating someone else—are you?"

She couldn't respond. The shaking that overwhelmed them left them speechless. Wind and darkness blended into a rushing torrent around them. The pain in her throat turned into tears, and they held on to each other, cheek to cheek, in silent despair.

"Oh, Helen! Oh, Helen!" She was pressed against the rhythm of his heart, his arms were painful. She wanted them to be painful. "You're so—you're so—sweet!" he stuttered, and they clumsily found each other's lips.

Words returned to her after a while.

"I don't want you to leave," she cried.

His arms tightened around her, then slowly loosened. He lifted his chin, and she knew that his mouth was forming its stern lines again.

"I have to," he said. The finality of the words felt like something solid under their feet again.

"Of course—I didn't mean—" She moved slightly away from him, brushing her hair back with a trembling hand. A new seriousness had settled over them both. They vaguely sensed that life had changed for them, that it would never be the same again.

"I need to think about things," he said.

"Yeah—I know."

"There's Mom. Fifty dollars a month. We just can't—"

Tears were slowly filling her eyes and streaming down her cheeks. She couldn't stop them.

"No," she said. "I need to do something to help out at home, too." She felt around for the shawl at her feet. He picked it up and gently wrapped it around her.

They walked back and forth under the stars, trying to talk seriously, feeling really old and sad, a heaviness in their hearts. Ripley was a station in the San Joaquin Valley, he told her. He was going to be the night operator there. He couldn’t hide a hint of pride in his voice, but he explained earnestly that there wouldn’t be much telegraphing. Very few train orders were sent at night. But it was a good job for a beginner, and pretty soon he might be able to get a better one. Maybe when he was twenty or twenty-one, he could earn seventy-five dollars a month. It wouldn’t be a long wait. They were holding onto each other again.

"We can't," she said.

"It's okay—just one—when you're engaged." She cried on his shoulder, and their kisses were filled with salty tears.

He dropped her off at her gate. The memory of all the times they had stood there was the last unbearable pain. They embraced tightly, without saying a word.

"You—haven't said it—tell me you—love me," he stammered after a long time.

"I love you," she said, as if it were a sacred vow. He was silent for another moment, and in the faint starlight, she felt more than saw a strange, somewhat frightening look on his face.

"Will you come away with me—right now—and marry me—if I ask you?" His voice was rough.

She felt like she was gathering everything she was or could become in her hands and giving it to him.

"Yeah," she said.

His whole body shook with a deep sob. He tried to say something, but choked, pulling away from her forcefully. She watched him head down the road, nearly sprinting, and then the darkness swallowed him up.

In the days that followed, she felt she could have handled the separation better if she hadn't been left behind. He had traveled down the shiny train tracks beyond Cherokee Hill into a vast world that confused her thoughts. He wrote that he had been in San Francisco and taken a ride on a sightseeing bus. It was an amazing place, he said; he wished she could see all the things he saw. He had explored Chinatown, the Presidio, the beach, and Seal Rocks. Then he had moved on to Ripley, which wasn't anything like Masonville. He was doing well, hoped she was too, thought about her every day, and loved her dearly. Paul. But she felt like she was losing connection with him, and when she considered the two or three long years of waiting, she worried she would lose him completely. She thought again about that young couple in Rollo, and feelings of envy added to the misery she was living in.

He had been gone for two weeks when she told her mom that she was going to be a telegraph operator. She stuck to her decision with a determination that even surprised her. She argued, she begged, she pointed out the wages she could earn and the money she could send home. There was an ad in the Masonville weekly paper promoting a telegraphy school in Sacramento, stating: "Operators in high demand. Graduates earn $75 to $100 a month and up." She wrote to that school, and almost immediately got a response, assuring her that she could learn in three months, that railroad and telegraph companies were desperate for operators, and that the school guaranteed good jobs for all its graduates. The tuition was fifty dollars.

Her dad said he thought that was that.

But in the end, she won. When he refinanced the mortgage, he borrowed another hundred dollars from the bank. Fifty dollars felt like a fortune to live on for three months. Her mom and she went through her clothes together, and her mom gave her the telescope bag to pack them in.

An awkward closeness developed between the two while they worked. Her mom said it was good for her to have a solid job for a while. Maybe she wouldn't embarrass herself by getting married before she figured out her own feelings. Helen didn't say anything. She thought it was tough to discuss things like marriage with her mom.

Her mom said one more thing that lingered in her mind, maybe because it was vague, or maybe because of her mom's awkwardness when she mentioned it, an awkwardness that made both of them feel uncomfortable.

"There's something I need to tell you, Helen," she said, focusing on the waist she was ironing and blushing deeply. "Your dad is still against the idea of you going away. He says before we know it, we'll have you back here in trouble. So I want you to promise me that if anything comes up that seems off, you'll let me know right away, and I'll come straight down to Trenton to get you. I'm going to worry about you being on your own in a city like that."

She quickly promised, but unsure, and her mother hurriedly started talking about something else. Mrs. Updike, who lived on the next farm, was going to San Francisco to visit her sister. She would take Helen as far as Sacramento and help her get settled there. Helen needed to make sure to eat her meals on time, keep her clothes repaired, write every week, and study hard. She promised to do all those things.

There was a whirlwind of activity on the last morning. Amid tears and excitement, Mabel was almost hysterical, and Tommy kept getting in the way while her mom unpacked the bag multiple times to make sure nothing was forgotten. They all drove to town, crammed into the two-seater light wagon, and there was another scramble at the station when the train arrived. She awkwardly hugged everyone, smiling through her tears. For the first time, she truly felt how much she loved them.

Until the train turned the corner south of town, she looked back at Masonville and the little yellow station where Paul had worked. Then she leaned back against the red velvet cushions to watch unfamiliar trees and hills rushing past the windows. She felt a thrill of adventure, wondering what the school would be like, promising herself again to study hard. She and Mrs. Updike worried from time to time, fearing that by some mistake Mr. Weeks, the school manager, wouldn't be there to meet them at the Sacramento station. They wore pieces of red yarn in their buttonholes so he would recognize them.

He was waiting when the train pulled in. He was a slim, well-dressed man with a youthful face that looked strangely old, like a half-ripe apple that had shriveled. He rushed them through the noisy, busy streets, hopping on and off streetcars, and finally up a staircase to the school.

There were two rooms: a small one that served as the office and a larger one that was empty and not very clean, illuminated by two tall windows overlooking an alley. In the big room, there were half a dozen tables, each equipped with a telegraph sounder and key. Mr. Weeks explained that no one was there at the moment because it was Saturday afternoon. The school typically didn’t operate on Saturday afternoons, but he would make an exception for Helen. He said cheerfully that if she wanted, she could pay her tuition now and start her studies early Monday morning. He was confident she would be a great operator and promised her a solid job once she graduated. He even offered to give her a written guarantee if she wanted. However, she didn't ask for that, as it would suggest she doubted Mr. Weeks' honesty.

Mrs. Updike, out of breath from climbing the stairs and anxious about making her train, asked him about available rooms. Luckily, he knew a really good and affordable one right next to the school. He kindly offered to take them to check it out.

There were several rooms lined up in a row, all opening onto a long hallway accessed by stairs from the street. They were run by Mrs. Brown, who managed the restaurant downstairs. She was a pale little woman, with bright brown eyes and yellow hair. She talked non-stop in a light, almost cheerful voice, making quick gestures with her hands and moving around the room with the swish of her silk petticoats, seemingly fueled by an almost feverish intensity of energy.

The room was rented for six dollars a month. It had a large bay window overlooking the street, brightly patterned wallpaper, a red carpet, a big wooden bed, a washstand with a pitcher and bowl, and two rocking chairs. At the end of the long hallway was a bathroom with a white tub in it, the first Helen had ever seen. There was something city-like about that tub; taking a bath in it would be a totally different experience from the Saturday night scrubs in the tin wash tub back home. Plus, she could eat in the restaurant below; they served very good meals for twenty cents, or even less if she decided to buy a meal ticket.

"I guess that's the best you can do," Mrs. Updike said.

"I think it's great," Helen said.

So it was decided. Helen handed Mrs. Brown six dollars, and she quickly left after saying, "I really hope you like it, dearie, and if you need anything, just let me know. I sleep in the next room, so nothing will bother you, and if you feel lonely, just come knock on my door."

Then Mrs. Updike, with a quick goodbye kiss on her cheek, rushed off to catch her train, with Mr. Weeks accompanying her to the station, and Helen was left alone.

She locked her door first and counted her money, feeling quite professional. Then she unpacked her bag and put her things away, pausing occasionally to look around the room that was hers. It felt very spacious and luxurious. She experienced a nice sense of responsibility when everything was organized, and she stood at the window, looking down the street to the corner where streetcars passed by at intervals. She promised herself to work really hard and to repay her father soon for the money he had lent her, with interest.

Then she thought, smiling, that in a little while she would go downstairs and have dinner at a restaurant, and then she would buy a notebook and a pencil and, returning to this lovely room, she would sit down all by herself and write a letter to Paul.

The thought of Paul was the only clear reality in Helen's life as she stumbled through the confusion of her first months in Sacramento. It was the only thing that brought her comfort amid the unfamiliarity that enveloped her like a thin, cold mist.

There was the school. She didn’t really know what she had expected, but she felt a bit like she hadn’t found it. Every morning at eight o'clock, she was at her table in the shabby back room, trying to translate the dots and dashes of the Morse code into clear, even sounds from the receiver. There were three other students, farm boys who shifted awkwardly in their stiff collars and blushed when they looked at her.

There was a wire from that room into the front office. Sometimes it would beep, and they knew that Mr. Weeks was going to send them something to copy. They quickly moved to that table. Some days, the sounder wouldn’t click again, and eventually one of the boys would quietly sneak to the office and report that Mr. Weeks was asleep. On other days, the sounder would beep for a long time without any meaning, while they looked at each other in confusion. Then it would send a few shaky letters, pause, and send a few more.

Then for several days, Mr. Weeks didn’t show up at the school at all. They fell into a sort of daze, sitting in the stuffy, warm room while flies buzzed against the window. Helen’s damp fingertips stuck to the hard rubber of the key; it was a struggle to remember the alphabet. But she kept at it stubbornly, knowing how much her success mattered. Always in her mind was the image of the station where she would work with Paul, a little yellow station with housekeeping rooms upstairs. She also thought about the debt she owed her father and the help she could give him later when she was earning money.

Bit by bit, she learned a bit about the other students. Two of them had come down from Mendocino County together. They had worked two summers to earn the money, and still, they had only managed to save seventy-five dollars for tuition. However, they were clever enough to convince Mr. Weeks to accept that amount. They lived together in one room and cooked their meals over the gas stove. It was one of them who asked Helen if she knew that gas could be deadly.

"If you kept it on for a long time and set it on fire, I guess it would really burn you," she said uncertainly.

"I don't mean it like that," he said to her, excited. "It will kill you if you just breathe it in long enough. It's poison." After that, she looked at the gas jet in her room with terrified respect and always made sure to turn it off tightly.

The other boy had a more experienced vibe and smoked cigarettes. He carried himself with a bit of swagger, making it clear that he was worldly and aware of all the city's mischief. He looked at Helen with eyes that made her uncomfortable, and once asked her to go to a show with him. Even though she felt very lonely and had never been to a real theater, she turned him down. She sensed that Paul wouldn’t approve of her going. After three months in Sacramento, these were the only people she knew, aside from Mrs. Brown.

She thought she would like Mrs. Brown if she got to know her better. Her shyness held her back from saying more than "Good evening," when she handed her meal ticket over the restaurant counter to be punched, and for some strange reason, Mrs. Brown seemed shy around her. It was her own fault, Helen thought; Mrs. Brown laughed and chatted happily with the male customers, charming them into buying cigars and gum from her small collection.

Helen wondered about Mr. Brown. She had never seen him; she was sure he wasn't alive. Yet Mrs. Brown often looked at her wide wedding ring, twisting it on her finger as if she wasn't used to wearing it. A widow, and so young! Helen's heart ached at the thought of that fleeting romance. Mrs. Brown's thin frame and bright yellow hair looked youthful; only her eyes seemed old. It must be grief that had given them that hard, tired look. Helen smiled at her wistfully over the counter, wanting to show her kindness and sympathy. But Mrs. Brown's behavior always puzzled her.

These meetings weren't often. Helen tried to stretch her three-dollar meal ticket for a month, which meant she could only enjoy warm meals five times a week in a place filled with the scents of coffee, stew, and hamburger steak. She had discovered that cinnamon rolls were half price on Saturday nights, so she kept a bag of them in her room, along with some fruit. This made her a bit uneasy when she noticed Mrs. Brown's watchful gaze on the empty tables; she felt like she was cheating Mrs. Brown by eating in her room.

Mrs. Brown worked really hard, Helen knew. She was the one who swept the hall and kept the rooms tidy. She didn’t do it perfectly, but Helen sometimes saw her in the evenings working at it. She swept with quick, frenzied strokes. Her yellow hair fell over her face; her high heels clicked on the floor; her petticoats made a rustling sound. There was something sad about her, like a little trained animal on stage, forced to do tasks it isn’t suited for. Helen quietly crept down the hallway at night, grabbing the broom from its corner as if she was stealing it, and secretly swept and dusted her own room, so that Mrs. Brown wouldn’t have to do it.

She wished it took longer. Once she was done, all she could do was sit by her window and look down at the street. People walked up and down, casually strolling in the warm summer evening. She saw girls in cute dresses, hanging out in groups, and that made her feel even lonelier. Buggies passed by; a man with his wife and kids out for a drive, a girl with her boyfriend. At the corner, she heard the clanging of streetcars and watched them go by, brightly lit and full of people. Occasionally, she spotted an automobile, and her heart raced as she leaned out the window until it disappeared from view. In those moments, she felt the allure of the city, with its crowds, its sparkle, and its fast-paced life.

Two young guys often drove down that street in a car. They looked up at her window as they passed and slowed down. If she was leaning on the windowsill, they waved at her and called out cheerfully. She always acted like she hadn’t seen them and pulled back, but she kept an eye out for the car to come by again. It felt like a connection between her and all that exciting life she was missing out on. She would have liked to get to know those guys.

She sat by the window one evening, close to the end of the three months she intended to spend at the telegraph school. Paul's picture was in her hand. He had taken it for her in Ripley. It was a beautiful, glossy picture, cabinet-sized, showing him with a tropical backdrop of palms and ferns. He had removed a derby hat, which he held awkwardly; his solid figure radiated an air of success in a suit that was new to him.

She stared at the strong line of his chin, the neat lips, and the smooth forehead where his hair was brushed back neatly. His neck was turned so his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. That distant gaze was puzzling; it stung a bit. She wished he would look at her. She felt that the image would be more helpful if he did, and she needed that help.

Mr. Weeks had come back from one of his long trips that day, and she had gathered the courage to ask him about a job. He listened while she stood by his desk, nervously expressing her worries and needs. Her money was almost gone; she thought she was pretty good at sending telegrams, and she had studied hard. She noticed his shaky hand fumbling with some papers on his desk and felt sorry for bothering him while he was sick. But desperation pushed her to keep going. She didn’t realize the truth until he looked up at her with bloodshot eyes and responded in a jumbled way. Then she saw that he was drunk.

Her wave of disgust hit her like a wave of nausea. She shook so much that she could barely make it down the stairs, and it took her a long time walking in the bright sunshine before the true implications sank in and gave her chills. Now, she sat facing that realization.

She had just two dollars, a partially used meal ticket, and a week's rent already paid. She clearly realized that she couldn't expect anything from the telegraph school. It didn't even cross her mind to blame anyone. Her thoughts raced wildly, like a trapped animal searching for a way out between metal bars.

She couldn't go home. She couldn't live there again, defeated, knowing that every day she was just adding a hundred dollars to the mortgage. She had told Paul so confidently that she could do as well as any guy if she got the chance, and she had gotten that chance. He couldn't help her. The street below was filled with happy people passing by, caught up in their own lives, oblivious to hers.

She hadn't noticed the car with the two young men until it parked across the street. Even then, she could only see it vaguely with lackluster eyes. But the two young men were gazing up at her window, chatting with each other, then glancing up again. They were getting out. They walked across the street. She heard their voices below, and a moment later her heart started to race. They were coming up the stairs.

Something was about to happen. Finally, something was going to shatter the awful loneliness and emptiness. She stood there listening, one hand at her throat, on edge, breathless.

They were standing halfway up the stairs, chatting. She felt uncertainty in the tone of their voices. One of them ran back down. There was a heavy silence. Then she heard footsteps and the bright, cheerful voice of Mrs. Brown. They were laughing together. "Oh, you Kittie!" one of the young men said. The three of them came up the stairs, and she heard their noisy footsteps and caught a word or two as they passed by her room. Then there was the scratch of a match, and light streamed through the crack of Mrs. Brown's door.

They kept talking. It sounded like they were arguing, persuading, or pushing for something. Mrs. Brown's voice interrupted them. There was a crash followed by laughter. She figured out they were playfully messing around. Later, she heard Mrs. Brown's voice at the top of the back stairs, calling down for someone to send up some beer.

Her tension eased. She felt herself sinking into an endless pit of depression. The playful argument was happening again. Random bits of it drifted to her as she changed in the dark and climbed into bed.

"Come on, Kittie, be cool! A gorgeous person like you! What are you really after—money?"

"Stop that. No, I’m serious. Why do you care why I won’t?"

She buried her face in the pillow and cried quietly. It felt like the final unfair twist of fate that Mrs. Brown would throw a party and not invite her.

The next day she dressed thoughtfully in a fresh white blouse and her Indianhead skirt and headed to the telegraph office to ask for a job. She knew exactly where to find the office; she had often admired its blue-lettered plate-glass front during her solitary walks on the busy street. Her heart raced, and her knees felt weak as she stepped through the open door.

The large room had a long counter running through it, where a young man was lounging in his shirt sleeves, a green eye-shade pushed back on his head. Behind him, the telegraph machines clattered loudly, breaking the heavy silence of the hot morning. The young man looked at her with curiosity.

"Manager? Am I not good enough?" he asked.

She heard her voice shaking:

"I'd prefer to see him—if he's busy—I can—wait."

The manager stood up from the desk where he had been sitting. He was a tall, skinny man, with fine hair neatly combed over the top of his head. His lips were thin as well, and there were deep lines on either side of his mouth, resembling parentheses. His eyes scanned her, curious. He apologized, saying he didn’t need another operator. Did she have experience?

She was a graduate of Weeks' School of Telegraphy, she told him breathlessly. She could send perfectly, but she wasn’t so sure about receiving; she would be super careful not to make any mistakes. She had to get a job, she just had to; it didn't matter how much it paid, anything would do. She felt like she couldn’t walk out of that office. She clung to the edge of the counter as if she were drowning and it was a lifeline.

"Alright—come in. Let’s see what you can do," he said. He opened a door in the counter, and she followed him between the tables. There was a dusty instrument on a worn-out desk, back by the big switchboard. The manager took a message from a hook and handed it to her. "Let's hear you send that."

She started slowly and carefully. The young man with the eye-shade had come over. He leaned against a table, listening, and after she had written a few letters, she sensed a glance exchanged between him and the manager, over her head. She completed the message, even adding a careful period. She felt she had done quite well. When she looked up, the manager said kindly:

"Not too bad! You'll be an operator someday."

"If you would just give me a chance," she pleaded.

He said he'd take her address and get back to her. She sensed that the young man found it a little funny. She gave the manager her name and street number. He repeated it in surprise.

"You're staying with Kittie Brown?" Again, a glance passed over her head. Both of them looked at her with increased interest, which she couldn't understand. "Yes," she answered. She felt acutely that it was an uncomfortable moment, and the confusion only added to her bewilderment. The young man turned away and, sitting down, started sending a stack of messages, working intensely, typing with his right hand and checking off the messages with his left. But she sensed that his attention was still on her and the manager.

"Well! Do you want to work here?" The manager rubbed his chin, smiling. "I'm not sure. I might."

"Oh, if you could!"

He paused for a tense moment.

"Well, I’ll think about it. Come see me again." He held her fingers warmly when they shook hands, and she squeezed back gratefully. She felt that he was really kind. She also felt that she had handled the interview really well, and the returning hope warmed her as she went back to her room.

That afternoon, she had a visitor. She had written her weekly letter to her mom, saying that she was almost done with school and expected to get a job, hesitating for a long time, feeling miserable, before she added that she didn’t have much money left and wanted to borrow another five dollars. She had eaten a stale roll and an apple and was thinking about how long she could stretch her meal ticket when she heard a knock on her door.

She opened it in shock, assuming there had been some kind of mistake. A sturdy, determined-looking woman stood there, a well-dressed lady wearing black gloves and a veil. Right away, Helen felt young, inexperienced, like a child in strong hands.

"You're Helen Davies? I'm Mrs. Campbell." She walked into the room, and Helen stepped aside for her confident approach. She took in the room with a glance. "What was your mother thinking, leaving you in a place like this? Did you understand what you were getting into?"

"I don't—what—w-won't you take a seat?" said Helen.

Mrs. Campbell sat down carefully, sitting up straight. They exchanged glances.

"I might as well be straightforward with you," Mrs. Campbell said, as if it were a common expression. "I ran into Mrs. Morris, Mrs. Updike's sister, at the lodge convention in Oakland last week, and she mentioned you, so I promised to check in on you. Well, when I found out! I told Mr. Campbell I was coming right down here to talk to you. If you want to stay in a place like this, that's your choice. Still, I feel it would be my duty to write to your mother. I wouldn't want my own daughter left in a strange town at your age without anyone looking out for her."

"I'm sure it's really nice." Helen murmured in confusion.

"Well,"—Mrs. Campbell took a deep breath and went on,—"I guess you know what kind of person this Kittie Brown claims to be? I assume you know she's not a good woman?"

A wave of darkness washed over the girl's mind.

"Everyone in town knows what she is," Mrs. Campbell continued. "Everyone knows—" She went on, her voice becoming more bitter. Helen, barely hearing the words, fought back a sick urge to ask her to stop talking. She felt like everything around her was toxic; she wanted to escape, to hide, to believe that she would never be seen by anyone again. Once the harsh voice had stopped, it was a struggle to speak.

"But—what am I supposed to do?"

"Do? I think you'd want to get out of here as quickly as possible."

"Oh, I really want to. But where can I go? I—my rent's covered. I don't have any money."

Mrs. Campbell thought.

"Well, you will have money, right? Your parents don't expect you to live here with nothing, do they? If it’s just a day or two, I could take you in myself instead of leaving you in a place like this. There are plenty of nice places in town." She got practical. "The first thing to do is pack your stuff right away. How long is your rent paid for? Can’t you get some of it back?"

She waited while Helen packed. She kept talking, and Helen tried to respond clearly and appreciatively. She felt like she should be thankful. They went down the stairs, and Mrs. Campbell waited outside the restaurant while Helen went in to ask Mrs. Brown for a refund on the week's rent.

It was noon, but there were only a couple of people in the restaurant. Mrs. Brown's smile disappeared when Helen hesitantly said that she was leaving.

"You are? What’s wrong? Has someone been bothering you?" Her eyes landed on the waiting Mrs. Campbell, and her pale face became even whiter. "Oh, is that what’s going on?"

"No," Helen said quickly. "I mean, it's been really nice here, and I've enjoyed it, but a friend of mine—she wants me to stay with her. I'm sorry to go, but I don't have much money." She fought against feeling sorry for Mrs. Brown. She hesitated before asking her to return the rent.

Mrs. Brown said she couldn't do it. However, she offered to give Helen something in exchange, worth two dollars. They both tried to make the transaction seem ordinary and respectable.

Helen, confused, pointed to a pile of peanut candy in the glass display case. She had often admired it and wished she could afford to buy some. Mrs. Brown's thin hands trembled, but she was placing the candy on the scale when Mrs. Campbell walked in.

"What's she up to?" Mrs. Campbell asked Helen. "Are you buying candy?"

"I don’t see what your problem is with me!" Mrs. Brown exclaimed. "I’ve never done anything to her. I’ve never even spoken to her. Ask her if I ever bothered her. Ask her if I didn’t leave her alone. Ask her if I’m not running a decent, respectable, quiet place, doing my best, minding my own business, and trying to make an honest living. Ask her what I ever did to her the whole time she’s been here." Her voice was sharp and high-pitched. Tears were streaming down her face. Automatically, she continued breaking up the candy and piling it on the scales. "I don’t know what I ever did to you that makes you not leave me alone, coming around here."

"I didn't come here to talk to you," Mrs. Campbell said. "Come on out of here," she ordered Helen.

"I wish you would just mind your own business!" Mrs. Brown yelled after them. "If you would only take care of your own stuff, you kind people!" She threw the words at them like a curse, her voice cracking with tears. The door slammed shut as Mrs. Campbell angrily closed it.

Helen, shaking and trembling, tried not to feel sorry for Mrs. Brown. She was embarrassed by that feeling. She knew that Mrs. Campbell didn't feel it. Rushing to keep up with that angry lady's speed down the street, she was filled with shame and confusion. The whole situation felt like a splash of mud on her. Her cheeks were flushed, and she couldn't bring herself to look Mrs. Campbell in the eye.

Even when they were on the streetcar, far away from everything, her awkwardness grew. Mrs. Campbell was a bit unsettled too. She looked at Helen, at the bulky telescope bag, the worn-out shoes, and the faded sailor hat, and Helen felt that stare like a burn. She could tell Mrs. Campbell was trying to figure out what to do with her.

Pride, helplessness, and shame suffocated her. She attempted to engage with Mrs. Campbell's attempts at conversation, but she couldn't, even though she realized that her inability made Mrs. Campbell see her as moody. Her rescuer's frustrated tone felt like a whip's sting before they got off the train.

Mrs. Campbell lived in luxury in a two-story white house on a quiet street. The perfectly manicured lawns and the tidy cement walkways highlighted Helen's lack of polish. She had never felt so conscious of it. When she was sitting in Mrs. Campbell's living room, weighed down by the plush carpet, the piano, and the beaded curtains, she tried to hide her feet under the chair and didn't know what to do with her hands.

She answered Mrs. Campbell's questions because she had to, but she felt like the last bits of her hesitation and self-respect were being stripped away. Mrs. Campbell gave just one piece of advice.

"The thing you need to do is go home."

"No," Helen said. "I—I can't—do that."

Mrs. Campbell looked at her with curiosity, and again Helen's cheeks turned bright red. She didn't mention the mortgage. Mrs. Campbell hadn’t asked about it.

"Sure, you can stay here for a few days."

She dragged the telescope bag up the stairs, the wooden steps shining like glass. Mrs. Campbell showed her a room at the end of the hall. It was filled with a bunch of stuff: kids' toys, old baskets, a broken chair. It was like the closets at home, just bigger. It was big enough for a narrow white iron bed, a washstand, and a chair, and still had space to swing the door open. These things appeared after Mrs. Campbell pulled out the others.

Watching her quick, efficient movements in silence, Helen tried again to feel thankful. But the fact that Mrs. Campbell expected it made that impossible. She could only stand there awkwardly, wishing for the moment when she would be alone. When Mrs. Campbell finally went downstairs, Helen shut the door quickly and quietly. She wanted to throw herself onto the sagging bed and cry, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood with clenched hands, staring into the small, blurry mirror above the washstand. A white, tense face stared back at her with burning eyes. She said to her reflection, “You’re going to do something, do you hear? You’re going to do something fast!” Although she didn’t know what she could do, she could maintain her self-control by telling herself that she would take action.

Some time later, she heard the shouts of kids and the sound of pans clanging in the kitchen below. It was almost dinner time. She took a cinnamon roll out of the paper sack in her bag, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat it. She was staring at it when Mrs. Campbell called up the back stairs, "Miss Davies! Come to dinner."

She steeled herself and went downstairs. Dinner was nice, but she couldn’t eat much. Mr. Campbell sat at the head of the table, a serious-looking man who rarely spoke except to scold the kids when they got too loud. There were two kids, a nine-year-old girl and a younger boy in a sailor suit. They looked at Helen with curiosity but didn’t respond when she tried to talk to them. She realized they had been told to ignore her, and she felt like her connection with a woman like Mrs. Brown still marked her like a splash of mud.

When she hesitantly offered to help with the dishes after dinner, Mrs. Campbell told her that she didn’t need any help. Her tone wasn’t harsh, but Helen felt the rejection, and afraid she would cry, she quickly went upstairs.

She stared at Paul's picture for a while before putting it back in her bag, thinking that Mrs. Campbell wouldn't notice it there. Then, sitting on the edge of the bed under a flickering gas light, she wrote him a long letter. She told him she had moved, and while describing the street, the lovely house, and the furniture in the living room, she painted such a picture of comfort and happiness that it made her feel a bit warm inside. It was a beautiful letter, she thought, reading it over several times before she carefully turned off the gas and went to bed.

Early in the morning, she went to the telegraph office and asked again for a job. Mr. Roberts, the manager, was really friendly, chatting with her for a while and gently patting her hand in a way she thought felt fatherly and comforting. He told her to come back. He might be able to help her.

She went back every morning for a week, and often in the afternoons. The rest of the time, she wandered the streets or sat on a bench in the park. She felt so obligated when she ate Mrs. Campbell's food that several times she didn’t return to the house until after dark, when dinner would be finished. She had to ring the doorbell because the front door was kept locked, and each time Mrs. Campbell asked her sharply where she had been. She always answered truthfully.

At the end of the week, she got a letter from her mom, telling her to come home right away and sending her five bucks for the fare. Mrs. Campbell had written to her, and she was shocked and concerned.

Helen really disliked Mrs. Campbell. What right did that woman have to stress her mom out? Helen could handle things just fine on her own, and she told her mom that she could. She finally found a job. Mr. Roberts had created a position for her in the office as a clerk paying five dollars a week. She didn’t bring up the pay to her mom; she just said she had a job and that her mom shouldn’t worry. She would be earning more money soon and could send some home.

The letter had been waiting for her, sitting on the hall table, when she rushed in, excited to share the good news with Mrs. Campbell. Her anger upon reading it was oddly a relief. The pressure to feel thankful towards Mrs. Campbell was gone. She wrote her response and quickly went to drop it in the corner mail box.

Running back to the house, she ran into Mrs. Campbell coming back from a sewing-circle meeting. Mrs. Campbell was wearing a nice hat and gloves, and the look in her pale blue eyes behind the dotted veil made Helen suddenly realize how messy she looked, bare-headed, her loose hair tousled by the breeze, her blouse drooping under her arms. She stood there, feeling awkward and self-conscious while Mrs. Campbell unlocked the front door.

"Did you receive your mom's letter?"

"Yep. I got it."

"Okay, what did she say?"

Helen didn’t respond to that.

"I got a job," she said, breathing quickly.

"You have? What type of job?"

Helen told her. They were in the hall now, standing by the golden oak hat rack at the foot of the stairs. The kids watched, wide-eyed, in the parlor doorway.

Perplexity and disgust battled on Mrs. Campbell's face.

"You think you can live in Sacramento on five bucks a week?"

"I'm going to. I have to. I'll figure it out somehow. I'm not going home!" Helen shouted, facing Mrs. Campbell like a rival.

"Oh, I have no doubt you'll manage!" Mrs. Campbell said sharply. She walked down the hall, and the slam of the dining-room door made it clear that she was done with the whole situation.

She came up the back stairs half an hour later. Helen was sitting on the bed, her bag packed, trying to figure out what to do. She only had five dollars. It would be two weeks before she could get more money from the office. Mrs. Campbell opened the door without knocking.

"I'm going to discuss this with you," she said, her tone steady but patient. "Don't you understand you can't find a decent room and get food for five dollars a week? Do you think it's fair to expect your family to support you, given how little they have? It isn't—"

"I don't expect them to!" Helen shouted.

"As if you didn’t have a nice home to return to," Mrs. Campbell hinted gently that a well-mannered girl shouldn’t interrupt when an older woman was talking. "Now, let’s be sensible about this, my—"

"I won't go back," Helen said. She lifted her sad eyes to Mrs. Campbell's, and the look she saw there reminded her of a horse with its ears pinned back.

"Then I guess you've decided where you are going?"

"No—I don’t know. Where should I start looking for a nice room that I can afford on my salary?"

Mrs. Campbell exclaimed impatiently. Her almost ruthless ability to handle situations didn’t prepare her to gracefully face one that she couldn’t manage. Her voice grew colder, and the smooth cheeks beneath her fair hair flushed as she continued speaking. Her arguments, her reluctant attempts at persuasion, her final outburst of open anger, were pointless. Helen wouldn’t go home. She intended to keep her job and live off her wages.

"Well, I guess you'll just have to stay here. I can't kick you out onto the streets."

"How much do you charge for the room?" Helen asked.

"Charge!" Helen blushed again at the contempt in the word.

"I can't stay unless I give you something. I need to do that."

"Well, of all the ungrateful—!"

Tears filled Helen's eyes. She understood that Mrs. Campbell had good intentions, and even though she didn't like her, she wanted to express her gratitude. But she wasn't sure how to do it without giving in a bit to the stubborn influence of the older woman. All she could do was insist that she must pay for the room.

She was left shaken but feeling a sense of victory highlighted by Mrs. Campbell's mumbling exclamation as she left. They agreed that Helen would pay five dollars a month for the room.

But the bitterness of living in that house, under conditions she felt were charity, grew stronger every day. She tried to cause as little trouble as possible, sneaking in through the back door so that no one would have to answer her ring, making her bed neatly, and slipping out early to avoid running into any family members. She spent her evenings at the office or at the library, where she could lose herself in books and write long letters. For some inexplicable reason, this seemed to annoy Mrs. Campbell, who would ask where she had been and didn’t disguise her belief that Helen's answers were lies. Helen felt like a suspected criminal. She would have left the house if she could have found another room she could afford.

It was only at the office that she could truly relax. She worked from eight in the morning to six in the evening, and then until the office closed at nine, she practiced on the telegraph machine behind the desks where the actual wires came in. She put in a lot of effort, as she was finally on her way to the small station where she would work with Paul. She felt she could never thank Mr. Roberts enough for giving her this opportunity.

He was really nice. He often came around the corner where she was studying and chatted with her for a long time. At first, he was surprised by how hard she was working. He seemed to think she hadn’t planned on doing it. But he was so genuinely friendly that one day, when he took her hand and said, "What's the deal, little girl—keeping me away like this?" she opened up to him about everything except Paul. She told him about the farm, the mortgage, the fruit crop failing, and even, feeling embarrassed, about Mr. Weeks’ drinking, and how she didn’t know what she would have done if she hadn’t gotten the job. She was really thankful to him and tried to express that.

He dryly told her not to worry about it, and she realized that she had upset him. Maybe her story had come off like she was asking for more money, she thought, feeling embarrassed. For several days, he piled on a lot of tough tasks for her and got angry when she made mistakes. She tried her hardest, wanting to make him happy, and soon he was friendly again.

His was the only kindness she found to lift her shivering spirit, and she became more thankful to him for it every day. Although she was confused by his affectionate interest in her and his sudden coldness when she eagerly thanked him, this was just part of the confusing vibe in the office, where she sensed many hidden tensions that she couldn't grasp.

The young operator wearing the green eye-shade, for example, always looked at her with a cynical and slightly amused expression, which she resented without understanding why. When she placed messages next to his key, he would cover her hand with his if he could, and sometimes while she was working, he would come over and put his hand on her shoulder. She was always angry because she sensed his contempt for her, but she didn’t know how to express her resentment without overreacting to the situations.

"Mr. McCormick, just leave me alone!" she said irritably. "I need to focus on my work."

"What's the game?" he drawled.

"What do you mean?" she asked, feeling flushed under his cool, mocking stare. He looked at her, grinning until all she could feel was hatred for him. Other times, he’d say something like, "Oh, well, I'm not interfering. It's your call and the boss's," and then he would walk away, whistling.

Much time spent looking at life through the back door keyhole of a telegraph operator's perspective had made him indifferent and tiredly worldly-wise by the age of twenty-two. He understood that every pretty face was shaped by a skeleton, and he believed that every life held one. Only virtue could have surprised him, and he couldn't have been convinced that it was real. When he was on duty during the long, slow evenings, Helen, practicing diligently behind her screen, heard him singing thoughtfully:

Life felt pretty straightforward to Helen. She would soon be a telegraph operator, earning up to fifty dollars a month. She could pay back the hundred dollars, buy some new clothes, and have enough to eat. She aimed to secure a job at the Ripley station—Paul was always on her mind—and she envisioned furnishing her living space, making curtains, and embroidering centerpieces.

It was spring when he wrote that he was coming to spend a day in Sacramento. He was going to Masonville to help his mom move to Ripley. On the way, he would stop and see Helen.

Helen, filled with happy excitement, thought about her clothes. She needed to have something new to wear when they met. Paul had to see right away how much she had changed, how much she had improved. She hadn’t saved anything, but she had to, she just had to get new clothes. Two days of anxious planning finally gave her the courage to approach Mr. Roberts and ask him for her next month's salary in advance. She could deal with next month's food later. Mr. Roberts was very understanding about it.

"Money? Absolutely!" he said. He pulled a bill from his wallet. "We need to figure out how to get you more soon." Her heart raced. He placed the bill in her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers. "Will you be nice to me if I do?"

"Oh, I'd do anything in the world for you," she said, looking at him gratefully. "You're so amazing! Thank you so much." His expression seemed strange to her, but a customer walked in at that moment, and while taking the message, she forgot about it.

She went out at noon and bought a white, pleated, voile skirt for five dollars, a China-silk top for three ninety-five, and a white straw sailor hat. That afternoon, McCormick, with his cynical smile, handed her a note that had come through the wire for her. "Arrive at eight ten Sunday morning. Meet me. Paul."

She was so wonderfully self-absorbed all afternoon that she barely noticed the thundercloud forming in Mr. Roberts' eyes, and she returned to her room that evening so confidently happy that she rang the doorbell without her usual hesitation. Mrs. Campbell's lips were pressed into a tight, thin line.

"Here are some packages for you," she said.

"Yeah, I know. I got some clothes. Thanks for altering them," said Helen. She felt warm even towards Mrs. Campbell. "A white voile skirt, a silk top, and a hat. Do you want to see them?"

"No, thank you!" Mrs. Campbell said coldly. As Helen went up the stairs, she heard her talking to her husband. "'I bought some clothes,' she says, as bold as ever. Clothes!"

Helen felt hurt and puzzled by how unkind people could be. She recognized that the clothes were too much, but she really wanted them for Paul, and it seemed to her that she had worked hard enough to earn them. Plus, Mr. Roberts had mentioned that she might get a raise.

She got dressed and was quietly sneaking out of the house at seven in the morning. The spring dawn was brightening the city after a night of rain; the smell of the freshly washed lawns and flowerbeds was wonderful, and birds were singing in the trees. The cool, sweet air and the warm sunlight blended with her joyful feeling of youth and approaching happiness. She thought she looked great as she admired her slim, pale reflection in the shop windows.

When the train arrived at the large, rundown station, Helen had been waiting for a while, her heart racing with excitement. But her confidence vanished when she saw the crowds spilling out of the cars. She stepped back into the waiting room doorway, and she caught sight of Paul before his eager eyes found her.

It was a shock to realize that he had changed, too. Something youthful had disappeared from his face, and his confident stride, along with his polished look in a new suit, gave her an unsettling feeling that she was about to encounter a stranger. She steeled herself for the moment, and when they shook hands, she felt that hers was cold.

"You're looking good," she said shyly.

"Well, so are you," he replied. They walked down the platform together, and she noticed that he was carrying a new suitcase, and even his shoes were new and shiny. However, these details were somewhat overshadowed by her sense that he was feeling awkward, too.

"Where should we go?" They paused, glancing at each other, and in their smile, the oddity disappeared.

"I don't care. Anywhere, as long as you're with me," he said. "Oh, Helen, it’s so great to see you again! You look amazing, too." His eyes showed approval as he took in her new clothes.

"I'm really happy you like them," she said, beaming. "That's a super nice suit, Paul." Joy rushed back to her, and reaching out, she plucked a piece of thread from his beloved sleeve. "So, where should we go?"

"We'll grab something to eat first," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm almost starving, aren't you?" She hadn't considered eating.

They had breakfast at a small café with waffles, sausages, and coffee. The hot food was amazing, and the waiter in the dirty white apron smiled knowingly as he served them. Paul casually gave him fifteen cents, and she felt a thrill at his nonchalant generosity and his confident demeanor.

The whole long day stretched out ahead of them, full of endless possibilities. They left their suitcase with the cashier at the restaurant and strolled slowly down the street, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the abundance of time they had. Helen proposed they take a walk in the Capitol grounds; she had thought they would do that, and maybe in the afternoon, enjoy a drive to Oak Park. But Paul brushed off these simple pleasures with a single word.

"Not even close," he said. "I want a real celebration, a full-on party. I've been saving for it for a long time." He wrestled with his conscience. "It won't hurt to skip church just one Sunday. Let's take a boat down the river."

"Oh, Paul!" She was amazed. "But—I don't know—won't it be really expensive?"

"I don't care how much it costs," he said without thinking. "Come on. It'll be a blast."

They walked down the rundown streets toward the river, and even the shabby tenements and cracked sidewalks of the Japanese neighborhood felt festive to them. They laughed at the quirky little shops and the restaurant windows, where electric lights still shone brightly in the daylight over pale pies and unusual-looking cakes. Helen had to stop to chat with the straight-haired, flat-faced Japanese babies who sat quietly on the curbs, gazing at her with mysterious slant eyes, and she found romance in the groups of tall Indian workers, with their bearded, dark faces and brightly colored turbans.

It felt like stepping into a foreign country together, she said, and even Paul was briefly mesmerized by the charm she found in everything, even though he didn't hide his disdain for these outsiders. "We'll make sure they don't come to our town," he declared, already with the attitude of someone who owns Ripley.

"Now this is something special!" he said after helping Helen across the gangplank and safely settling her on the deck of the steamer. Helen, squeezing his arm with her fingers, was too happy to say a word. The boat was filling up with people in vacation attire; all around her was the buzzing excitement of departure, shouts, orders, and the sound of boxes being loaded below deck. A whistle blew roughly, the engines started up, sending a thrill through the very planks beneath her feet.

"We should find a good spot up front," Paul said. He guided her through the grandeur of a spacious room filled with velvet chairs, past a view of gleaming white tables and waiters in white uniforms, to a seat where they could look down the yellow river. She was taken aback by his confidence and composure. She regarded him with an admiration she refused to let fade, even as the boat drifted into the current and turned to show that he had brought her to the back deck.

Her excited suggestion to check out the boat helped Paul hide his disappointment, and she listened intently as he described everything they saw. He guessed the price of the crates of vegetables and chickens stacked on the lower deck, headed to the city from the farms up the river. His detailed explanation of the engines caught the interest of a dirty engineer who had come up from the noisy depths for a breath of fresh air, and the engineer, giving them a friendly but curious look, was easily convinced to take them into the engine room.

Helen couldn't make sense of his explanations, but she was intrigued because Paul was. She felt a thrill discovering a dim tank half filled with flopping fish, caught from the river and tossed there by the paddle wheel. "We take them home and eat them, miss," said the engineer, and she imagined their lives in the cool river and the city dinner tables where they would end up. She was captivated by the countless complexities of life, even on that one small boat.

It was disappointing to find, when they returned to the upper decks, that they could see nothing but green levee banks on each side of the river. But this led to an even more exciting discovery. As they bravely climbed a narrow iron ladder, they saw an amazing and unbelievable stretch of water where land should have been beyond the western levee. Their amazement encouraged Paul to tap on the glass wall of a small room next to them, where they spotted an old man peacefully smoking his pipe. He turned out to be the pilot, who explained that what they saw was flood water. He let them squeeze into his tiny space and stayed while he shared long stories of the early days on the river, of floods that swept entire towns away at night, of women and children rescued from floating roofs, of cows found drowned in treetops, and groups of hogs that accidentally hurt themselves while swimming. As she listened to him while the boat slowly chugged down the curves of the sunlit river, Helen felt the romance of life, the richness of all the millions of obscure lives in the world.

"Isn't everything fascinating!" she exclaimed, giving Paul's arm an enthusiastic little squeeze as they strolled along the main deck again. "Oh, I wish I could experience all the lives that have ever been lived! Imagine those women and the miners and people in cities and everything!"

"I guess you’d find it pretty inconvenient before you got through," Paul said. "Wow, but you’re really beautiful, Helen," he added without really connecting, and they forgot everything except that they were together.

They had to get off at Lancaster to catch the afternoon boat back to Sacramento. Paul said there was just enough time to eat on board, and despite her flustered protests, he guided her into the white-painted dining room. The smooth linens, shining silverware, and impressive waitstaff overwhelmed her; all she could see were the prices on the fancy menu cards, and they were daunting. Paul himself was taken aback by them, and she noticed the worried look in his eyes. She felt she should pay her share; she was working too and earning money. The memory of the office, the advance she had taken on her wages, and her uncomfortable stay in Mrs. Campbell's house flashed through her mind like a shadow. But it disappeared quickly, and she sat contentedly at the white table, enjoying small delicious sandwiches and drinking milk, smiling across the pristine linen at Paul. For a moment, she imagined it was a honeymoon trip, and a thrill ran through her.

They were in Lancaster before they realized it. There was a brief moment of chaotic rushing, and they stood on the levee, watching the boat leave and vanish behind a wall of willows. A few relaxed Japanese observed them with blank, slanted eyes, acting like they didn't understand Paul's questions until his growing frustration prompted them to provide clear English information that the afternoon boat was running late. They thought it might arrive around five o'clock.

"Okay, that will get us back in time for my train," Paul said. "Let’s explore a bit."

The levee road was a tunnel of willow branches, with soft sand underfoot that made no sound. They walked in a magical quiet, bathed in pale light, green like seawater, warm and filled with the scent of hidden flowers. Through the delicate leaves, they caught glimpses of the wide river, its yellow waves reflecting the sky in flashes of metallic blue. And suddenly, stepping out of the fragrant shade, they saw the orchards. A sea of petals, delicate, translucent, and almost otherworldly like waves of pure rosy light, spread out at their feet.

The beauty of it brought tears to Helen's eyes. "Oh!" she said softly. "Oh—Paul!" She reached out her hand toward him without really looking. Just one more moment of magic would make it perfect. She wasn’t sure what she wanted, but her entire being ached for it. "Oh, Paul!"

"Pears, wow!" he exclaimed. "Hundreds of acres, Helen! Those are the tops of the trees! We’re looking down at them! Look at the river. The land is fifteen feet below water level. Have you ever seen anything like it?" His voice trembled with excitement. "There has to be a way to get down there. I want to check it out!" He almost took off along the edge of the levee, and Helen had to hurry to keep up with him. She didn’t understand why she felt hurt that Paul was so fascinated by the orchards. She was the first to laugh when they discovered the wooden steps on the side of the levee, talking about going downstairs to farm.

But she felt dismissed and a bit bitter. She listened absently to Paul's discussion about irrigation and the soil. He crumbled handfuls of it between his fingers as they walked through the orchard rows, and his thoughts led to a long speech about the soil around Ripley and the struggle the farmers were facing to get water for it. He was cautious about the project; it could be profitable, but it might not be. Still, if it did work out, a guy who bought some cheap land now could really benefit. She suddenly found herself wondering about the girls in Ripley. There had to be some; Paul had never mentioned them. She thought about it for a while before she managed to steer the conversation to where she could ask about them.

"Girls?" Paul said. "Yeah, there are some. I don't really pay much attention to them, though. I see them at church and at the Aid Society dinners, of course. They seem kind of silly to me. Honestly, I never even noticed if they were pretty or not." Suddenly, it hit him. "You know, they don't really talk about anything important. You're the only girl I've met that I can actually have a real conversation with. I—I've been really lonely, thinking about you."

"Really?" she said, looking up at him. The sunlight fell across her white dress, and stray pink petals fluttered slowly down around her. "Have you really missed me, too?" She leaned toward him just a bit, and he wrapped his arms around her.

He really loved her. A deep sense of happiness filled her. Being in his arms again felt safe, relaxing, and warm after what seemed like forever of exhausting struggle in the cold. He was focused solely on her now. His arms held her tightly; she could feel the texture of his coat against her cheek. He was stumbling over words of love, kissing her hair, her cheeks, and her lips.

"Oh, Paul, I love you, I love you, I love you!" she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Much later, they discovered a small spot under the willows by the riverbank and sat there with the water gently flowing at their feet, his arm around her, her head resting on his shoulder. They chatted for a bit. Paul shared more about Ripley, but she didn't mind. "When we're married—" said Paul, and the rest of the sentence didn’t matter.

"And I'm going to help you," she said. "Because I'm sending telegraphs now, too. I'll be making almost as much as you do. We can live above the depot—"

"We won't!" Paul said. "We're getting a house. I’m not really into the idea of my wife working."

"Oh, but I really want to help! A house would be great. Oh, Paul, with rose bushes in the yard!"

"And a horse and carriage, so we can go riding on Sunday afternoons."

"Plus, if I'm making money—"

"I know. We wouldn't have to wait this long."

She went red. That was what she meant, but she didn’t want to believe it. "I didn't—I don't—"

"Of course there's mom. And I want to feel like I can support—"

She felt the magic fade.

"Forget it!" The slightest of cuddling motions pulled his arms tight around her once more.

"Oh, darling, darling, you’re worth it!" he exclaimed. "I’d wait for you!"

They were surprised when they saw the shadows under the trees. They hadn't realized it was so late. She brushed her hair down and pinned her hat on with shaky fingers, and they hurried to the landing. The river was a lifeless stretch of dirty gray lapping at the dark banks. There was no one at the landing.

"It must be way past five o'clock. I wish I had a watch. The boat can't have gone by without us seeing it?" The suggestion drained the color from their faces. They looked at each other with wide eyes. "It can't have possibly! Let's ask."

The small town had just six old wooden buildings facing the levee. There was a store that was dark and locked, a harness shop that was also locked, two dark warehouses, and a saloon. She waited in the shadow of the saloon while he went inside to ask. He came out almost right away.

"No, the boat hasn't left. They don't know when it'll arrive. There's nobody there except a few Japanese."

They walked back to the landing cautiously and stood staring at the darkening river. "I guess there's no way to know when it will arrive? There's no other way to get back?"

"No, there’s no train. I have gotten you into a mess!"

"It's okay. It wasn't your fault," she quickly said.

They walked back and forth, waiting. Darkness slowly fell around them. The river breeze got chillier. Stars started to show up.

"Cold?"

"A little," she said, her teeth chattering.

He took off his coat and wrapped it around her, even though she complained. They found a sheltered spot on the bank and cuddled close, shivering. A cozy drowsiness washed over her, and the gentle sound of the water, the rustling of the leaves, and the warmth of Paul's shoulder against her cheek all felt like a dream.

"Are you comfortable, dear?"

"Mmmmhuh," she said. "You?"

"You bet your life!" She stirred slightly to meet his kiss. The night turned dreamlike once more.

"Helen?"

"What?!"

"Feels like we've been here forever. What should we do? We can't stay here until morning."

"I don’t—know—why not. All night—under the stars—"

"But listen. What if the boat comes by and doesn't stop? There's no light."

She sat up then, rubbing the sleepiness from her eyes.

"Alright, let's start a fire. Do you have any matches?"

He always carried them to turn on the lamps in Ripley. They gathered dry branches and driftwood and managed to start a flickering fire. "It's like being stuck on a desert island!" she laughed. He looked at her with admiration, crouching with messy hair in the dancing yellow light. "You're definitely brave," he said. "I—I think you're the most courageous girl in the world. And when I realize what a fool I am for getting you into this!"

There came an echo down the river, a rough whistle from the boat. A moment later, it arrived, huge and white, its lights slicing through the darkness as it approached the dock. Trying to fix her hat, tuck up her hair, and brush the sand off her skirt, Helen stumbled onto the boat with Paul's hand supporting her.

The bright lights of the salon hurt their eyes, but the warmth and security made their tired muscles relax. The room was empty, the carpet clean, and the velvet chairs were nicely arranged.

"Funny, I thought there'd be a lot of passengers," Paul said, thinking out loud. He found a cushion, placed it behind Helen's head, and sat down next to her. "Well, we're good now. We'll be in Sacramento pretty soon."

"Let's not think about it," she said with trembling lips. "I can't stand the thought of it ending, such a beautiful day. It'll be such a long time—"

He squeezed her hand tightly.

"Not that long. I'm not going to put up with it." He said it firmly, but his eyes showed concern. She didn’t respond, and they sat there staring at the future as the boat rocked on toward the moment when they would separate.

"Damn being poor!" The word shocked her like a punch would have. Paul, who was such a sincere and humble church member—Paul swearing! He continued without missing a beat. "If I just had a little money, if I really had a little money! What right does it have to make such a difference? Oh, Helen, you have no idea how much I want you!"

"Paul, Paul dear, you can’t!" Her hand was pressed against his face, and his shoulders shook. She rested his dear, messy head on her shoulder.

"Please, don't, dear!"

He pulled away from her and stood up. She let him go, hiding his embarrassment even from herself. "I feel like I'm making a fool of myself," he said nervously. He wandered around the room, pretending to be interested in the pictures on the walls. "It's strange that there aren't more people on board," he said casually after a bit. "Well, I guess I’ll check what time we arrive." He returned five minutes later, with a strange look on his face.

"Listen, Helen," he said roughly. "We won't get in for hours. There's something wrong with the engines. They're only running at half speed. I—I don't know why I didn't think of this earlier. You've got to work tomorrow and everything. The guy suggested—"

"Well, for goodness' sake, suggested what?"

"Everyone else has sleeping arrangements," he said. "You should let me get you one, because there's no point in you staying up all night. We don’t know when we’ll arrive."

"But, Paul, I really don’t want you to spend so much. I could get some sleep right here." She imagined the office and pictured herself, tired and fighting to get messages into the right envelopes while dealing with the unruly messenger boys. She felt worn out. But it would definitely be way too costly. "And besides, I’d rather stay here with you," she said.

"So would I. But we should be practical. You need to work, and I’d probably fall asleep too. Come on, let’s see how much it is, anyway."

They found the right spot after walking around the boat twice. A tired man was sitting behind the half-door, calculating some numbers. "Berths? Sure. Outdoor, of course. One left. A dollar fifty." His expectation pulled the money from Paul's pocket almost automatically. He came out, yawning, holding a key with a tag hanging from it. "This way."

They walked behind him down the hallway. It felt like everything was slipping out of their control. He stepped onto the dark deck.

"Be careful, you should help your wife with those ropes," he warned over his shoulder, and they heard a key turning in a lock. A rectangle of light appeared; he stepped out again to let them go by. They entered. "There are towels. Everything seems fine, I guess," he said cheerfully. "Good night."

Their eyes locked for a split second, filled with shock. Embarrassment engulfed them both like a fire. "I—Helen! You don’t think—?" They staggered awkwardly in the tight space between the beds and the sink. Was the boat shaking, or was it just her heartbeat racing?

"Paul, did you hear? How could—?"

"I suppose I should leave now," he said. He struggled with the door. "Good night."

"Good night." She felt suddenly sad and alone. But he hadn't left. "Helen? It could be true. We might be married!"

She held onto him.

"We can't! We couldn't! Oh, Paul, I love you so much!"

"We can get married—we will—just as soon as we reach Sacramento." His kisses overwhelmed her. "First thing in the morning! We'll figure it out somehow. I'll always love you just as much. Helen, what's wrong? Look at me. Sweetheart!"

"We can't," she gasped. "I'd ruin everything for you. Your mom and me and everything on your plate, and you're just starting out. You'd end up resenting me eventually. No, no, no!"

They drifted apart.

"What am I saying?" he said hoarsely, and she turned away from him, hiding her face.

A rush of cold, damp air swept in from the open doorway. He was gone. She closed the door and sat down on the edge of the bed. A cool breeze flowed in like water through the window shutters; she felt the vibrations of the engines. Even with her eyes closed, she couldn't stand the light, and after some time, she turned it off, shaking, and lay there open-eyed in the dark.

The boat coming to a stop jolted her raw nerves like a punch. She sat up, caught between sleep and wakefulness, pushing her hair back from a face that looked drenched and lifeless. A dim twilight filled the stateroom. She smoothed her hair and tried to fix her wrinkled dress as best as she could before heading out onto the deck. The boat was docked at the Sacramento landing.

A few feet away, Paul was leaning on the railing, his face pale and worn in the cold light. As she approached him, the events of the night flickered bizarrely through her mind, as strange and intense as images in a dream.

"You don't hate me, do you, Helen?" he asked desperately.

"Of course not," she said. Despite her exhaustion, she felt a rush of pity. For the first time in her life, she told herself to smile, and she did. "We should probably get going, right?"

The grayness of dawn hung in the air, dimming the streetlights. A few workers walked by, trudging along with their lunch pails and tools; a baker's wagon clattered past, creating loud echoes. She tried to console Paul, whose conversation was filled with self-blame.

He hoped she wouldn't get into an argument with the people where she was staying. If she did, she needed to let him know; he wouldn't accept anything like that. She could reach him in Masonville until Saturday; then he would come down again on his way home. He hadn't thought he could stop on the way back, but he would. He'd be worried about her until he saw her again and knew everything was fine. He had been really stupid not to be sure about the boat; he'd never forgive himself if—

"What is it?" he interrupted. She had turned to glance at a young man who walked by. The movement was almost instinctive; she had barely noticed the man, and it wasn't until he was gone that her weary mind registered an impression of a cynically smiling eye.

"Nothing," she said. She had been right; it was McCormick. But it would take too much effort to talk about him.

The blinds of Mrs. Campbell's house were still closed when they arrived. The tightly rolled morning paper was lying on the porch. She would have to ring the bell to get inside. They stood facing each other on the damp concrete walkway, surrounded by the freshness of the dewy lawns.

"Well, goodbye."

"Goodbye." They felt restricted in the daylight, under the empty gaze of the windows. Their hands held on tight. "You really aren't angry with me, Helen, about anything?"

"Of course I'm not. Nothing happened that wasn't just as much my fault as it was yours."

"Will you let me know?"

She promised, but she had no plans to burden him with her issues. It wasn’t his fault that the boat was late, and she had gone just as willingly as he did. "Don't worry about it. I'll be fine. Goodbye."

"Goodbye." Still their fingers stayed intertwined. She felt a surge of affection for him.

"Don't look so worried, my dear!" Quickly and boldly, she leaned toward him and lightly kissed his sleeve like a butterfly's wing. Then, feeling embarrassed, she ran up the steps.

"See you Saturday," he called cheerfully. She watched his solid figure until it disappeared around the corner. Then she rang the bell. There was just enough time for the brief warmth to fade, leaving her weak and cold, before Mrs. Campbell opened the door. She said nothing. Her eyes, her tight lips, and her way of pulling her dressing gown away from Helen's approach said it all. Any explanations would just be met with scornful disbelief.

Helen held her head high and responded to silence with silence. But before she got to her room, she heard Mrs. Campbell's voice, sharp and piercing, talking to her husband.

"Be as bold as you want! You're right. The only thing to do is to get her out of this house before we have a scandal on our hands. That's what I get for taking her in, out of kindness!"

Helen quietly closed her door. She was going to leave the house that day. The worn-out alarm clock showed it was 5:30. She had three hours before she could do anything. She undressed automatically, with half-formed plans racing through her mind. No money; she had already spent next month's wages on these wrinkled clothes. She could send a telegram to her mom, but she needed to avoid alarming her. Why hadn’t she thought about borrowing something from Paul? There was Mr. Roberts, but she could never repay that much. Maybe he would give her the raise he had promised. Her mind was racing. She envisioned places like rooming houses, the office, and Mr. Roberts. She worked through every detail of long conversations, hearing her own voice explaining, arguing, promising, and thanking.

She jolted awake at the sound of the alarm. Sleep hadn’t refreshed her. Her body felt stiff, and there was a gritty feeling behind her eyes. Getting dressed and rushing to the office felt like a nightmare where a huge effort leads to nothing. The office routine helped her regain her composure. She took care of the night messages, covering them with wet tissue paper, running them through the copier, addressing envelopes, sending out messengers, and settling disputes over long routes. Everything was just as usual; sunlight streamed in through the large glass front of the office; customers came and went; the phone rang; the machines clicked. Her vacation felt like a dream that had vanished. All that was left was the lingering sting of Mrs. Campbell's words and a determination to leave her house.

She attempted to speak with Mr. Roberts a few times. But he was in a foul mood. He walked by her without saying good morning, and when she brought up a delayed message, his voice cracked like a whip. She noticed that some hidden anger was brewing inside him and that he wouldn’t be amenable until it passed. Maybe he would be in a better mood later. She needed to ask him for some money before the night was over.

In the quiet moment before noon, she sat at her table behind the screen, resting her head on her arms. She wasn't in the mood to work on the instrument. Mr. McCormick was leaning against the front counter, chatting with Mr. Roberts, who was seated at his desk. They could handle any customers; for now, she could take a break and try to gather her thoughts.

"Ms. Davies!"

"Yes, sir!" She jumped to her feet. Mr. Roberts' tone was threatening. Had she missed a message?

"I want to show you the batteries. Follow me."

"Oh, thank you! I'd love to see them." She tried to lighten his frown with the cheerfulness of her voice.

She carefully followed him down the stairs to the basement. The batteries were lined up in long rows on shelves, large glass jars with toxic-looking green and yellow stains, filled with murky water and bits of decaying metal. A flickering light bulb barely lit their dusty array, faintly revealing dark beams and cobwebs above.

"It's really nice of you to go to so much trouble," she started gratefully.

"Cut it out! How long are you going to think you're making a fool of me?" Mr. Roberts suddenly faced her with a look that terrified her. Words got stuck in his throat. He grabbed her wrist, and she felt his whole body shaking. "You—you—little brat—" The rows of glass jars spun around her. She barely understood the words he hurled at her. "Coming here with those big eyes, playing me for everything I'm worth, pretending to be innocent! Do you think you've fooled me for even a second? Do you think I haven't seen through your little game? How long do you think I'm going to put up with it—huh?"

"Let me go," she said, breathless.

She braced herself against the end of a rack, where his angry gesture had pushed her. They faced each other in the tight space, breathing heavily. "I don't know what you mean," she said. Her world was falling apart beneath her.

"You know exactly what I mean. Stop lying to me. You can't fool me. I know where you were last night." His face twisted again. "Yeah, and every other night, all the times you've been fooling yourself into thinking you were making a fool out of me. I know everything. Got that? I knew who you were before I ever hired you. Do you think I hired you so you could run around behind my back, laughing at me?"

"Wait—please—"

"I've listened to you enough. From now on, you're going to take action instead of just talking. I'm not a guy you can manipulate easily. It doesn't matter how attractive you are."

"I don't—want to. I just—want to get away," she said. She still faced him because she couldn't hide her face without looking away, and she was scared to do that. When the silence went on, she started to drop into it small, disconnected phrases. "I didn't know, I thought you were really good to me. We couldn't control the boat being late. Please, please, just let me go. I was only trying to learn how to telegraph. I thought I was doing so well."

She sensed that he wasn't angry anymore, and facing the dusty boards, she covered her face with her arms and cried. She felt ashamed for doing it, but she couldn't stop. Every moment she tried to hold it together, and soon she managed to. When she lifted her head, Mr. Roberts was gone.

She waited for a bit among the indifferent battery jars, steadied herself, and wiped her face with her handkerchief. When she finally forced herself to climb back into the daylight, the office was empty except for McCormick, who sat at the San Francisco wire, staring blankly, whistling "Life's a funny proposition after all," while the ignored sounder clattered nervously, trying to get his attention.

Of course she would leave the office. She put on her hat and did so right away, but once she was out in the sunlight, with the eyes of people around her, she could only squirm among her thoughts like something raw among nettles. The side streets were better than the main ones, since there were fewer people who could see her. If only it were night, so she could crawl into some corner unnoticed and just die.

It took her a while to realize that her body was aching and that she was limping on painful feet. She had reached a street in some residential neighborhood, where concrete sidewalks cut through patches of last year's weeds, and small cottages stood sadly at long distances from one another. She tripped over a patch of dry stubble and green grass and sat down. She couldn’t take any more. It felt good to sit in the warm sunshine, to be alone. Life felt terrible. She recoiled from it with a sickening disgust. She had been hurt so badly that she no longer felt physical pain, but her soul was overwhelmed with nausea.

There was nowhere for her to hide. She didn’t have time to heal her wounds and there was no one to help her with them. The afternoon was nearly over. At home there was Mrs. Campbell, and at the office—she could get more money from her mom and go home for good. She owed her mom a hundred dollars—months of struggle and exhausting work. She couldn’t turn away from the harsh reality of life at such a cost to others. Somehow, she had to find the strength within herself to get up, keep going, and take action.

Mr. Roberts' recommendation was necessary before she could land another telegraph job. She didn't know how to do anything else. She owed him ten dollars, which had to be paid. Paul — a wave of shame flushed her cheeks when she thought of him. She had to face this situation alone.

In the depths of her mind, she felt a hardness developing. All her finer feelings, hurt beyond tolerance, were hiding beneath a tougher exterior. Her chin lifted, her lips tightened, and her eyes narrowed unconsciously.

After a while, she got up, brushed the dead grass off her skirt, and headed back to town. A streetcar took her there quickly. On the way, she realized she should eat and thought about Mrs. Brown. The half-used meal ticket was still in her purse. She had felt anxious at the thought of seeing Mrs. Brown again, and many times she had planned to toss the little piece of cardboard, but she couldn't bring herself to do it since it represented food.

She got out of the car at the corner closest to the little restaurant and pushed herself toward the doors. It was closed and empty, and a "For Rent" sign was stuck to the grimy window. Beneath her quick sense of relief, there was a feeling of triumph. She had made herself go there, at least.

In a lunchroom, she had a cup of coffee and ate a sandwich. Then she headed back to the telegraph office.

She held her head high and walked confidently, as if she were heading to her own execution. She sensed that something inside her was being suffocated, something pure, delicate, and sensitive that had to die before she could bear to face Mr. Roberts again. She opened the office door and stepped inside.

Mr. Roberts was at one of the terminals. McCormick, with a frown, was entering messages at her tall desk. She hung her hat in the cabinet and took the pen from his hand.

"Well, Little Bright-eyes, welcome to our city!" he said in his usual way, but she noticed that he was nervous, troubled by the tension in the air.

"After this you're going to call me Miss Davies," she said, folding a message into an envelope. She rang the bell for the next messenger boy. Well, she had been able to do that.

It was harder to approach Mr. Roberts. She didn’t know if she felt more disgusted, resentful, or scared of him, but her heart raced and she felt uneasy when he walked through the railing into the office and sat at his desk. She reviewed the day’s bookings and checked the messenger logs without really focusing on them, until her frustration with her fear transformed into a sort of bravery. Then she walked over to his desk.

"Mr. Roberts," she said firmly. "I'm not any of the things you called me." Her cheeks, forehead, and even her neck felt painfully hot. "I'm a perfectly decent girl."

"Well, there's no point in making such a big deal about it," he mumbled, searching through his papers for one that clearly wasn't there.

"I wouldn’t stick around, but I owe you ten bucks and I need to find a job. You know that. Everything I said about needing to work was true. I have to be here—"

"How do you know I'm going to let you?" he asked, hurt.

"I'm a good clerk. You won't find anyone as good for any less." She felt like she had to defend herself and lashed out impulsively. "You should at least let me keep the job, to make up—"

"That’s enough," he said sharply. Turning away from her, he caught McCormick's eye, which quickly fell to the message he was sending. "Go take those messages off the hook and send them out if you want a job so badly."

She followed instructions. It surprised her to realize she was responding to McCormick's grin with a somewhat twisted smile that was almost cynical. What she really wanted to do was scream.

Late that afternoon, she was leaning on the front counter, watching people stroll by outside the glass windows and wondering what their stories were, when she felt McCormick's gaze on her. He took a step closer, resting his elbow on the counter next to hers, and spoke privately.

"Well, I guess you really fooled the old man."

"I wish you'd just leave me alone," she said in a strong, clear voice.

"Oh, what's the point of getting upset? You're a brave little thing. I like you." He said this thoughtfully, as if he were reflecting on his feelings. "I won big at poker last night," he continued. When she didn’t respond, he added, "There's no catch with a small loan."

But this, even with the glimmer of hope it provided, was too much to handle.

"Go away!" she shouted. He walked back to the wires, whistling.

She was reviewing the last undelivered message at six o'clock and reminding herself that she had to head back to Mrs. Campbell's for the night when Mr. Roberts dropped a telegram on the desk next to her. "I'll try to keep the office running without your help," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "Don't worry about me. Just leave."

The operator's script moved gracefully before her eyes. She read it twice. "See your service this afternoon. Can offer Miss Davies night duty at the St. Francis Hotel for forty-five dollars a month. Report immediately. Bryant, Manager"

"San Francisco?" she exclaimed, shocked, staring at the SF date-line. She glanced across the yellow sheet at Mr. Roberts, noticing a dislike in his eyes that bordered on hatred. "I'll go tonight," she said. "I think everything's set. That Ramsey message was sent out twice."

When he left, she borrowed ten dollars from McCormick, promising to pay him back at the end of the month. She barely minded him dramatically kissing the money goodbye and holding her hand when he handed it to her. However, she used twenty-five cents of it to send a message from the station to Paul, even though McCormick would have sent it as a note for free.

Cooped up in a tight space at the end of a long hallway, Helen sat watching the bustling life of a famous San Francisco hotel. Every moment, the colors and sparkles changed under the bright light of huge chandeliers. Tall, gold elevator doors opened and closed; women walked by in satin and velvet, with light feathers in their shiny hair; men in tuxedos escorted them; bellboys hurried past, carrying silver trays and calling out, their voices rising above the ongoing muted chatter and the distant sounds of music from the Blue Room.

Helen had jammed a pencil into the telegraph sounder so she could hear the music. But the sounds of the violins reached her muddled by a low hum of voices, the rustling of silks, and the soft movement of many feet on velvet carpets. Nothing was clear, straightforward, or distinct in the chaos. Her ears were overwhelmed, just like her eyes were dazzled and her thoughts were confused, by a rush of sensations. San Francisco felt like a whirlpool, an endless, roaring circle, astonishing and dizzying.

This had been her unsettling impression of it that first morning when she pushed through the swirling crowds at the ferry building, dragging her telescope bag with one hand and using the other to keep her hat from flying off in the wind. Amid the noise of streetcar bells, massive wagons rattling over the cobblestones, countless hurried footsteps, whistles, bells, and shouts, she had felt a huge impersonal current, terrifying in its disregard for anything but its own powerful pull, and she had the feeling of standing at the edge of a whirlpool.

After ten months, the feeling still lingered. But now she seemed to have been pulled into the still center. The city buzzed around her, still confusing, still propelled by its own frenzied pace, but in the midst of it, she felt out of place and unaffected. All she had discovered within it was loneliness.

Her initial fears had disappeared, leaving her feeling frustrated about having felt them at all. She had mustered all her strength for a big push, only to find there was nothing to tackle. Instead of being filled with hidden dangers and traps for unsuspecting visitors, the city seemed completely unaware of her presence.

At the main telegraph office, Mr. Bryant had received her with little interest. He was a busy guy; she was just one part of his daily tasks. He told her to go to the St. Francis, asked her to check in there at five o'clock, and, after looking at her again, asked if she knew anyone in San Francisco or had figured out where to stay. Three minutes later, he passed her off to a lively young woman, who gave her an address and told her which bus to take to get there.

She had discovered a run-down two-story house on Gough Street, with a sad palm in a pot on the front porch. A pale woman showed her the room. It was a small, tidy space under the eaves, equipped with an iron bed, a washstand, a chair, and a piece of rag carpet. The bathroom was on the lower floor, and the rent was two dollars and fifty cents a week. Helen placed her bag down with a sigh of relief.

Thus, she found herself settled in San Francisco. Her first experience at the St. Francis was equally uneventful. After a startled dive into its grandeur, she was passively acknowledged by the day operator, a pale girl wearing glasses, who was already putting on her hat. The girl handed over a few unsent messages, gave Helen the cash box and rate book, and left.

Thereafter, Helen saw her every day, right at five o'clock, and watched her leave. Helen actually looked forward to that moment. It was nice to say, "Good evening," to someone once a day.

In the afternoon, she strolled around, getting to know the city and memorizing many of the street names. She found the public library and read a lot. The library was a nice place to spend Sundays, feeling less lonely than the crowded parks, and if the librarian wasn’t too busy, you could occasionally chat with her about a book.

The dragging of the days, along with her need for more money, led her to ask for extra work at the main office. But here, too, she had been thrust into the machine and placed in front of her telegraph key, with barely a rushed human connection. As a beginner earning forty-five dollars, she took the place of a seventy-five-dollar operator on a busy line, and the days turned into a nerve-wracking struggle to focus on the clicking sounder in her ear, while the vast room filled with hundreds of instruments and operators faded from her awareness.

Released at four o'clock, she ate sadly in a lunchroom and hurried to the St. Francis. Here, at least, she could watch the lives of others. Gazing out at the constantly changing crowd in the hotel hallway, she let her imagination run wild with thoughts of romances and adventures at her fingertips. A man chatted cheerfully with the cigar vendor while lighting his cigarette under the swinging light above the newsstand counter. He was at the center of a scandal that had filled the afternoon papers, and beneath her fingers lay the message he had sent to his wife, denying wrongdoing, pleading, swearing loyalty and love. A small, soft-eyed woman in delicate laces, stepping off the elevator to meet a plump man in evening attire, was there to finalize a big mining deal with him. The ends of the intrigue stretched into uncertainty, but her telegrams revealed its significance.

Helen's stiff muscles shifted anxiously. There was hardly any space to move in the tiny office, which was packed with a table, chair, and wastebasket. Freedom was just beyond the counter.

She grabbed the pencil from the counter and started a letter to Paul. Her imagination, at least, was set free when she wrote letters.

She paused, biting her pencil. That would surprise him, she thought. He had been so pleased with himself when he got promoted to day operator and station agent. She still hadn’t fully recovered from the hurt of him taking the job without telling her that the night operator position would be open. He had claimed that a girl couldn’t handle the job, but she knew he didn’t want her working alongside him.

In the spring, she thought, she would be able to get some beautiful new clothes and go home for a visit. Paul would come, too, when he knew she would be there. He would see then how well she could manage on very little money. In a few more months, she'd be able to save enough for a trousseau, tablecloths, and embroidered towels—

"Blank, please!" A customer leaned on the counter. She handed him the pad and watched as he wrote. His profile was attractive; a strand of light hair peeking out from his pushed-back hat, a straight forehead, a prominent nose, a thin, playful mouth. He wrote anxiously, scribbling with the pencil, tearing off the sheet and crumpling it in frustration, starting over. When he was done, he slid the message toward her with a quick motion, looked at her, and smiled, and she felt a spark in the warm glint of his eyes. His nervous energy was captivating.

She read the message. "'G. H. Kennedy, Central Trust Company, Los Angeles. Requesting five hundred. Need it urgently. This is definitely going to work out this time. Detailed explanations will follow by letter. Gilbert.' Sixty-seven cents, please," she said. She wished she could think of something more to say; she wanted to talk to him. There was something about him that felt like something was happening every moment. When he turned to leave and paused briefly, she glanced at him quickly. But he was talking to the other operator.

"Hey, kid!"

"On your way," the girl said calmly. Her eyes sparkled with amusement and defiance. But with a returning smile, he walked by, and only his hat could be seen peeking through the crowd. Then it turned a corner and disappeared.

"Fresh!" the girl whispered. "But wow, he can dance!"

Helen looked at her with curiosity. She was a new girl, on relief duty. The regular operator for her company was a serious, hardworking woman in her thirties who spent her free time studying German grammar. This girl was nothing like her.

"Do you know him?" Helen asked, smiling shyly. This was her chance to start a conversation, and she jumped at it. The other girl had a warm and engaging personality that seemed to include everyone.

"Of course I do," she replied, though there was a hint of doubt in her voice. She ran a slim finger through the blond curl resting against her neck, smiling at Helen, showcasing her even, white teeth. Helen thought of magazine covers. It must be amazing to be that beautiful, she thought longingly. "Who's he sending a message to?"

Helen passed the message over the low railing that separated the offices. She noticed the shine of the girl's fingernail as she ran it along the lines.

"Well, what do you know about that? He was giving me a whole story about being Judge Kennedy's son. You can never really tell with men," she said wisely, handing back the telegram. "Sometimes they tell you the flat-out truth."

A childlike quality made her sophistication just intriguing. Her remarks about the guests passing by captivated Helen, and occasionally, a phrase would hint at a lively world she seemed to flit through, like a butterfly in the sun. It seemed she only worked at random times.

"Mom supports me, of course on her alimony. Dad definitely treated her poorly, but his money is perfectly fine," she said innocently. Her honesty was also childlike, and her calm acceptance of the situation made it seem ordinary. Helen, in self-defense, couldn't be shocked.

"She's a lot of fun, Momma is. She just loves a good time. She's out dancing now. Wow! I wish I was! I'm just crazy about dancing, aren't you? Listen to that music! All I want is to dance all night long. That's what I really love."

"Do you ever— I mean, do you often—do it? Dance all night long?" Helen asked, wide-eyed.

"Only once a night," she laughed. "About five nights a week."

Helen found her entertaining and was drawn to her beauty and charm. Within an hour, she was asking Helen to call her Louise, and even though she didn’t hide her surprise at the emptiness of Helen's life, her heartfelt wish to share her own good times softened the impact of her pity. “I can’t believe you don’t know the city at all!” she exclaimed, and Helen could only agree. They had to check out some cafés together; they had to have tea at Techau's; Helen had to come to dinner and meet her mom. Louise mixed together a bunch of plans in a rush of friendliness. It was clear that she was genuinely moved in her lighthearted way by Helen's loneliness.

"And you're a brunette!" she exclaimed. "We'll look amazing together. I'm so blonde." Her thoughts always circled back to herself. Helen, recognizing this to some extent, felt a sense of amused tolerance that allowed her to maintain her pride while admitting to herself that this lively little person was sharper than she was. Louise would never have settled into a boring routine; she would have figured out how to fill her life with real experiences instead of just dreams.

Midnight arrived before Helen noticed. As she cleaned up her desk for the night, she discovered the unfinished letter to Paul and slipped it into her purse. That evening, she hadn’t needed to rely on her imagination.

Louise walked to the car line with her, and they decided that the next night Helen would come over for dinner and meet mom. It meant she had to cut her extra work short and pay the day operator to stay late at the St. Francis, but Helen didn’t mind the extra cost. This was the first friend the city had given her.

Three weeks later, she was living in the apartment on Leavenworth Street with Louise and her mom.

The change happened really suddenly. First, there was the dinner. Helen approached it nervously, unsure of herself in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. She tried to boost her confidence with a new hat and a veil with big velvet polka dots, but right at the door, she felt a moment of panic and considered backing out and sending a message to say she couldn’t make it. Only the thought of her overwhelming loneliness gave her the courage to ring the bell.

The tension faded the moment she met Momma. Momma, slender in a silk petticoat and a frilly dressing gown, had welcomed her warmly. Momma resembled Louise quite a bit. Helen thought again about the images on magazine covers, although Louise hinted at a new magazine, while her mother did not. Even Helen could tell that Momma's flawless complexion was generously enhanced by makeup, and her hair was almost unnaturally golden. But the eyes were identical—large and blue, framed with dark lashes—and both profiles shared the same clear, delicate lines.

"Yes, honey, most people do think we're sisters," Mrs. Latimer said contentedly when Helen mentioned the similarity.

"We have really great times together, don't we, Mom?" Louise added, her arm around her mother's waist, and Helen felt a twinge at the warmth of the reply. "We definitely do, kid."

It was a carefree, laid-back household. Dinner was thrown together somehow, with a lot of can-opening, in a messy, run-down kitchen. Helen and Louise did the dishes while mom stirred the creamed chicken. It was enjoyable to wash dishes again and set the table, and Helen could picture herself as part of the family while she listened to their close-knit conversations. They had tea downtown; there was talk about someone’s new car, someone’s diamonds; Louise had spotted a lavallière in a jewelry store; she playfully urged her mom to buy it for her, and her mom said affectionately, "Well, sweetie, we’ll see."

They had barely started eating when the phone rang, and Mom went to answer it, taking a while. They overheard bits of lighthearted conversation, and Louise thought, "Who is she chatting with now?" She jumped up with a shout of excitement when Mom returned to say that the group was heading to the beach.

There was a rush to get dressed. Helen, hooking their dresses in the messy bedroom, noticed dresser drawers overflowing with sheer underwear, silk stockings, scraps of ribbon, crumpled hat decorations, and feathers. Louise brushed her eyebrows with a small brush, buffed her nails, and carefully dabbed her lips with lipstick. Helen hoped she didn’t show her surprise at these new details of getting ready. They had just assumed she was going to the beach with them. Their surprise and disappointment were real when she said she had to go to work.

"Oh, why do you want to do that?" Louise sulked. "You look fine." She said it uncertainly, then perked up. "I'll let you borrow some of my stuff. You'd look absolutely amazing dressed up. Wouldn't she look amazing, Mom? You've got beautiful hair and that cute baby stare of yours. All you need is a dress and a little—Right, Mom?"

Her mother smiled warmly. Helen beamed under their praise and felt truly thankful for their interest in her. She really wanted to go with them, and as she stood on the sidewalk watching them leave in a big red car, surrounded by cheerful voices, she felt cold and alone.

They were so nice to be friendly to her, she thought, as she went about her work seriously. She felt she had to repay their kindness in some way, and after tossing around a few ideas, she decided to take them both to a matinee.

It was Louise, at their third meeting, who suggested that she come to live with them. "What do you know, Mom, Helen's living in a terrible place all by herself. Why couldn't she stay with us? There's plenty of room. She could share a bed with me. Mom, why not?"

Her mom, smiling lazily, said:

"Well, if you kids want to, I don't mind." Helen was excited about the idea. It was decided that she would cover one third of the costs, and Louise exclaimed happily, "Now, Mom, you have to get my lavallière!"

The next afternoon, Helen packed her bag and left the room on Gough Street. Her feet felt like dancing as she went down the narrow stairs for the last time and stepped out into the windy sunshine.

It was frustrating to feel so weighed down by her job. In the early mornings, dragging herself out of bed, she left Louise drowsy among the pillows and saw, while getting dressed, the tempting signs of last night’s fun in the dress thrown over a chair, the scattered slippers and silk stockings. She returned home at midnight to a dark, silent apartment, letting herself in with a latch key to find the dinner dishes still unwashed and bits of powder on the bedroom carpet, where street shoes and a discarded petticoat were tangled together. She liked putting things in order, pretending the place was her own while she did it, but she felt lonely. Later, she woke up to see Louise sitting half undressed on the edge of the bed, rubbing her face with cold cream, and she listened sleepily to her chatter.

"You'll be dead for a long time, kiddo," Mom said affectionately. "What's the point of being dead until you have to?" Helen's youthful spirit agreed with Mom. But she was all too aware of the hardships that come with being broke; she couldn't afford to lose her job. A casual comment tossed in the endless stream of Louise's gossip provided the answer. "Did you hear about that clueless girl at the MX office? She's found a chauffeur among a bunch of millionaires, and she's planning to quit her job and marry him!"

Helen's heart raced. This was her opportunity. When she faced Mr. Bryant at the main-office counter the next morning, her hands shook, but she felt a steely resolve inside her. She was going to get that job. It paid sixty dollars a month, with hours from eight to four. It didn't matter if she could manage market reports; she would figure it out.

She achieved her first business success when she landed this job, although she didn't realize how significant it was until many years later. She got comfortable in her role at the Merchants' Exchange wires with just one thought: now she was free to live normally and enjoy herself, like other girls.

The first day's work pushed her nerves to the limit. The loud shouts of buyers and sellers on the floor, the impatient pounding of customers with urgent messages, and the whole frantic pace and excitement of the exchange blended into a confusing noise. Through it all, she could only hear the slow, heavy sound of the Chicago wire, tapping out a meaningless jumble of letters and numbers. She focused on it with a determination that turned her into a mindless machine. The scrawled quotes she tossed onto the counter were born from a struggle of nerves and mental strain.

But it was finally over, and she rushed home. The quiet stillness of the apartment was tempting her to relax, but she ignored it, taking off her shirt-waist and splashing cold water on her face and bare arms. A new chiffon blouse was waiting in its box, and she felt a thrill of excitement as she lifted it from its tissue wrappings.

She secured the soft fabric, happy with the way her rounded arms looked through the sheer material and her slender neck rising from white ruffles. In the handheld mirror, she looked at the oval shape of her face reflected in the dressing-table mirror, and when she suddenly lifted her eyelids, she noticed the striking effect of her sea-gray eyes beneath black lashes, something she had never realized until Louise pointed it out.

She was pretty. She was almost—she caught her breath—beautiful. The realization was more than just beauty; it brought her confidence. She felt ready for whatever the evening might bring, and she was smiling at herself in the mirror when Louise burst in, looking sharp in a stylish little suit and a hat with a black line like an artist's pencil stroke.

"The alimony's here!" she exclaimed. "We're going to have a great time! Mom's meeting us downtown. Look, isn't it beautiful?" She showed off the coveted lavallière sparkling against her smooth young neck. "I knew I would get it somehow, Mom—what a tightwad!—she went and bought herself new furs. But we ran into Bob, and he bought it for me." She settled in front of the mirror, tossing off her hat and letting her hair down. "I don't know—it's just a chip diamond." Her moods changed as quickly as light summer breezes. "I wish Mom would get me a real one. It's silly for her to treat me like a kid. I'm seventeen."

Helen felt her excitement about the new waist fade away. Louise's constant chatter always made her feel out of place. There was a gap between them that they just couldn’t close, and Helen understood that it was her doing. Maybe it was because she had spent so much time alone that she often felt even lonelier when she was with Louise.

The feeling hit her all at once as they blended into the crowd at the restaurant. She could only watch Louise move confidently through a confusing mix of voices, music, and bright lights before she stumbled into a chair at a table surrounded by unfamiliar faces. Mom was there, her hat decorated with feathers, white fur casually draped over her shoulders, and her fingers sparkling with rings. There was another striking woman named Nell Allan; a bald, chubby guy called Bob; and a younger man with a thin face and restless blue eyes, introduced by Louise as Duddy. They were all having a great time, but Helen, unnoticed in her chair, felt strangely isolated and lonely. She couldn't think of anything to say. There was no thread in the fast-paced conversation that she could grab onto. Everyone was chatting, and each line seemed clever, especially since they all laughed so much.

"I love the cows and chickens, but this is living!" Duddy shouted every now and then. "Oh, you chickens!" and "This is living!" the others chimed in, laughing together. Helen didn’t doubt that it all had meaning, but she couldn't keep up with the fast-paced conversation, and it all went over her head. She could only sit quietly, eating fancy food from plates that waiters quickly brought in and took away, laughing awkwardly when the others did.

Color, light, and music pulsed in her mind. Around her was a whirlwind of movement, laughter, clinking glasses, flashes of bare shoulders and red lips, fragrances, rushing waiters, steaming plates, and through it all, the lively, accented beat of the music, swaying, commanding, merging all the sensations into one invigorating rhythm.

Suddenly, from every direction, concealed in the fake plants that lined the walls, silvery bells began to chime. Helen, speechless and frozen, felt her nerves tingle—alive, joyful, and excited.

There was a scraping of chairs, and she flinched. But they were just getting ready to dance. Duddy and Mom were first, followed by Bob and Mrs. Allan, moving into a swirl of white arms and dark coats, tilted faces, and swaying bodies. "Isn't it beautiful!" Helen whispered.

But Louise wasn’t paying attention. She sat there defiantly, her fingers tapping along to the music, her eyes scanning the room beneath her long lashes. “I can’t help it. I just have to dance!” she muttered, and then, just like that, she was gone. Someone came up to her among the tables, wrapped his arms around her, and spun her away. Helen, waiting for her black hat and joyful face to reappear, realized she was dancing with the man whose telegram had introduced them. Finally, memory provided her with his name: Gilbert Kennedy.

Louise brought him to the table when the music stopped. There were cheerful introductions, and Helen wished she could say something. But Momma took over, squeezing an extra chair in for him next to her and saying how happy she was to meet a friend of her little girl.

Helen could only stay quiet, listening to their confusing laughter, feeling an attraction to him that was as strong as an electric shock. She didn’t know why, but she thought he was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and she sensed that he succeeded at whatever he aimed for without fail. He was different from the others. He spoke their language, but he didn’t seem to belong to them, and she noticed that his hazel eyes, framed by tiny wrinkles, were both eager and tired. Yet, he couldn’t be older than around twenty-eight. He danced with mom, as the orchestra started playing a rag, but when he returned to the table with the others, he said restlessly:

"Let's go somewhere else. My car's outside. How about the beach?"

"Great idea!" Duddy exclaimed amid a supportive cheer. Helen, following the others through the tables and the swinging doors to the curb where the big gray car was waiting, told herself she needed to make an effort, to contribute to the fun of this amazing evening. But once they all squeezed into the car and she felt the cool breeze on her face while watching the streetlights whiz by, she forgot everything but happiness. She was finally having a great time, and a quick image of the Masonville girls popped into her mind. Their picnics and hayrides seemed so dull compared to this!

She started to put together the words she would use to tell Paul about their race down the long avenue next to the beach, the salty air, the darkness, and the long white lines of foam on the waves. This, she realized with excitement, was a joyride. She had seen the word in newspapers, but its relevance had never hit her before.

It was shocking to realize, after hurrying through the darkness of the park, that the car was stopping. Everyone was getting out. Stunned and trying to hide her surprise, she followed them into a bright restaurant where another band played the same lively music and dancers spun around beyond a haze of cigarette smoke. They sat down at a round, bare table, and Helen noticed that you had to order something to drink.

She listened to the quick orders, hesitating. "Blue moons" were intriguing, and "slow gin fizz" was fascinating, with its hint of fireworks. But next to her, Mr. Kennedy said, "Scotch high-ball," and the waiter mistook her hesitation for a repeat order. The glass appeared in front of her, there was a shout of "Happy days!" and she gulped down a strange-tasting, stinging sip. She quickly set the glass down.

"What's wrong with the high-ball?" Mr. Kennedy asked. He had paid the waiter, and she felt the responsibility of being a guest.

"It's actually really good. But I'm not a huge fan of fizzy drinks," she said. She noticed a slight amusement in his eyes, but he didn't smile, and his order to the waiter was firm. "Just a regular highball, no seltzer." The waiter quickly went to get it.

Mr. Kennedy was still focused on her, and she felt trapped. She smiled at him over the glass. "Cheers!" she said, and took a sip. She put down the empty glass and barely held back a cough. "Thanks," she said, surprised to see that the tiredness was gone from his eyes.

"You're all good!" he said. His tone sounded like someone who's lost, addressing the winner, and his next words were just as puzzling. "I can't stand a liar who doesn't deliver when they're challenged!" The orchestra started playing a new song, and he stood up halfway. "Want to dance?"

It was tough to acknowledge her weakness and let him go.

"I can’t. I don’t know how."

He took a seat.

"You don't know how to dance?" His tone suggested that this was going too far, that in trying too hard, she had completely missed the point. His sharp look at her suddenly revealed a truth she had been unknowingly searching for while observing these men and women—the key to their dynamics. Beneath their cheerful facade, there was an ongoing competition between men and women, and every word and glance was a move in that game, rooted in conflict. He believed that she was also part of it, and that she was playing against him.

"Why do you think I'm lying to you, Mr. Kennedy? I would love to dance if I could—of course."

"I don't understand you," he answered just as straightforwardly. "Why do you come out here if you don't drink and don't dance?"

It would be way too embarrassing to admit how inexperienced she was, how little she knew about the city she had lived in for almost a year. "I come because I enjoy it," she said. "I've worked hard for a long time and never had any fun. And I'm going to learn how to dance. I don't know about drinking. I don't really like the taste of it. Do people actually like to drink highballs and stuff like that?"

It made him laugh.

"Keep drinking them, and you’ll see why people do it," he replied. Over his shoulder, he told the waiter, "Two rye highballs, Ben."

The others were dancing. They were alone at the table, and when he rested his elbow on the edge of it and focused on her, the packed room turned into a blur of color and light around their little bubble. Her breath quickened, the toe of her slipper tapped along with the music, excitement surged through her, and her success in keeping his attention felt intoxicating. But a sharp, watchful part of her mind stayed alert.

The highballs arrived. She thought she should be rude and didn't drink hers. When he insisted, she politely declined. He pressed her.

"Drink it!" She sensed the struggle between a commanding, reckless determination and her calm defiance. For a moment, neither of them moved, and their entire dynamic shifted. Then she laughed.

"I'd really prefer not to," she said casually.

"Come on—be a sport," he said.

"The season's over," Louise's casual remarks had definitely influenced her. It was easier to revert to her own way of speaking. "No, seriously—tell me, why do people drink things that taste like that?"

He met her on her own turf. "You have to drink, to relax, to enjoy yourself. It helps get rid of your inhibitions." She took note of the word. The way he used such words was one of the things that set him apart from the others. "Who knows why," he added tiredly. "But what's the point of living if you don't experience the highs? And there's a part of me that's a bit—rebellious—wild that craves this kind of excitement."

Their group swooped down around the table, and the general request for more drinks interrupted their conversation. There was a commotion when Helen said she didn’t want anything. Duddy brushed aside her protests and ordered for her, but mom came to the rescue.

"Leave the girl alone; she's not used to it. You stick to lemon sours, babe. Don't let them mess with you," she said. The conversation continued, leaving her once again overlooked, but when the music played again, Mr. Kennedy took her out among the dancers.

"You're good," he said. "Just relax and follow my lead. It's just a walk to music." To her surprise, she started dancing, felt the rhythm pulse through her veins, and all her tension and clumsiness faded away. She felt like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, like a bird singing at sunrise. She was so happy that Mr. Kennedy laughed at the joy on her face.

"You look like a kid in a candy store," he said, swinging her past a jam with a long, breathless swoop and picking up the pace again.

"I'm perfectly happy!" she exclaimed, matching the rhythm of the tune. "It's really nice of you!"

He chuckled again.

"Stick with me, and I'll teach you a lot," he said.

She discovered, when she hesitantly returned to the table with him, that the others were discussing leaving. It stung to hear him eagerly welcoming the idea. But once they were in the car, it turned out they weren't going home. There was a stretch of speeding through the cool darkness, followed by yet another restaurant just like the others, and more dancing.

The hours blended into a series of quick sprints through the fresh night air, followed by repeated dives into light, heat, smoke, and music. Helen, sticking to lemon sours as her mom suggested, discovered she could dance something called a rag, and another thing known as a Grizzly Bear; she heard Duddy shouting that she was a "chicken," and felt like a huge success. Bob was oddly sentimental and talked sadly about his poor old mom; Mom’s cheeks were flushed under the makeup, and she sang part of a song, forgetting the rest of the lyrics. The crowd moved and broke apart; somewhere along the way, they lost part of it, and a stranger showed up with Louise.

Helen, finally forced to think about her work the next morning, was shocked to realize it was already two o'clock. Mom agreed that even the best of friends have to say goodbye. They sang as they moved through the sleeping city, with stars overhead and streetlights flashing by. Drowsily happy, Helen felt it was okay to rest her head on Mr. Kennedy's shoulder since his other arm was around Mom, and she wondered what it would be like if such a fascinating man were in love with her. It would be incredibly thrilling and exciting, she thought, daringly playing with the idea.

"See you later!" they all shouted as she got out with her mom and Louise in front of the dark apartment building. The others were heading off to more fun somewhere else. She shook hands with Mr. Kennedy, feeling a tightness in her chest. "Thank you for a lovely time." She sensed that he found her formal words amusing.

"Don't forget this isn't the last one!" he said.

She didn't forget. The words played over and over in her mind; she heard his voice and felt his arm around her waist, with the music pulsing in her veins for a long time. The feelings returned to her during the breaks in her work the next day, as she slogged through the hours like she was on drugs, listening to the chatter of the exchange and the market prices scrolling through the Chicago wire—sometimes faint and distant, sometimes close and painfully loud.

She looked pale and exhausted when she got home, and Mom offered her some bromo-seltzer and suggested she use some blush. But Mr. Kennedy hadn’t called, so she went to bed instead of going out with them that night. It was eleven days before he finally called.

In the mornings, Helen went to work. The initial chaos of the Merchants' Exchange had calmed down a bit. She started to recognize a pattern in the swings of the market quotes. January wheat, February wheat, May corn turned into a drama for her, and as she grabbed the figures from the wire and handed them to the waiting boy, saw them written on the giant board, and heard the shouts of the brokers, she caught glimpses of the global gamble involving lives and fortunes.

But it was just another grand show that she had no role in. She felt like a living part of a machine, connected to a bunch of wires. She wanted to break free, to have her own life, a life that moved ahead instead of just swinging back and forth between home and the office.

She didn’t want to work. She had never wanted to work. Working was just a way to get to her life with Paul faster. The path had been clear to that goal. But now Paul wouldn’t let her take it; he didn’t want her to work with him at Ripley; she would have to wait until he made enough money to support her. And she hated work.

Resting her chin on one palm, half-listening for her call to break the nonstop clicking of the sounder, she stared across the marble counter and the high ceiling of the room; the animated brokers and rushing messengers faded into a backdrop against which she recalled the light, color, and energy of the night when she met Mr. Kennedy. She heard his voice. "What's the point of living if you don't seize the big moments?"

She rushed home at night, not sure what to expect. But nothing had happened. Restlessness consumed her, and she tossed and turned on her pillow for hours, dozing just enough to hear the clicking of telegraph sounders and music, only to find herself dancing on the floor of the Merchants' Exchange with a strange man who had Mr. Kennedy's eyes. On the eleventh day, she got a letter from Paul, which calmed her swirling thoughts like a splash of cold water. In his neat, even handwriting, he wrote:

The words became stronger by reflecting a suppressed opinion of her own. With nothing but her gut feeling as a standard, she had criticized Louise and Mom. But she quickly buried those thoughts in the back of her mind, since they were her only companions and she couldn’t find anyone else. Now, through Paul's perspective, they were exposed as shockingly cheap and tacky.

Her desire for a good time, even if it had to be with those people, seemed weak and foolish to her. She felt older and more grounded when she got home that night. Then, just as she stepped inside, the phone rang, and Louise said that Gilbert Kennedy wanted to talk to her.

It was impossible to understand his fascination. Countless times she had replayed everything he said and everything she could guess about him, futilely searching for an explanation. Just hearing his voice brought back the enchantment like a magic spell, and her weak resistance gave in to it.

Before the vanity, rushing to get ready for an evening with him, she leaned in closer to the mirror and tried to find answers in the gray eyes looking back at her. But they only became more intense, and her reflection faded, leaving her lost in thought about his face, half teasing and half sincere, and the weary longing in his eyes.

"Have a heart, for the love of Mike!" cried Louise. "Give me a chance. You're not even using the mirror yourself!" She sat down in the chair Helen left and, pushing back her thick golden hair, looked closely at her face. "I need to get my lashes dyed again; they're growing out. By the way, you really made an impression on Kennedy!"

"Where's the nail polish?" Helen asked, rummaging through the chaotic mess of the bureau drawers. "Oh, here it is. What do you know about him?"

"Well, he's one of those Kennedys from Los Angeles. You know, his dad was charged with something a while back. Tons of money." Louise, applying cold cream, spoke in quick bursts. "His brother was the one who ran off with Cissy Leroy, and his wife shot her. Don’t you remember? It was in all the papers. I used to know Cissy, too. She was really a great sport. Don’t you love that big car of his?"

Helen didn’t respond. In her disgust, she realized she had no interest in Gilbert Kennedy at all, and she felt a sense of liberation from a burden.

Momma, pulling a rustling gown over her head, spoke through the fabric. "He's really energetic," she said with appreciation. She adjusted the straps on her shoulders, casting a warm smile at Helen. "Can you help me with this, sweetheart? Yes, he's definitely full of energy, and you’ve definitely got him coming."

A sudden thought sent a chill through Helen's fingertips. She struggled with the hooks.

"He's not married, is he?"

"Married! Well, I shouldn't say that! What do you think I am?" Mom demanded. "Do you think I'd let you or Louise get involved in something like that?" Her voice softened. "I know all too well the unhappiness that comes from someone taking another woman's husband away from his home and family, even if he does pay the alimony regularly, I’ll give him that. I hope I never have to see the day my girl, or you either, does something like that." There was real emotion in her voice. Helen felt a wave of affectionate pity for her, and Louise jumped up, wrapping her bare arms around her mother.

"Don't worry, sweet mom! I can see myself doing it!" she exclaimed.

At those moments of genuine warmth, Helen had a soft spot for both of them. She felt embarrassed as she finished getting ready. They were beautiful in her eyes, and they accepted people just as they were, without making snide comments or acting superior. She had no clear thoughts about anything.

Her hesitations were interrupted by the blare of a car horn outside the window. With one last quick pat of powder and a grab for their gloves, they rushed down to meet Mr. Kennedy at the door, and again Helen sensed his charm like a physical force between them. Words caught in her throat, and she stood quietly in a small whirlwind of hellos.

There were three indistinct figures already in the backseat; a glowing cigar end illuminated a round, cheerful face, and two female voices welcomed momma and Louise. Hesitating on the curb, Helen felt a warm, protective hand tighten on her arm.

"Get out, Dick. Climb in the back. This little girl is coming up front with me." The commanding voice made the words sound like an unstoppable force. It wasn't until she was sitting beside him and a compliant young man had squeezed himself into the cramped space behind that it occurred to her to question it.

"Do you always talk to people like that?"

They were gliding down a hill, and his response came through the sound of the wind rushing past her ears. "Always." The flash of a headlight crossed his face, and she noticed he looked sharp, alert, and full of life. "Ask, and you’ll have to debate. Command, and people spring into action. It’s the guy who tells people what he wants who gets it. Philosophy taught in ten lessons," he added with a dismissive tone. "Well, little girl, you haven’t been forgetting me, have you?"

She ignored the change in tone. His idea seemed incredibly true to her. She had never thought of it before. She considered it carefully in her mind.

"A girl should be able to handle it, too," she said.

He chuckled.

"Maybe. She finds it easier to manipulate a guy."

"I'm way too polite to say that all of you are soft."

"You're smart enough not to find any of us difficult to deal with."

"Yeah? Isn't it a shame that putty is so dull?"

She was shocked by her own words. They slipped from her lips without her intending to say them, coming out automatically in reaction to his. She felt only the excitement of his interest, his electric presence next to her, and their quick ride through the darkness lit up by flashing lights.

"You’re not actually comparing me to putty, are you?"

"Well, of course, it does set and stay in place eventually. You can count on it."

"You can count on me, for sure. I'm really into you."

"Crazy people are not accountable."

Her heart was pounding. The speed of the car and the rush of the air flowed through her veins. She had never imagined she could speak like this. This man brought out qualities in her that she never knew she had, and discovering them thrilled her.

He was quiet for a moment, turning the car onto a quieter street. There was laughter behind them, and one of the others shouted, "We should watch out for the cops! Step on it, Bert!" He didn’t respond, and the car sped away, leaving their chatter behind.

"Is it too fast for you?" She picked up on a double meaning and a challenge in the words.

"I've never gone too fast!" she replied. "I love riding like this. Where are we headed?"

"Wherever you want to go, as long as I'm with you."

"Then let's just keep going and never get there. Do you know what I thought you meant the other night when you said we’d go to the beach?"

"No, what?" He was curious.

She told him. This felt like safer territory, and she expanded her mental image of the calm, moonlit beach, the white waves crashing along the shore, the salty breeze, the darkness, and the car speeding down a long white road.

"Are you serious that you've never been to the beach resorts before?"

"Isn't it funny?" she chuckled.

"You're a tough little kid."

She realized that his words pleased her more than anything he had said so far.

They raced on in silence. Helen found plenty to occupy her mind in the pure joy of speeding through a blur of light and dark toward an unknown destination. She didn't resist the allure of the man beside her; his presence felt exciting, and she felt secure knowing he was focused on controlling the powerful machine. They passed the park entrance, and the car surged forward like it was alive at the flick of a whip, hurtling faster down the smooth road flanked by dense bushes. A fresh, damp scent from the forest mixed with a salty tang in the air, and the headlights sliced through the darkness like beams of light creating a path for them to navigate.

"Isn't it amazing!" Helen sighed, feeling the word just didn't capture it.

"I prefer the bright lights myself." After a pause, he added, "You’re from the country, aren’t you?" His tone wasn't really asking.

She responded in the same tone.

"College guy, I guess."

"How did you fix that?"

"Inhibitions," she replied.

"What? Oh! So you haven't forgotten about me?"

"I didn't forget the word," she said. "I looked it up."

"Well, have you decided to get rid of them?"

"I'd get rid of anything I didn't need."

"Are you going to get rid of me?"

"No," she said calmly. "I'll just let you leave."

It occurred to her that she was completely crazy. She had never imagined speaking like that to anyone. What was she doing, and why?

"Don't you believe it for a second!" His voice had that commanding tone again, and suddenly she realized she had unleashed something she couldn't control. The situation was beyond her grasp, slipping away from her. Her only refuge was silence, and she receded into it.

When the car stopped, she quickly jumped out and went straight to her mom. In the hot, smoky room, they found a table at the edge of the dance floor, and she sat down in the chair furthest from him, ordering a lemonade. The excitement faded away; once again, she couldn’t think of anything worth saying, and she felt his amused gaze on her while she looked up at the red crepe-paper decorations above and the crowd of dancing couples. It took a little while before the music’s rhythm started to pulse through her veins, and the scene lost its tackiness and became lively.

"Everyone's doing it now!" Louise hummed, glancing at him from under her long lashes. The others were dancing, and the three of them sat alone at the table. "Everyone's doing it, doing it, doing it. Everyone's doing it, but you—and me."

"Go and take someone else," he replied with a chuckle. "I'm dancing with Helen—once she stops being scared of me." He casually lit a cigarette.

"Oh, really? I’d love to dance. I just don’t do it very well."

His arms were wrapped around her as they danced, and it was only then that she realized how perfectly she had fallen for his trap. In her anger, she stumbled and missed a step.

"No? Not scared of me?" he laughed. "Well, don’t be. What’s the point?"

"It’s not that," she said. "I just don’t know how to play your game. And I don’t want to play it. And I’m not going to. You’re too smart."

"Don’t be afraid," he said, and his arm wrapped tighter around her. They missed a step again, and she lost the rhythm of the music. "Just let yourself go, relax," he urged. "Feel the music—that's better."

They moved around the floor again, but her feet felt heavy, and the realization that she was dancing poorly made it even harder. Thoughts half-formed in her mind but slipped away. She wanted to handle the situation smoothly, to express herself in a graceful, subtle way, but she just couldn't.

"Look, it's like this," she said. "I'm not your type. I might have talked like that for a bit, but I'm not actually. I—well—I'm not. I wish you'd just leave me alone. Honestly."

The music ended with a loud crash, and the sound of many feet thumping echoed the final two notes. He still held her close, and she felt that inexplicable charm, like the pull of a magnet to steel.

"You really do?" His tone excited her with a warm, intoxicating feeling. The smile in his eyes was both gentle and assured. She consciously held back the smile that wanted to respond, looking at him seriously.

"I truly do."

"Okay." His fast agreement was exactly what she wanted, but it made her feel sad. They walked back to the table, and for hours she was really cheerful, watching him dance with Mom and Louise. She squeezed into the back seat during their quick, restless drives from one dance spot to another. She laughed a lot, and when they bumped into Duddy and Bob a little after midnight, she danced with both of them. But she felt like having a good time was almost as much work as making a living.

It was almost two weeks before she went out again with mom and Louise, and this time she didn’t see him at all. Louise was shocked that he didn’t call.

"What on earth did you do with that Kennedy guy?" she asked. "You must have been totally clueless. Seriously, he was really into you. Trust me, I would have kept him hanging if I had your opportunity. And a ride like a luxury train car, too!" she lamented.

"Oh, well, honey, Helen doesn't really know how to handle guys," Mom said reassuringly. "She did the best she could. You can never really know about them, anyway. And maybe he's out of town."

But this wasn’t true, because Louise had seen him just that afternoon with a stunning girl in a million dollars’ worth of fur coats.

Helen was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. She kept telling herself that she didn't care what he did. She repeated this until she realized the repetition revealed its falsehood. Then, she allowed her imagination to follow him. But it could only do so blindly. She imagined his home by mixing the grandeur of the St. Francis with bits from novels she had read. While she could see him running up grand steps, passing through a large door, and handing his coat to a dignified manservant, either a butler or a footman, she couldn't follow him any further. She could picture him with a beautiful girl at a table in a private room of a café; there were no longer any barriers between her and that side of a man's life, and she no longer hesitated to face the world as it is. But she knew this was just one of his many interests and activities. She wished she could learn about the others.

She thought of Paul like stepping out of a dark room into bright light. Sometimes she felt a love for him that made her current life seem like a fever dream. She pictured living in a cute little house with him. There would be white curtains at the windows and roses on the porch. Once the housework was beautifully done, she would sit outside, working on some embroidery for a centerpiece or a delicate top. She could hear the gate click, and he would walk up the path, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. She would rush to greet him. It had been so long since she last saw him that his features were blurry in her mind. When she strained to remember his bright blue eyes, full lips, and the cleft in his chin, she realized how youthful he looked. He was such a sweet guy.

The days passed, each one just like the last. The rain had started. Every morning, in a persistent drizzle from overcast skies, she hurried down a sidewalk covered in flowing water and squeezed into a streetcar packed with annoyed people and dripping umbrellas. By the time she got to the office, her feet were wet and cold, and the hems of her skirts hung damply around her ankles.

She had a bunch of colds, and her head hurt while she copied endless quotes from the constantly clicking sounders. At night, she wearily rode home, holding onto a strap, and crawled into bed. Her muscles ached and her throat was sore. Mom, even in the rush of getting ready for the evening, paused to bring her a glass of hot whiskey and water, which she drank gratefully. When she was finally alone, she read for a while before sleeping. You could forget the dreariness of life, lost in an artificial world of adventure and romance.

Christmas came, and she carelessly spent all her money on gifts to send home: socks and ties and a shaving cup for her dad, a length of black silk and a ten-dollar gold coin for her mom, hair ribbons and a Carmen bracelet for Mabel, a knife and a wallet with a two-dollar bill in it for Tommy. They made a large, exciting package, and as she stood in line at the post office, she happily imagined the joy it would bring when it was opened. She despised her job more and more each day, but there was a deep satisfaction in knowing she could do things like this with money she had earned herself.

The brokers at the Merchants' Exchange gave her twenty dollars for Christmas, and with it, she bought a fancy vanity case for Louise, gloves for Mom, and a gift for Paul. She thought about it for a long time before finally choosing a monogrammed stickpin, with an old English "P" engraved in the gold.

He sent her a plastic box lined with soft pink fabric, containing a comb and brush set. It didn’t stand out among the overwhelming amount of gifts that flooded in for Mom and Louise, but she would have felt embarrassed to admit that. Still, she let them believe it was from her mom. She hadn’t mentioned Paul, feeling a vague need to protect that part of her life from Louise’s remarks.

There were parties every night during Christmas week, but she didn’t go to any of them. She was battling the flu, and even though the work at the office was light, it drained all her sick energy. Even on New Year's Eve, she stayed home, resisting all the pleas from Louise and Mom, who told her she was missing out on the time of her life. She firmly went to bed, lying in the dark and realizing that it was New Year's night, that her life was passing her by, and she wasn’t getting anything she wanted. "It's the man who asks for what he wants that gets it." Gilbert Kennedy’s voice echoed in her mind.

Rain was pounding against the window panes, and through the noise, she heard the distant clamor of many voices and the constant crackle of fireworks popping in the dripping night, a triumphant expression of the city's unquenchable joy. She thought of Paul. So much had happened since she last saw him, so much had come between them. He had been living and growing older, too. It was hard to understand what his real life had been like through his practical letters, which detailed where he had been, how much money he was saving, and which Sundays the minister had come to dinner at his house. Only a few phrases stuck in her mind. "When we are married—" She could still feel excited about that. And he always signed his letters, "lovingly, Paul." Once, when talking about a Sunday school picnic, he had written, "I wish you had been there. No girl could match you."

There was comfort and warmth in knowing that he loved her. When she saw him again, everything would be fine. She went to sleep deciding that she would work hard, save her money, go home for a visit in March or April, and ask him to come. The hills would be green, the orchards would be vibrant with the colors of spring, and she would wear a light white dress—

In February, her mom wrote and asked for more money.

She had saved thirty dollars and had just received her half-month's paycheck. Mom would happily wait for her portion of the monthly expenses. As soon as she finished work, she went to the post office and got a money order for sixty dollars. She felt a strong sense of pride in being able to do this, and she was happy to know that she was contributing at home, but there was anger in her heart.

It felt to her like fate was against her, like she would keep working forever and never get what she wanted. She pictured weeks, months, and years of work stretching out in front of her like the endless ties of a railroad track, disappearing into a desolate distance.

For almost three years, her entire life had revolved around work. Those few evenings at the cafés were her only moments of joy. She had copied countless market quotes, sent endless messages, and acted like a machine, and for what? She didn't want to just work; she wanted to live.

That night she went to the beach with the crowd. Bob was there along with Duddy and a bunch of others she had met in cafes. Once again, there was the buzz of shifting colors under bright lights, the flow and swirl of dancers, sparkling eyes, white hands, a flash of rings, perfume, laughter, and through it all, the music, pulsing, swaying, blending all sensations into one energizing rhythm, one thrilling vibration of nerves and spirit. Helen felt her weariness lift off her shoulders; she felt like she was soaring like a lark; she could have burst into song.

She danced. She danced eagerly and joyfully, swept up by the music like riding the crest of a wave. Witty remarks rolled off her tongue just as easily as they did with Louise; she realized that it didn’t matter what you said, only that you said it quickly; her remarks were met with enthusiastic laughter. In the car, zooming from one place to another, she took off her hat and, facing the rushing wind, sang out loud just for the sheer joy of it.

They ran into Gilbert Kennedy just after midnight. She turned a glowing, radiant face toward him as he approached their table. She felt confident and prepared for anything. He leaned past her to shake hands with mom, who greeted him in unison with Louise.

"Back with us again!" he said to Helen, looking over his shoulder. He pulled up a chair next to hers, and she noticed immediately in his first glance that he looked tired and irritable. She sensed that his usual energetic vibe had diminished; it felt like it had seeped away through some internal wound. He ordered straight Scotch and tapped his fingers impatiently until the waiter brought it.

"Who are you with, Bert? I didn't see your car outside," said Duddy.

"Oh, I was with some people. I don't know where they are. I don't have the car," he replied.

"Stick around with us then." "I bet you've been having a great time and really enjoyed it!" Bob and Duddy said at the same time. But the orchestra started another song, and only Helen noticed that with all the chairs being pushed back, he didn't respond.

She shook her head at the question in his eyes, and he didn't ask anyone else to dance. After that, she had to turn down the others as well, and they were left sitting at the bare table marked by the rings of wet glasses. An inexplicable sadness was settling in on her; she felt sorry and full of pity, though she didn't know why, and the urge to reach out and touch his soft, light hair surprised and horrified her.

"Life sucks, right?" he said. His tone was so unfamiliar that she didn't know how to respond.

"I'm sorry," she replied.

"Sorry? Oh my gosh, why?"

"I don't know. I just am. I'm sorry for—whatever happened." She realized she had made a mistake, and the last bit of her excitement faded away like a burnt-out candle. She sat silently watching the dancers, who seemed strange and interesting to her, spinning around with incredible energy but getting nowhere. The music felt distant, too, and she noticed the sweating musicians laboring hard, glancing at the clock.

"Funny," she said after a while.

"What’s going on?"

"All these people—and me, too—doing this kind of thing. We don't get anything out of it. What are we doing it for?"

"Oh, safety-valve. Watts figured out the steam engine based on that principle." His voice was really tired.

The more she thought about it, the more she admired him. She wasn’t scared of him at all now; she actually wanted to talk to him. She reached out to stop him when he got up, but he ignored her. "See you," he said casually, and she realized he was so preoccupied he barely noticed she was there. She let him go and sat there, spinning an empty glass between her fingers, lost in thoughts about him. Even though she spent many evenings at the beach over the next few weeks, she never saw him again, and one night she heard he had lost everything and left town.

She couldn't believe that disaster had overcome him. That last meeting and his disappearance had only made him more appealing to her. Her thoughts kept returning to him, pulled in by an undeniable allure. All she had to do was think about him for a moment, and a shiver ran through her. It couldn't be that she loved him. After all, she didn’t even really know him.

In March, Paul came to see her.

It had been a tough day at work. A mistake was made in a message, and an angry broker, claiming that it had cost him thousands of dollars, insisted that she was to blame and that he was going to sue the telegraph company. He slammed the counter and wouldn’t calm down. All day, she felt overwhelmed by a sense of impending doom. It would take months to trace the error, and she alternately clearly recalled sending the correct word and just as clearly remembered sending the wrong one.

Dots and dashes mixed up in her mind. She was worn out by four o'clock and eagerly thought about a hot bath and the comforting feel of a pillow. Slumped in the corner of a streetcar, she stubbornly put up with its bumps and jolts, holding herself together with a kind of inner tension until she could finally relax.

Louise was leaning over the banister on the upper landing when she walked into the apartment building's hallway. Her enthusiastic stage-whisper caught Helen on the stairs.

"Shh! Someone's here to see you."

"Who?" The situation was strange, but Louise's behavior was even stranger. Vague images of her family, the accident, and death flashed through Helen's shocked mind.

He said his name was Masters. He was a total bore. Mom had sent Louise out to give her the signal. Louise's American Beauty guy was in town, and there was going to be a party at the Cliff House. They could sneak in, get dressed, and slip out the back. Mom had the guy in the living room. He would just ruin the party.

"Come on, Helen, have a heart. Mom will find a way to handle him. You can sort it out later."

Helen's first thought was that Paul shouldn’t see her like this—messy, her hair all over the place, and her fingers covered in ink. Her heart was racing, and her wrists felt jittery. It was unbelievable that he was really so close, just separated from her by a wall. The image of him sitting there, a victim of mom’s attempts to entertain him, was both horrifying and absurdly funny. She tiptoed in a rush past the closed door and slipped into the safety of the bedroom, Louise's kimono rustling behind her. The first look in the mirror was nauseating. She ripped off her hat and coat and let her hair down with shaky hands.

"He's such a good friend. I really need to see him. Oh my gosh, what a mess! Can you be a sweetheart and find me a clean top?" she whispered. The comb wobbled in her hand; hairpins slipped through her fingers; the top she found was missing a button, and every pin in the room had vanished. It took forever before she was ready, and then, leaning in for one last look in the mirror, she felt unsatisfied. There was no color in her face; even her lips were just a faint pink. She bit them; she dabbed them with strong perfume until they brightened; then with quick determination, she scrubbed her cheeks with Louise's blush pad. That looked better. Just a little more powder!

"Do I look okay?"

"Wow! Aw, Helen, come on. Who is he? You’ve never mentioned him before." Louise was bursting with curiosity.

"Sh-sh!" Helen warned. She took a deep breath at the living-room door. Her childhood shyness had returned. Then she opened the door and walked in.

Momma, in her kimono, was sitting in the darkest corner of the room, with her back toward the window. Only the toe of a beaded slipper and a few inches of silk stocking caught the light. She was clearly trying to make conversation with a lot of effort. Paul sat facing her, upright in a stiff chair, his eyes politely fixed on a spot over her shoulder. He stood up with obvious relief to greet Helen.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Masters," she said, feeling embarrassed.

"Good afternoon." They shook hands.

"I'm really happy to see you. Would you like to sit down?" she heard herself saying foolishly.

Momma stood up, holding her kimono tightly around her.

"Well, I have to run, since I have a really important meeting, and I'm sure you’ll excuse me, Mr. Masters," she said playfully. "So nice to have met you," she added with a fake smile.

The door closed behind her, leaving them facing each other with nothing but awkwardness in the air. He had changed in ways she couldn't quite put her finger on, but the sharp lines of his face, the genuine blue eyes, and the firm lips were just as she remembered. Beneath his smoothly shaven cheeks was a hint of shadow from a stubborn beard. He looked successful yet slightly unsure of himself in a well-tailored suit, holding a new black derby hat in his left hand.

"I'm really glad to see you," she said. "I'm so surprised. I had no idea you were coming."

"I sent you a message over the wires," he replied. "I wasn't sure until last night if I could make it."

"I don't get it," she said. Silence hung over them like a cloud. "I'm sorry I didn't know. I hope you didn't have to wait too long. I'm glad you look so good. How's your mom?"

"She’s good. How’s yours?"

"She's doing great, thanks." She let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "So, what do you think of the weather in San Francisco?"

His confusion gradually turned into a smile.

"It’s pretty tough to get going," he admitted. "You look different from what I expected, somehow. But I guess we haven’t changed much after all. Can’t we go somewhere else?"

She noticed his disapproval of her mom in the way he looked around the living room. It was understandable, for sure. However, a quick surge of loyalty to these people who had been so kind to her irrationally pushed back against it. This room, with its stuffy atmosphere, the dust covering the tabletops, and the overall feeling of neglect highlighted by the open candy box on the piano stool and the dirty papers in the fireplace, was still a lot more comfortable than the place she had been living when she met Louise.

"I’m not really sure where," she said. "I don’t know the city that well since I work all day. But we could go for a walk."

There was a rush in the hallway when she opened the door; she caught a glimpse of Louise in a petticoat and corset cover hurrying from the bathroom to the bedroom. She hoped Paul hadn't seen it, but his cheeks were flushed. It was really ridiculous; what was so wrong with a petticoat? He should have realized he needed to call before coming over. She quickly looked for something to say.

"No," he replied, "I can't stay in town long, only twenty-four hours. I need to talk to the superintendent in person about the plan to add a spur track at Ripley for loading melons." There were—her thoughts couldn't keep up with his numbers. She vaguely heard something about irrigation districts, water rights, and sandy loam soil. So he hadn't come to see her!

Then she realized that he was also talking just to mask a feeling of awkwardness and embarrassment as overwhelming as her own. She wished they were comfortably seated somewhere so they could have a proper conversation. It was tough to say anything engaging while they walked through the dreary streets with the wind buffeting them.

"Whew! It's really windy in this town!" he exclaimed. At the top of Nob Hill, the wind hit them hard, whipping her skirts and tugging at her hat while she stood looking down at the gray patchwork of the city and across at the thick sea fog rolling over Twin Peaks. "It’s making me hungry, I tell you! Where should we go for dinner?"

She hesitated. She couldn't picture him feeling at ease in any of the places she knew. The music, dazzling lights, and cabaret singers would just create another barrier between them, on top of the ones she wanted to break down. She mentioned that she wasn't very familiar with the restaurants, and his surprise reminded her that she had written him pages about them. She stumbled through an explanation she couldn't articulate.

There were so many little, insignificant things that were actually important because they couldn’t be explained, and those couldn’t be explained without making them seem more significant than they were. It felt to her that the months since they last met were packed with them.

She found comfort in discussing her job. But she noticed that he wasn’t fond of that topic. He quickly mentioned that it was a terrible shame she had to do it, clearly wanting to end the conversation with that comment.

They found a small restaurant downtown, and after he took off his hat and they talked about the menu, she kept twisting a fork in her hands, wondering what they could discuss. She came up with something to say, but it felt to her like their conversation had no more flavor than sawdust, and she felt really unhappy.

"Hey, Helen, why didn't you tell those people where you live that we're engaged?" His tone was just curious, but his words hit like a bombshell. She sat up straight in her chair.

"Why—" How could she explain that unclear feeling about not telling Louise and mom? "Why—I don't know. What was the point?"

"What was the point? For one thing, it might have clarified things a bit for some of the other guys who know you."

What had Mom told him? "I don't know any guys who would be interested," she said.

"Well, you can never really know about that," he replied in a calm way. "I was just a bit surprised, that's all. I thought girls discussed these kinds of things."

She was tired, and in the boring little restaurant, there was nothing to engage her. The ordinary atmosphere, the warmth, and the calmness of his voice made her feel dull.

"I guess they do," she said. "They usually talk over their rings." She became alert immediately, overwhelmed with anger towards herself and dread. His cheeks turned a dull red. "I didn't mean—" she exclaimed, and her words collided with his. "If that's the case, I'll get you a ring."

"Oh, no! No! I don't want you to. I wouldn't dream of taking it."

"Of course you know I haven't had enough money to get you a good one. I thought about it pretty often, but I didn't realize you thought it was so important. It seems to me you've changed a lot since I knew you."

The protest, the explanation, got stuck on her lips. It was true. She realized that they had changed so much that they could be strangers.

"Do you really think that?" she asked sadly.

"I don't know what to think," he said genuinely, a note of pain in his voice. "I've been—driving myself crazy sometimes, thinking about—things, wanting to see you again. And now—I don't know—you seem so different, sitting there with paint on your face—" Her hand went to her cheek as if it hurt—"and talking about rings. You didn't used to be like this at all, Helen," he continued earnestly. "It feels like you've completely lost touch with your better self somehow. I wish you’d—"

This sparked a wave of anger in her.

"Please don't start lecturing me! I can take care of myself just fine. Seriously, Paul, you just don't get it. It’s nothing, honestly, just a little bit of makeup. I only put it on because I was tired and needed some color. And I didn't really mean what I said about the ring. I just didn’t think before I spoke. But I guess you’re right. I guess neither of us really knows each other anymore."

She felt empty, alone in her sadness. Everything seemed messed up in the world. She listened to Paul's reassurances that he knew she was okay no matter what she did, that it didn't matter to him, that she was right for him. But his words felt empty because she knew they hid the same doubt she felt. When he blushed and said again that he would get her a ring, she replied that she didn’t want one, and they didn’t bring it up again. The gap between them remained only covered by the unspoken things, afraid that talking about them would make it impossible to cross.

He dropped her off at her door right on time at ten o'clock. For a brief moment, she felt an instinctive pull towards him; she sensed that they had mishandled things somehow, and that everything would turn out fine if they had just been given a chance.

He thought she couldn't take the morning off. He needed to see the superintendent, but maybe they could find an hour or two. No, she had to work. With the risk of that misdirected message looming over her, she couldn't afford to ruin her record by taking a day off without notice. And she realized that a couple of extra hours couldn't possibly fix the months of distance that had grown between them.

"Good night."

"Good night." Their hands lingered for a moment before falling away. If only he would say something, do anything, she didn’t know what. But awkwardness held him just like it held her.

"Goodnight." The large door slowly closed behind her. Even then, she hesitated, feeling a wild urge to chase after him. But she climbed the stairs instead and went to bed, exhausted, her heart heavy with a feeling of irreversible loss.

In the morning, she was still really tired, and as she pushed through her day, she thought that maybe she had never truly loved him. "Unless you can love like the angels do, with the vastness of heaven between you," she whispered, recalling the book of poetry she had discovered on a library shelf. She had felt excited reading it while dreaming of him; now it felt like a harsh and almost cynical standard. Well, she might as well prepare for a lifetime of work. Many women did.

She was able to achieve this after many years of lonely effort, during which she saved enough money to buy a small home of her own. There would be no one there to criticize her choice of friends or comment on her painting. That remark stuck in her mind like a thorn. Yes, she could look forward to a life where no one could say things like that!

But when she got home, she realized she couldn’t stand an evening alone. Louise and mom were going out, and she felt really lively while getting ready to join them. They said they had never seen her in better spirits.

Unexplainably, the lights, the music, the cheerful atmosphere, didn’t get under her skin like they usually did. Sometimes, she felt moments of sadness that they didn’t reach. She sat alone in the crowd, sipping her lemonade, feeling like nothing in the world mattered.

However, she went again the next night. She started to go almost as often as Mom and Louise, and to understand the unfulfilled restlessness that drove Mrs. Latimer and her friends. She was tired in the morning, and there were more complaints about her work at the office, but she didn’t care. She felt carelessly that nothing mattered, and she returned to the beach resorts like a thirsty person tipping an empty glass in which perhaps a drop remains.

"What's wrong, kid? Feeling grumpy?" said Louise's American Beauty guy one night. He was cheerful and bald; his neck spilled over the back of his collar, and he wore a big diamond on his pinky. Helen didn't like him, but it was his party. He owned the big red car they had taken to the beach, and she felt his annoyed comment was fair. She wasn’t contributing her share.

"Not at all!" she laughed. "It's just that for some reason I feel like a cold plum pudding."

"What you need is brandy sauce," Duddy said, enjoying his own cleverness.

"You mean you want me to get drunk!"

"That's the plan! Bring on the drinks, let the happiness flow! Waiter, rye highballs for everyone!"

She didn't protest; it didn't seem worth it, anyway. When the drinks arrived, she downed hers like everyone else, and her mood did seem to lift a bit. "It takes away your inhibitions," Gilbert Kennedy had said. And he was gone, too. If only he were there, the excitement of life would return; she would feel energetic, clever, and fully alive again—

The crowd was on the move again. She went with them into the cool night, and it felt to her like life was just a constant shift from one dissatisfaction to another. Cramped in a corner of the seat, she fell silent, and it took her a while to notice the changed vibe in the excitement of those around her.

"Step on it! Let’s go! Damn it, if you let them pass—!" the car's owner was shouting, and the vehicle sped away like it was out of control. Amidst a blur of speeding sand dunes, Helen spotted a long gray car moving up beside them. "You're going to kill us!" mom screamed, but no one listened. Helen stood up, gripping the back of the front seat, and shouted along with the others. "Get ahead of him! Go for it! Y-a-a-ah!"

Her hat, ripped off her head, vanished into the chaotic rush behind them. Her hair whipped against her face. She felt wildly, gloriously alive. "Go faster—faster, please!" The gray car was closing in. Inch by inch, it edged up next to them. "Can't you go faster?" she shouted in a frenzy. Oh, if only she could grip the wheel! It was unbearable to think they might lose. "Give it more gas—she’ll hit eighty-five!" the owner shouted.

Everything in Helen focused on the challenge of that speeding gray car. Its passing felt like something essential was being ripped from her grasp. She pounded her hand against the car door and shouted desperate protests. "Don't let him do it! Go on! Go on!" The gray car was moving steadily past them. It swerved. Mom's scream was cut to shreds by the wind. It was ahead now, and a mocking shout from its driver echoed back to them. Their speed slowed.

"He's checking in at The Tides. Should I stop there?" the driver asked, looking back.

"Yes, damn you! What do you think you're driving, a stroller? You're fired!" his boss shouted, still cursing as Helen, gasping and furious, stumbled from the running board into Gilbert Kennedy.

"Good Lord, was that you?" he exclaimed. "What a race!" he cheered, lifting her off her feet and kissing her playfully. Something wild and raw within her connected with him. He let her go right away, and amidst a chorus of greetings, "Drinks on me, buddy!" "What an awesome car you've got!" "Come on in!" she found herself in a bright spotlight in the lively atmosphere of The Tides. He was sitting next to her at the round table, and her heart was racing.

"No—no—this is my treat!" he said. "Only my money’s good tonight. I’m going to Argentina tomorrow on the straight and narrow. What do you want?"

They ordered, chaotically, in a rush of surprise and questions. "Argentina, what are you giving us!" "What's the deal?" "You're joking!"

"On the level. Argentina. Tomorrow. Hey, listen to me. I've got the biggest opportunity that ever came along. Six million acres of land—prime land, that can grow anything you can think of. Do you know what people are paying for land in California right now? I'll tell you. Five hundred, six hundred, a thousand dollars an acre. And I've secured six million acres of land in Argentina that I can sell for fifty cents an acre and make—listen to this—make a hundred percent profit. The government is backing me—they'd give me all of Argentina. I’m telling you there’s millions to be made!"

He was bursting with energy and strength. Her mind raced to understand the magnitude of this project. Thousands of lives changed, thousands of families moving, cities, towns, and railroads being constructed. She felt his kiss on her lips, and that familiar, unexplainable pull. The pulsating music flowed through her veins like its own heartbeat. He smiled at her, reaching out his arms, and she rushed into them with abandon and desire.

They moved together with the rhythm, his arms around her, her loose hair cascading back over her neck.

"I'm crazy about you!"

"And you're leaving?"

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry? I'm bored. You always say that!"

He chuckled.

"Not a chance! This time I'm bringing you along."

"Oh, but I wouldn't take you seriously!"

"I'm serious. You're coming."

"I'm dreaming."

"I really mean it." His voice was almost feral. "I want you."

Fear coursed through her excitement like a challenge. She felt like a delicate creature against his chest while the thrilling music carried them through a swirling crowd. His face was close to hers, sharp and intense, his eyes wild like her own racing pulse. "All I've ever wanted is a girl like you. You're not slipping away this time."

"Oh, but I'm totally respectable!"

"Okay! Marry me."

Behind the chaos of her mind, there was the tense, suffocating hesitation of the moment just before a diver jumps off the springboard—safety behind him, excitement ahead. His closeness, his voice, the spark in his eyes, were everything she had been wanting, without realizing it, all these months. The music came to a sudden end.

He stood, just like he had before, his arm still wrapped tightly around her, and in an instant, she remembered that other time and the long, painful months that came after.

"Okay. It's decided?" There was just a hint of doubt in his confident voice.

"You really do love me?"

"I really do." His eyes were locked on hers, and she noticed his confidence shift to certainty. "You're in!" he said, kissing her victoriously in the crowded room, under the bright lights and colorful decorations. She didn't care; she cared about nothing in the world now but him.

"Let's—get away—for a bit, just the two of us, somewhere dark and cool," she said quickly as they crossed the floor.

"Not a chance! We're going to have the biggest party this town has ever seen!" he replied excitedly over his shoulder, and she noticed how much he was relishing the surprise he was about to unleash on the unsuspecting group at the table. "The sky's the limit tonight. This is a wedding party!"

Louise and Mom were all over her with excited shouts and kisses, and Helen, red-faced and laughing, trying not to lose it, heard his voice giving orders for drinks, sorting out questions about the license, the minister, the ring, rooms at the St. Francis, champagne, dinner, and flowers. She felt like the beggar maid listening to King Cophetua.

At ten o'clock on a sunny June morning, Helen Kennedy tiptoed across a darkened bedroom and gently closed the door behind her. She felt her tension ease with a sigh of relief when the door shut with a faint muffled click and the silence behind it stayed undisturbed.

Sunlight streamed through the living room windows, creating a shimmering pattern of the lace curtains on the soft carpet and warming the mahogany chairs and part of the large library table. She quickly moved to one of the wide windows and carefully lifted the lower sash. The distant hum of the bustling city rushed in like the sound of waves at a beach, and fresh, invigorating air filled the room. She inhaled deeply, pulling the blue silk robe snugly around her neck.

The two years that had flown by since she became Bert Kennedy's wife had taught her a lot. She had gained insights about men, women, and life that made her feel significantly older and wiser. However, there were issues she hadn't resolved, moments where she felt she had fallen short, and they unsettled her as she stood twisting the cord of the window shade in her hand and staring out at the many-windowed buildings of San Francisco.

She had learned that men loved women for being beautiful, cheerful, easy-going, always sweet-natured, and agreeable without being dull. She had discovered that men were irritated by three things: questions, babies, and a woman who was unwell. She understood that success in business relied on "putting up a front" and that a woman's role was to support that without questioning why or for what purpose. She realized that her deepest need was to look up to the man she loved, even if it meant lowering herself to do so. She knew that she adored her husband blindly and passionately, and she was afraid to open her eyes for fear that she would stop feeling that way.

But she hadn’t quite figured out how to fit herself into a life with him. She hadn’t learned what to do with those morning hours while he was still asleep; she hadn’t learned to fill all her time with pointless activities while he was away; in short, she didn’t know what to do with the part of her life he didn’t want, and she couldn’t force herself to be okay with doing nothing with it.

Gathering the trailing fabric of her nightgown and robe, she walked over to the stack of magazines and books on the table. She didn’t really want to read; it felt as out of place in the morning as having soup for breakfast. But she couldn’t go outside, since Bert might wake up and call for her at any moment, and she couldn’t get dressed because he would see that as a reproach and get annoyed. She flipped through the books uncertainly, ultimately choosing an intriguing one called "Pragmatism," which had caught her interest when she briefly browsed its pages at the library. She was holding it when the doorbell rang loudly.

She stood there, startled, holding the book tight against her chest. Her heart thumped heavily, and the color drained from her face before flooding back in a hot flush. The bell rang again, more urgently this time. The sound was unmistakably that of a collector. Was it the taxi driver, the tailor, or the collection agency? She couldn't bring herself to go to the door, and the third long, persistent ring of the bell felt like a torture device tightening around her. It would wake Bert, but what excuse could she possibly come up with for the annoyingly rude man she pictured on the other side of the door? The bell just kept ringing.

After a long wait, it was quiet, and she heard the automatic elevator door slam shut. A moment later, she heard Bert's voice.

"Helen! Helen! What the heck?"

She opened the bedroom door and stood smiling brightly in the doorway. "'Morning, Bert, love! Look, the early bird's flown with its bill still wide open!"

"Well, why didn’t you just open the door and tell him to stop that annoying noise? Were you worried about bothering him?"

He knew how much it hurt her, but she had learned not to show it. It now seemed to her that she had been unfairly selfish for not protecting Bert's sleep. She viewed herself as a useless burden on her husband’s career, costing him a lot and doing absolutely nothing to repay him.

"That's the issue—it wouldn't have bothered him at all!" she laughed courageously. "Someone should capture a collector and study them to see what actually disturbs them. I think they're made of metal. I wonder if collecting runs in families, or if they just get them young and toughen them up."

Sometimes even in the mornings, conversations like this made him smile. But this morning he just grumbled quietly, turning his head on the pillow. She walked softly past the bed into the dressing room.

Bert had checked out her plan to get an apartment with a kitchenette. He said he hadn’t married a cook and that he couldn’t stand women with burned skin and red hands. He made her feel ordinary and simple for wanting a home instead of a hotel. But when she spoke to the apartment manager and spent a joyful morning picking out a coffee maker along with pretty cups and napkins, she discovered that he didn’t mind her serving him coffee in bed. She found great joy in doing it.

The percolator was behind a screen in the dressing room. She flipped the electric switch on and sat down in front of the mirror, taking off her lace cap and letting her hair down from its curlers. Bert liked her hair curled. Its dark waves framed a face she was nervously studying in the mirror. Her features had sharpened a bit, and her complexion had faded slightly. Bert insisted she drink with him, and she knew she had to do it to keep his attention. A vague idea crossed her mind about how unreasonable it was for men to love women for their beauty and then ruin it. But she pushed it aside, as she often did with many thoughts, and started combing and styling her hair, carefully checking the results from all angles with a hand mirror.

A few minutes later, she came into the bedroom, carrying a tray and kicking the trailing edges of her nightgown out of the way. She held the tray in one hand while clearing the bedside table with the other, and after pouring the coffee, she went through the living room and brought in the morning paper. It was from the taxi driver. His bill, stuck in the crack of the door, fluttered down when she opened it, and after glancing at the numbers quickly, she shoved it out of sight.

Bert was sitting up in bed, drinking his coffee, and the smile he gave her made her happy. She curled up on the bed next to his bent knees and, taking her own cup from the tray, smiled back at him. She never loved him more than in moments like this, when his messy hair and eyes, surprisingly clear and softened by sleep, made him seem almost like a kid.

"Is it good?"

"You're quite the little chef when it comes to coffee!" he replied. "It really hits the spot." He yawned. "Good Lord, we must have had quite the night last night! Did I get into a fight with a chauffeur, or was that just a dream?"

"It was just a—well, a—disagreement," she said quickly.

"That little blonde doll was such a cutie!"

He didn’t mean to be so harsh, not even to get back at her for waking him with the bell. It was just that he enjoyed feeling in control over her. He was only attracted to women he could dominate, and she understood that their ongoing battle, where he always came out on top, was what gave her the most influence over him. But in this moment of feeling safe, it really hurt her to be reminded of the constant threats to that influence.

"Oh, amazing!" she said, maintaining her composure and smiling. She refused to make the mistake of being petty. But she sensed that he saw through her intention, and she realized that he had the upper hand. She was in the vulnerable position of someone who loves more deeply.

They quietly sipped their coffee, the only sound being the rustling of the newspaper. After a moment, he pushed it aside, set down his cup, and leaned back against the pillows with his hands behind his head. She sensed it was a good time to talk to him, but beneath her relaxed facade, her nerves were on edge.

"It was pretty good coffee," she said. "You know, I think it would be fun if we had a real place, with a breakfast room, don't you? Then we could have grapefruit and hot muffins and all that stuff, too. I'd love to have a place like that. And then we could throw parties," she added quickly. "We could keep them going all night long if we wanted to in our own place."

He yawned.

"Keep dreaming, little one," he said. But his voice was friendly.

"Now listen, dear. I really mean it. We could make it happen. It wouldn’t be any more trouble for you than staying at a hotel, honestly. I’ll make sure of that. I really want this so much. I know you’d enjoy it if you just let me give it a shot once. You have no idea how great I’d make it for you."

His silence was too indifferent to be hostile, but he was paying attention. She felt encouraged.

"You don't understand how much I manage while you're away. I could keep everything in the house running smoothly, and you'd never even notice how it all gets done. I—"

"A house!" He was jolted awake. "Good grief, doesn't it cost enough for the two of us to live as it is? Don't make my life miserable by whining about bills!"

The color rose to her cheeks, but she had never allowed herself to feel resentment about anything he said. She laughed easily. "Oh my goodness!" she said. "You're talking as if I were a puppy! I’ve never whined a bit; it’s the collectors who are howling. Let them howl; they deserve it! But really, sweetheart, please let me finish. I’ve thought this all through. You don’t know what a great manager I am." She quickly continued, cutting off his response. "You don’t know how much I want to be a little bit of help. I know I can’t do much. But I’m sure I could save money—"

"Old news!" he interrupted. "It’s not about the money you save; it’s the money you earn that matters."

"I know!" she quickly agreed. "But we could get a house. We could buy one for less than we're paying in rent here. A really nice house. I wouldn't suggest it if it cost more than what we're spending now. But—of course I don’t know much about this stuff—but I would think owning property would give you an edge in business. Wouldn't it—wouldn’t it—make people have more confidence—" She stumbled over her words at the look in his eyes, and before he could respond, she switched her approach and laughed.

"I'm just trying to coax you into giving me something I want, and I know I can be pretty silly about it." She cuddled closer to him, slipping an arm around his neck. "Oh, babe, it wouldn't cost anything at all, and I really want to have a home to make my own. I feel so—so restless living like this. It's like I'm always on the edge of a chair waiting to go somewhere else. I'm used to working and—and handling a little money. I know it wasn't much, but I enjoyed it. You're letting a lot of perfectly good energy go to waste in me, honestly you are."

He laughed, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, and for one blissfully happy moment she thought she had won. Then he kissed her, and before he spoke she knew she had lost.

"I should be worried! You're giving me everything I want," he said, and there was a different kind of joy in his words. She was fulfilling him, and for the moment, that was enough. He made the mistake of being too sure of himself by stressing a point he had already won and ended up losing it.

"And as long as I'm providing you with three meals a day and nice clothes, you don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll handle the finances if you take care of your appearance. It’s starting to show," he added harshly, which only undermined his intent. Even in her pain, she had a moment of clarity where she realized she hated him.

She got to her feet and stood shaking, not looking down at him.

"Well, that's settled," she said in a crisp, firm voice. "I'll go get dressed. It's almost noon."

She felt that her anger was endangering the most important thing in her life; she felt like she was two people fighting against each other. With a strong instinct to reach out to him for help, she turned at the dressing-room door. "I know you don't see what you're doing to me—you don't see—what you're throwing away," she said.

There was a charming glint in his eyes.

"Well, why the drama?" he asked calmly. She felt ashamed of her hysteria and foolishness, once again aware of his superiority and control over her.

When she walked out of the dressing room to find him, relaxed, cheerful, and attractive, adjusting his tie in front of the mirror, she realized that nothing else mattered except her love for him and the need to keep his love in return. She approached him, craving the reassurance she wouldn’t ask for. If he didn’t give it to her and let her hold onto it in her heart, she would be tormented by nagging doubts and fleeting jealousy until he returned. She would be glued to the phone, waiting for his call, trying to imagine the complicated business matters that kept her out of the loop, convincing herself it was just business and nothing more that kept him away from her.

"Well, goodbye," he said, putting on his hat.

"Goodbye." Her voice felt like a hand holding him back. "You—you won't be gone for long?"

He gave in.

"I'm heading down to see Clark & Hayward. I'm going to make a deal with them that'll set us up nicely," he declared.

"Clark & Hayward? They're the real estate agents?"

"You're quite the little guesser. They really are. We're going to be millionaires when I'm done with them! Goodbye!"

The door clicked triumphantly shut behind him, and she could hear him whistling as he waited for the elevator. When he showed up on the sidewalk below, she leaned out of the window, ready to wave if he looked up. Her plans for the day disappeared as soon as he hopped onto a streetcar and disappeared from view.

She picked up the pragmatism book again and read a few paragraphs, then put it down feeling restless. The messy bedroom bothered her, but Bert was paying for hotel service, and once when she made the bed, he told her impatiently that there was no point in letting the staff know she wasn’t used to living well.

She would take a walk. There might be something new to see in the store windows. She would bring the book with her and read it in the café lunchroom where she went when she was alone. It felt wrong to her to spend money unnecessarily when they owed so much, and she couldn't help trying to save it, even though all her efforts seemed to make no difference.

If she could just have a little money coming in regularly, she could handle things so much better. Even the salary she made as a telegraph operator sometimes felt like a fortune to her because she knew she would get it every month and managed it on her own. But every time she tried to create regularity and stability in her current life, it always ended in the same disappointment, and she quickly pushed even her slightest thoughts away from the memory of conversations like the one that had just ended.

In the dressing room, she switched on all the lights and, under their harsh glare, scrutinized every aspect of her face. The perfectly shaped arch of her eyebrows was on point; a touch of blush was expertly applied to her cheeks, the rounded tip of her chin, and the lobes of her ears. She loosened a strand of dark hair and, soaking it with styling gel, pressed it against her cheek in a curve that added the final touch of bold artificiality. She wasn't a fan of it, but Bert was.

She took her time adjusting her hat. She knew everything depended on it. She tied her veil with careful precision. Then, slowly turning in front of the long mirror on the door, she critically examined every detail of her outfit: the cute little boots, the neat edges of her skirt, the shape of the jacket, the spotless gloves. A lot of thought and effort had gone into creating that stylish look, and she felt proud of her achievement. She knew she would still compare well with any of the women Bert might meet. A small spark of cheerfulness was lit by that thought. She tried to hold onto it, but it faded into gloom.

What kind of deal was Bert making with Clark & Hayward? It was the first time he had mentioned real estate since his plan to go to Argentina fell through for unclear reasons. That was another memory she quickly pushed away, a memory of his changing moods and wild happiness, of his angry impatience whenever she showed even the slightest interest or sympathy, of how they ended an exhilarating yet miserable honeymoon by sneaking out of the hotel and leaving an unpaid bill behind. She still avoided that hotel, even though he must have paid the bill long ago. She hadn’t dared to ask him about it, but he had made a lot of money since then.

There had been a whirlwind of excitement about the mining stocks, which were selling like crazy and promised millions until something went wrong. Then there was the plan to set up a rubber plantation in Guatemala—his long trip east and her diamond ring had come from that—and then there was the issue with the patent monkey wrench. He had insisted again that there were millions to be made and mocked her dislike of the inventor. She wondered what happened to that venture and secretly thought she had been right and that the guy had tried to con Bert.

Now it was real estate again. She had no doubt that her smart husband would succeed in it; she was confident he would become one of America's biggest businessmen someday, once he focused his talent on one area and pursued it a bit more consistently. But she wished she knew more about his business dealings. Since they couldn't have a home yet, she would have liked to be involved in something interesting.

She shook off those thoughts with a quick mental shake. Maybe she’d feel better after lunch. With the book tucked under her arm, she walked quickly down the sunny, windy streets, weaving through the traffic at the corners with the instinct of a city dweller, noticing without really seeing the loud streetcars, the sleek, shiny limousines, the streams of well-dressed women, focused men, fluffy dogs on leashes, and the displays of shop windows filled with lace, jewelry, dresses, furs, and hats. She walked in a solitude as complete as if she were alone in a forest, and nothing broke that feeling until she stopped in front of a hardware store window.

She visited that window often, pulled in by an undeniable attraction. Enjoying a delightful sense of escape, she stood before it, looking at sparkling bathroom fixtures, layer upon layer of shiny pans, and rows of kitchen tools, including electric irons. Today, there was a shining white kitchen cabinet with a clever flour bin and built-in sifter, hooks for countless spoons, jars for sugar and spices, an egg beater, and a grocery list holder. A tempting yellow bowl sat on a white shelf.

Some day, she thought, she would have a yellow kitchen. She envisioned the shade of yellow—a bright, sunny yellow. There would be cream-colored walls and yellow woodwork, with sheer white curtains at the windows that would be easy to wash, and on the window sill, a black jar filled with nasturtiums. The breakfast room would be a glassed-in porch, with thin yellow silk curtains that would let the sunshine cast a warm golden light on the little breakfast table set with a white embroidered cloth and shining silver and china. The coffee maker would be bubbling, the grapefruit would be in place, and when she came from the kitchen with a plate of muffins, Bert would look up from his paper and say, "Muffins again? Great! You're an amazing muffin-maker!"

She smiled and blushed with happiness, standing in front of the unresponsive sheet of glass. Then, with a shrug and a half-laugh at herself, she returned to reality and moved on. But the display captivated her like a candy shop captures a child, and she had to stop again to look at the next window, filled with color cards and cans of paint. Her mind was still working on color combinations for a living room when she entered the dairy lunchroom and carried her tray to a table.

For a moment, she glanced around at the crowd around her—clerks, shopgirls, and nicely dressed secretaries quickly drinking coffee and eating pie. Then, she leaned her book against the sugar bowl and started to eat slowly, turning a page every now and then. This book was amazing. It wasn’t fiction, but it was even more intriguing. She read quickly, skipping the few words she didn’t understand, grasping their meaning through intuition, wondering why she had never thought about ideas like these before.

She was so caught up in her thoughts that she barely noticed someone hesitating beside her, someone who then moved past her to pull out a chair opposite her and place his tray down. She shifted her coffee cup to make space for it and, feeling a bit awkward, moved the book from the sugar bowl, glancing over it to see Paul.

The shock was so intense that for a moment she just stood still, not moving or thinking. He remained frozen, staring at her with a blank look in his eyes. Her cup rattled when the book fell against it, and that noise brought her back to reality. With a feeling of frantic resolve, like a falling cat managing to land on its feet, she confronted the situation.

"Why—Paul!" she said, realizing that the old name felt off. "You really startled me. But I'm definitely happy to see you again. Please, have a seat."

In his face, she could clearly see his frustration, his anger at himself for getting into this awkward situation, and his determination to push through it. He settled firmly into the chair, and even though his face and neck were flushed, there was a familiar determination in the way his lips were set and his chin was raised.

"I'm really surprised to see you," he said. "From everything I've been hearing about you, I thought you didn't eat in places like this anymore. They say you're doing well. I'm really glad to hear that." He carefully added two spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee and went for the slice of pie.

"Oh, I drop by sometimes just to switch things up," she said casually. "Yeah, I'm doing just fine. You look good, too."

There was an undeniable vibe of success about him. His suit was custom-made, and the hat hanging on the hook above his head was a fresh gray felt in the latest style. His face had changed just a bit, perhaps grown a little fuller than she remembered, and his jawline was more defined. But he looked at her with the same honest, direct gaze. Naturally, she couldn't expect any warmth from it.

"Well, I can't complain," he said. "Things are going pretty well. It's slow, of course, but they're still coming."

"I'm really glad to hear that. Is your mom doing well?" The situation was both amazing and terrible, but she wouldn't get away from it until she could do so with style. She was already thinking of the next question in her mind while he answered the first one.

"Do you often go into the city?"

"Oh, every now and then. I only come when I need to. It’s too windy and too loud for my liking. I just came up this morning to talk to a real-estate company about a house they have in Ripley. I'm heading back tonight."

"You're buying a house?" she shouted, sounding like a kid who just lost their toy. Her frustration at her own lack of self-control grew when she realized he had misunderstood how she felt.

"Just renting," he said quickly. "I'm not planning on—moving. Mom and I are happy where we are, and I expect it will take some time to pay for that place. This other house—" It felt unbearable to her that he should have two houses. But he continued stubbornly, determined, she could see, to not give off the impression of a wealth that wasn't his. "I don't think you'd think much of it. But there's a big real estate firm up here that's going to develop Ripley, and I wanted to invest in as much of it as I could. They're buying up half the land in the county, and I had an option on a small piece they wanted, so I traded it for this house. I figure I can fix it up a bit and make a decent income renting it pretty soon."

She realized that her brief jealousy was ridiculous. He might own two houses, but he was just one of countless clients of a large real estate company. At that moment, her husband was negotiating as an equal with the executives of that company. Clearly, there was no comparison between the two men, and she didn't make one. The flicker of remembered affection she felt for Paul only made her reflect sadly on the decline of everything due to the passage of time.

She felt like she was handling the interview really well, and when she noticed Paul adding sugar to his coffee every now and then, carefully measuring out two level spoonfuls, she felt a mix of satisfaction. She reminded herself that she didn’t want Paul to still be in love with her and unhappy, but there was a certain pleasure in seeing that his agitation was stronger than hers. Feeling ashamed of the emotion didn’t make it go away.

He told her, trying to keep his pride in check, that he was no longer with the railroad company. The guy who "pretty much owned Ripley" had offered him a better job. Now he was in charge of the ice plant and lumber yard, earning one hundred fifty a month. He mentioned the amount with a bit of hesitation, as someone who doesn’t want to come off as bragging.

"That's great!" she said, thinking about how they paid almost half that amount for rent and how the clothes she was wearing cost more than his entire month's salary. She wanted him to know these things so he could understand how amazing Bert was, even though they didn’t have a home, and the mere thought of that made her feel terrible about herself. "Wow, you're doing really well," she said. "I'm so happy!"

Paul, although he was genuinely modest, agreed with her, and was really happy about her praise. After a clear inner struggle between two conflicting urges, he started to ask her questions. She realized there was very little to share. Yes, she was having a great time. Yes, she was doing well. His admiration for her rosy cheeks sent her into a whirlwind of emotions, which she pulled herself out of with the sarcastic thought that her makeup skills had improved since they last met. She vaguely mentioned that business was good and that they had a nice apartment on Bush Street.

There was nothing else to share about herself, and they both avoided directly talking about her husband. She had never felt the emptiness of her life, aside from Bert, more clearly than when she watched Paul trying to circle around it, searching for something.

He finally turned, confused, to the book next to her plate.

"Still reading, huh? I re—" he paused abruptly. They both recalled the small bookcase with glass doors that had been in his mother's living room in Masonville, and how they had hung around it pretending she was borrowing a book. "Anything good?" he asked quickly. When she showed him the title, he recited it skeptically: "Pragmatism? Well, I guess it's fine, but I’m not really into those Eastern ideas about religion."

"It’s not exactly a religion," she said uncertainly. "It's a new way of looking at things. It’s about truth—kind of. I mean, it suggests there isn't any, really—not absolutely, you know," she stumbled over the confused look in his eyes. "It says there isn’t absolute truth—truth, you know, like a separate thing. Truth is more of a quality, like—well, like beauty, and it belongs to a thing if that thing works out right. I've got it clear in my head, but I know I don't express it very well."

"I don't see any point to it," he said. "Truth is just truth, that's it, and it's our job to always be honest about it."

She realized that trying to explain more would be pointless, and she felt her perspective was broader than his. However, she sensed that he was solid and confident in his straightforward beliefs, and she saw that his entire life was as steady and safe as hers was uncertain and unstable. She felt similarly about his house, envying him something she understood wasn't as valuable as what she owned.

A strange ache—a feeling she couldn't quite grasp—hit her when he paused at the cashier's barrier and paid her bill with his own in the most straightforward manner.

They said goodbye at the lunchroom door; noticing his hesitation, she said cheerfully, "Well, see you later. I'm heading the other way." She extended her hand, and when he took it, she quickly added, "I'm really glad to see you looking so good and happy."

"I'm not that happy," he replied gruffly, as if her words had shocked him into saying it. He quickly covered it up with a heavy, "Me too—I'm glad you are. Goodbye."

That exclamation lingered in her mind, repeating itself like an echo. She had been more affected than she realized. Bits of old feelings, unfulfilled hopes, and unmet desires surfaced within her, only to be replaced by new ones, then fade away and return again. "I'm not so damn happy." It could mean anything or nothing at all. She thought about what her life would be like if she were living in a small house in Ripley with him, pushed the thought away, and then considered it once more.

Looking back, she saw all the choices that had led her away from the path to a life like that—the path she had once thought she would definitely follow. If she had stayed home in Masonville, if she had given up the fight in Sacramento; if she had managed to live in San Francisco with nothing to fill her days but work and loneliness—she recognized as a series of mere chances the steps that had ultimately brought her to Bert.

One couldn’t have it all. She had him. He wasn’t the kind of guy who would slowly grind away at a mediocre job and settle for a modest house bought on a payment plan. He was brilliant, smart, and bold. One day, he was going to achieve great things, and she needed to support him with all her love, belief, and trust. Suddenly, it felt absurd that she was fighting against him, burdening him with her ordinary desires for something as simple as a home, especially when he needed all his intelligence and skill to manage a major deal. She felt ashamed of the thoughts she had entertained; they seemed like a betrayal of her spirit.

Bert wasn't in the apartment when she got there; she knew her disappointment was unreasonable since she had told herself he wouldn't be there. Still, he might call. She curled up in the big chair by the window, a book in her lap, and read while constantly aware of waiting. She felt that his arrival or the sound of his voice would save her from something inside herself.

At six o'clock, she told herself he would call within an hour. Experience had shown her that this method of tracking time made it go by faster. With focused determination, she tried to immerse herself in her book, blocking out the voices that echoed intense feelings in her. By seven o'clock, she found herself pacing the living room, full of self-loathing, reminding herself that nothing had happened, that he did these things just to demonstrate his control over her, and that his message could arrive at any moment.

For another hour, she thought about many things she could have done differently. She could have walked by the office of Clark & Hayward, running into him by chance when he came out. But that might have irritated him. She could have gone to some of the cafés for tea, hoping to bump into him there. But there were so many cafés! He must be having dinner in one of them now, and she had no way of knowing which one. She couldn't know who might be dining with him.

"Helen Davies Kennedy, knock it off! Knock it off!" she said out loud. She got a bit quieter then, walked to the window, and stood there, looking down at the street. Her heart raced uncomfortably at the sight of every car that passed; she thought, until it drove by, that he might be in it.

It was the same old agony again, and exhaustion and self-contempt mixed with her pain. She had waited so many times, just like she was doing now, and he always returned, laughing at her hysteria. Why couldn’t she learn to handle it better? She might have to wait until midnight, or even later. She gritted her teeth.

The sudden ring of the phone in the dark room startled a stifled cry from her. She ran, tripping over the table, and the receiver shook at her ear; but her voice was calm and pleasant.

"What's up?"

"Helen? It's Bert. I'm heading south tonight on the Lark. Can you pack my suitcases and send them express to Bakersfield?"

"What? Yeah, yeah. I’ll do it right away. Are you—are you going to be gone for a while?"

His voice continued, filled with joy:

"Trust Uncle Dudley to pull it off! Do you know what I got from the stingiest company in town? An unlimited letter of credit! Got that 'unlimited'?"

"Oh, Bert!"

"It's the biggest land deal ever offered out West! Ripley Farmland Acres—I'm going to make it known in letters a mile high! Trust me, I'm going to shake things up! There's half a million in it for me if it's done right, and, trust me, I'm pretty good at making things happen!"

"I know you are! Oh Bert, that's amazing!"

"Okay. Get the suitcases off early—there's my train. Bye."

"Hold on a second—when are you coming back? Can’t I come along, too?"

"Not yet. I'll let you know. Oh, do you want some money?"

"Well—I don’t have much—but that’s not—"

"Sending you a check. From now on, I'm swimming in cash—bye now—"

"Bert, darling—" she exclaimed, just after the phone clicked off. Then, with a long, deep sigh, she gently set the phone down. After a moment, she went into the bedroom, turned on the lights, and started packing shirts and collars into his bags. She was smiling because happiness and hope had returned to her, but her hands trembled, as she was worn out.

It was thirty-two days before she heard from him again. A post-dated check for a hundred dollars, crumpled up in an envelope and sent on the train, had come back to her, and that was all. But she convinced herself that he was just too busy to write. The month dragged on slowly, but it wasn't unbearable, since she managed to keep her anxious thoughts in check and relive many happy moments with him in her mind. She also planned the details of the house they would have if this time he really did make a ton of money. She knew he would give her a house whenever he could do it easily and without much thought.

When the telephone woke her up one night at midnight, her first thought was that he had returned. She was putting on a nightgown and grabbing a new lace cap from a drawer when it rang again and cleared up her confusion.

Long distance from Coalinga was trying to reach her and requested that she reverse the charges. She said the name hesitantly, and the voice echoed: "Call from Mr. Kennedy in Coalinga—"

"Oh, yes, yes! Yes. I'll pay for it. Yes, it's fine." She waited anxiously in the dark until his voice reached her softly.

"Hey, Helen! Bert. Listen up. Do you have any cash?"

"About thirty bucks."

"Hey, Helen. Can you send me twenty bucks? I need it urgently."

"Of course. First thing in the morning. Are you okay?"

"Am I okay? Oh my God, Helen! Do you think anyone's okay when they don't have any money? We just arrived in this terrible town; we've been driving all day and half the night across a desert hotter than the hinges on the main gate, and not a drink for a hundred and forty—" His voice faded into a buzz on the line, and she heard fragmented words: "Cheap skates—on me—they've got it all wrong—cheap trick—"

She shouted again that she would send the money, and heard central repeating her words. Nothing else came over the line, even though she shook the receiver. Finally, she went back to bed, lying awake until dawn.

She was waiting at the telegraph office when the money-order department opened. After she sent the twenty dollars, she tried to drink a cup of coffee and quickly walked back to the apartment. She felt like she should come up with something to do, some action she could take to help Bert, and a lot of crazy ideas raced through her anxious mind. But she knew there was nothing she could do but wait.

The phone was ringing by the time she got to her door. It felt like forever before she could answer it. She reassured the operator again that she would cover the charges and heard his voice. He wanted to know why she hadn't sent the money, when she did send it, and why it hadn't arrived. He spoke a lot, impatiently, and she could see that his nervous temperament had been driven to a frenzy by issues she didn't understand because of her lack of business knowledge. Her heart ached with a deep sense of sympathy and love; she felt torn by her inability to help him.

Half an hour later, he called again and demanded the same explanations. Then suddenly, he interrupted her and told her to come to Coalinga. It was a terrible place, he insisted, and he wanted her.

That he wanted her felt like almost too much happiness, but she tried to stay calm and reasonable about it. She pointed out that she had just paid a month's rent, that she only had ten dollars, and that it might be wiser for her, and less of a burden for him, if she stayed in San Francisco. She could make the ten dollars last a month, and that would give him time—He cut her off angrily. He wanted her. Was she coming, or was she going to reject him? Did she think he couldn't support her? He always had, hadn't he? Where did she get this sudden idea that he was no good? He could tell her that Gilbert Kennedy wasn't done for yet, not by a long shot. Was she coming or—

"Oh, yes! Yes! Yes! I'll be there right away!" she exclaimed.

While she was packing, she wished she had something to sell. She would have gone to a pawn shop herself. But the diamond ring was lost when the Guatemala rubber plantation went under; her other jewelry was fake or semi-precious stones; her furs were too old to be worth anything. All she could offer Bert were her courage and her faith.

She discovered that her ticket cost nine dollars and ninety cents. When she arrived in Coalinga, after a long, restless night on the train and a two-hour effort to look presentable in the swaying dressing room, she handed the porter the last dime. It was a sign of trust in Bert and in what was to come. She was approaching him with enthusiasm, matching his boldness with her own.

He wasn't on the platform. After the train left, she stayed for a few minutes, staring at a line of dilapidated one-story buildings that ran alongside the single track. Clearly, they were all bars. A few people hanging out on the sagging wooden sidewalk watched her. She turned her head to see the flat stretches of desert on either side, interrupted only by patches of dusty sagebrush. The entire scene felt strangely small beneath the high gray sky shimmering with intense heat.

She grabbed her bags and crossed the street in bright sunlight. A strong, nauseating smell wafted up in hot waves from the asphalt. She felt sick. But she knew it would be easy to find Bert in such a small town. He'd be at the best hotel.

She found it easily, a two-story building of cream plaster that stood out on the main street. The wide, clean lobby offered coolness and shade, and the clerk immediately informed her that Bert was there. He told her how to find the room on the second floor.

Her heart raced when she knocked on the door and heard Bert say, "Come in!" She dropped her bags and hurried into a dim room filled with cigar smoke. The room appeared crowded with men, but after the initial round of greetings and introductions, as she sat on the edge of the bed next to Bert, she realized there were only five.

They were all young and looked really gloomy at the moment. It felt like depression was in the air as thick as the cigar smoke. She picked up from their bitter conversations that they were land salesmen, and that a campaign in Bakersfield had ended in some sudden disaster—“blown up,” they said—and they took a twisted pleasure in saying that Coalinga was a "terrible area."

Bert, lounging against the piled-up pillows on the bed with a cigar in one hand and a glass of whisky and ice water at his side, let them talk until their negativity seemed to reach its peak. Then, suddenly sitting up, he unleashed a wave of electrifying words. His eyes sparkled, his face was sharply focused and full of life, and his magnetic presence surrounded them like a tangible force. Helen, sitting quietly and listening to phrases that meant nothing to her, felt a surge of pride as she watched him engage these men, igniting sparks in the cold ashes of their enthusiasm, energizing them, and sharing a bit of his own irresistible self-confidence.

"I’m telling you guys this is going to take off. It’s going to be huge. There’s thousands of dollars to be made, and anyone who stays in is going to be living the good life. Leave if you want to; if you're not serious, just go away. I don’t need you. I’m bringing in the best group of salespeople this place has ever seen. But I don’t want any slackers in my team. If you're going to bail on me, do it now and get lost."

They assured him that they were on his side. The most hesitant wanted to ask about the details; there was some discussion about percentages and agreements. Bert hit back with sharp comments, while the others overwhelmed him with their excitement. Then Bert suggested buying drinks, and they all went out together in a cheerful group.

Helen was left alone to realize once again her husband's power and to think about her own insignificance and lack of understanding. She pushed aside a persistent worry about Bert's drinking. She always hoped he wouldn't do it, but she recognized it was a typical male habit that she couldn't grasp because she was a woman. After all, men achieved great things, and they should be allowed to do it in their own way.

She opened the windows, but letting out the smoke brought in a sweltering heat and the nauseating stench of crude oil. She shut them again and transformed the chaos of the room into order, straightening the bed, picking up piles of scattered papers, and unpacking her bags. When Bert returned a few hours later, she was engrossed in a stack of literature about Ripley Farmland Acres.

He walked in excitedly, and as she ran toward him, he threw a handful of clinking gold coins into the air. They fell around her and scattered across the floor. "Leave it to Uncle Dudley to pull a fast one!" he exclaimed. "Pick them up! They’re yours!"

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she exclaimed, caught between laughter and tears that she could no longer hold back. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and she didn't mind him laughing at her, though she quickly got herself under control before his amusement turned into annoyance. "I knew you would do it!" she said.

It took her a while to remember the money. When she finally gathered it, she was surprised to find nearly a hundred dollars. He laughed at her again when she asked how he got it. It was fine. He had it, right? But he told her not to pay for her meals in the dining room and to sign the checks instead, which made her realize that his business troubles weren't completely solved yet. She put the money in her purse, deciding to save it.

She found out that he now had a big green car. It seemed he had purchased it in Bakersfield since it had been a few months since he sold the gray one. In the afternoon, they drove out to the oil leases, and she sat in the car while the salesmen spread out to search for land buyers.

The newness of the scene kept her occupied. Low hills of yellow sand, shimmering in the heat, were dotted with countless derricks that, from a distance, resembled a strange forest devoid of leaves or shade. Up close, they reminded her of bizarre creatures brought to life in an unnatural way, their long necks bobbing up and down with a chugging noise. There were clusters of small houses, patchworks of wood and canvas, and now and then she spotted faded women in calico dresses, or a child sitting half-naked and struggling to breathe in the hot shadows. She felt like she was in a foreign land, and the distant desert stretching into a blue haze on the eastern horizon felt like an ocean separating her from everything she had ever known.

The salesmen were downcast when they returned to the machine, and Bert's excitement felt forced. "There are millions of dollars a year coming out of these wells," he said. "We're going to get our share, guys, trust me!" But they didn’t react, and Helen felt a growing tension as they drove back to town through the blue twilight. She thought with relief about the gold coins in her purse.

After dinner, Bert sent her to their room, and she lay in her nightgown on sheets that felt hot to the touch, panting as she read about Ripley Farmland Acres. The brochure was reassuring; it made her feel like anyone would want to buy such good land at those unbelievably low prices. But her anxiety grew like an unbearable tightening of her nerves, and being stuck in this crisis that she couldn’t grasp tormented her. It crossed her mind that she could still send a telegraph, and until she dismissed the thought as unfair to Bert, she was tempted by a crazy idea of finally having some control over her destiny.

It was almost midnight when he came in, and she noticed that asking him anything would just set him off in a frenzy of irritation. In the morning, she figured, he would be in a better mood. But when she woke up at dawn, he was gone.

She didn’t see him until almost noon. After waiting in the lobby for a while and checking out as much of the quiet town as she could without losing sight of the hotel entrance where he might arrive, she went back to the row of chairs next to it and was sitting there when he showed up in the green car.

She ran to the curb. He was flushed, his eyes were really bright, and while he introduced her to a man and woman in the back seat, she heard in his voice the tone that she had learned to respond to immediately. He smoothly told her that Mr. and Mrs. Andrews were interested in Ripley Farmland Acres; he was taking them to check out the deal. She leaned across a pile of luggage to shake hands with them and chatted engagingly with the woman, but she didn’t miss even the smallest movement or change in expression from Bert.

When he asked her to get his driving gloves, she knew he would follow her, and as she went down the stairs, she gripped the banister with a shaking hand she couldn't control. She wasn’t scared of Bert in this mood, but she knew it could lead to an outburst of frustration, much like how enough pressure in the atmosphere can cause lightning. He was at the door of their room before she had even closed it.

"Where's the money?"

"Right here." She paused, rummaging through her purse. "Bert—this is all we have, right?"

"What difference does it make? That's not all I'm going to have."

"Hold on a second. Did that woman say she was going to buy land?"

"Seriously, do I really have to stand here and talk? They're waiting. Hand over that money."

"But Bert. She's bringing another hat with her. She's got it in a bag, plus she's got two suitcases, and the way she looks—I think she's just going somewhere and getting you to drive her in the car. And—please let me finish—if it's all the money we have, don't you think—"

She knew that his outburst of anger was her fault. He was anxious and overwhelmed; she should have comforted him, agreed with him about anything and everything. But there hadn’t been any time. Shaken by his words, she held on to her opinion and even tried to express it again. She felt their last bit of security was the money in her purse, and she saw him losing it in a desperate attempt. Against his experience and authority, she could only offer her impression, and the ridiculousness of talking about a hatsack in a woman's hand. The uselessness of such arguments only deepened her desperation. His scorn turned into rage. "Are you going to give me that money?"

Tears she couldn't cry blinded her. Her fingers struggled with the clasp of the purse. The coins fell out and spread across the floor. He picked them up, and the sound of the door slamming told her he was gone.

She stopped trying to keep it together. When it returned, it came slowly, like the sky clearing after a storm. Her body was worn out from crying, and her face was puffy and wet, but she felt a huge sense of relief. The bright sunlight shining through the closed shades and the oppressive heat indicated that it was late in the afternoon. She tiredly undressed, splashed her face with cool water, and, lying back down, was enveloped in the comforting darkness of sleep.

The next day and the day after dragged on with a deliberate cruelty. She sensed that time itself was being cruel, stretching out her anxiety. The young salesmen were feeling it too. They had sent telegrams to friends and family and were waiting for money to leave town. One by one, they were let go and left happily. Five days went by. Six. Seven.

She would have sent a telegram to Clark & Hayward, but she didn’t have any money for it. She would have looked for a job if there had been any she could do. The manager of the small telegraph office was the only operator. In the little town, there were a few stores already having clerks, a couple of boarding houses on Whiskey Row, and lots of cute little houses where it was obvious there were no servants. The local paper had a handful of "help wanted" ads for stenographers and cooks for the oil leases. She didn’t know stenography, and she wasn’t capable of cooking for twenty or forty hungry men.

A bill in her mailbox at the end of the week informed her that her room was costing three dollars a day, and she didn't dare ask about a cheaper one. She was shocked by the prices on the menu and ate only a little, casually signing the checks with a messy signature and a confident smile at the waitress.

She was coming from the dining room on the evening of the seventh day when the hotel manager, looking a bit awkward, asked her not to sign any more checks for meals. It was a new house rule, he explained. She smiled at him and readily agreed. "Of course!" Changing her mind about going upstairs, she walked into the lobby and sat back in a chair, casually glancing at a newspaper with feigned interest.

So it happened that she saw the item in the middle of the column, which finally gave her news of Bert.

After a while, she managed to get up and walk steadily across the lobby. Her hand on the railing helped her avoid stumbling too much as she went upstairs. Her room was dark, wrapping around her like a shield. She stood tall and still, with one hand pressed against the wall.

It was Saturday night, and in the cheerful tradition of the oil fields, a section of the oiled street had been blocked off for dancing. The musicians were already tuning their instruments. Eager drillers and tool-dressers, along with their dates, were cheering them on with playful applause. The ropes were straining under the pressure of the festive crowd, filled with shouts and laughter.

Suddenly, with a lively swing, the band started playing. The music filled the warm, quiet night with joy, while underneath it, there was a rustling sound from all the dancing feet. Below her window, the pavement was a blur of movement and color. Her body gradually relaxed, collapsing into a crumpled heap, and she rested against the window sill with her face buried in her arms.

Morning arrived like a break from an endless haze. Light flooded through the open window, and the suffocating heat of the night transitioned to the scorching heat of the day. Helen sat up on the messy bed, pressing her palms against her forehead, and tried to think.

The realization of her situation didn't stir any feelings. Her mind laid out the facts plainly, and she viewed it all with an impersonal detachment. It felt strange that she was stuck in a hotel in the oil fields, broke, unable to get food, with no way to leave, and in debt with bills she couldn't pay.

"Isn't it strange that I'm not more excited?" she said, and then instantly forgot about it.

The thought of Bert didn't hurt her anymore, either. It felt like a hit on a part that had gone numb from anesthesia. But slowly, out of the chaos in her mind, one thought emerged. She had to do something to help him.

She didn’t need to remind herself that he hadn’t intended to break the law; she already knew that. She realized he had meant to cover the check, that he was in trouble because of some accident or miscalculation. In the clearer light of day, the chain of events that had led to this terrible disaster became obvious to her. Bert's overly confident demeanor when he handed her the gold, his frantic insistence that this was a great area for land sales, his excitement when he rushed off, thinking he could sell a farm to that shady woman with the hat box, should have alerted her to the reality of the situation.

Just because Bert had made that small mistake in judgment—A surge of protest erupted in Helen, clashing against the undeniable reality. It couldn't be true! It couldn't be true that such a minor incident had caused such disaster. It felt like a nightmare. She refused to believe it.

"O Bert! That's not true! It isn't—it isn't—O Bert!" She cut that off with harsh self-loathing. It was true. "Get up and face it, you coward, you coward!"

She forced herself to get up, splashed cool water on her face and shoulders. The mirror reflected her tired eyes and a tangled mess of hair pinned up in places. She removed the pins and started struggling with the knots using a comb. Everything felt unreal; the solid walls around her, the voices from the street below, all seemed intangible; she felt the least real of all, like a shadow among shadows. But she had to keep going; she needed to do something.

Money. Bert needed money. It was the only thing that stood between him and unimaginable pains of suffering and shame. His father wouldn’t help him. Her people couldn’t. Somehow she had to get money, a lot of money.

She didn’t really think through the idea; it just popped into her head. It was a chance, the only one she had. She stood at the window, looking out over the low rooftops of Coalinga to the sand hills dotted with oil rigs. There was money to be made there. "Millions of dollars a year." She would take Bert's empty spot, sell the farm he couldn’t sell, and save him.

Her usual self felt as lifeless as if she were in a trance, but underneath that dullness, a sharp mind was working steadily, like a clock ticking away. It knew all about Ripley Farmland Acres; it remembered bits of conversations with the salespeople; it brought to mind photographs, blank forms, and price lists. She got dressed quickly, twisting her hair into a neat bun and applying talcum powder to her sweaty face and neck. From Bert's suitcase, she hurriedly grabbed a stack of Ripley Farmland Acres brochures and tucked them into a salesman’s leather wallet. At the door, she turned back to grab a pencil.

The hotel felt empty to her. If the onlookers glanced at her curiously while she walked through the lobby, she was unaware. It was like stepping into an oven to face the bright glare of the street, but she walked into it confidently. She knew where to find the stable, and to the guy who came out from its hay-scented shadows to greet her, she said firmly:

"I'd like a horse and buggy right now, please."

She stood on the worn boards of the driveway while he brought out a horse and backed it between the shafts. He noted that it was a hot day and casually asked if she was going far. "To the oil fields," she said. "East or west?" "East," she answered, taking a guess. "Oh, the Limited?" "Yes, the Limited," she confirmed. Once she climbed into the buggy and picked up the reins, she thought to ask him which road to take.

When she passed Whiskey Row, the road stretched straight ahead of her, a dark line of oiled sand leading to a point in the distance on the flat desert. The horse trotted on with steady determination, the dry buggy rattling behind it, and she sat still with the reins in her hands. Around her, the air shimmered in large waves above the scorching yellow sand; it rippled above the black road like colorless vibrations on a stove's lid. Far in the distance, she spotted a small dot, which she guessed was the Limited. She would wake herself up when she got there. Her mind was as still as her body, just waiting.

Centuries passed her by. She arrived at the spot and discovered a watering trough and an empty house. She let the horse loose, and he eagerly dipped his nose into the water. His sides were covered in dried sweat, and with the drinking can, she poured water over him, which almost instantly evaporated. She felt sorry for him.

When she was back in the buggy and he was trotting patiently down the long road again, she realized she was viewing herself and him from a distance, finding it amazing that one small creature was sitting upright in a wooden and leather contraption, while another small creature pulled it diligently across a tiny piece of the earth. Her thoughts became still again, as if frozen in the sizzling heat.

Hours later, she noticed the road winding over sand dunes. A few oil rigs were scattered around. She paused at another water trough, and in the house next to it, a weary woman, keeping the screen door latched between them, informed her that the Limited was four miles ahead. She didn't think to ask anything else. Her mind was fixed, like an alarm clock, on the Limited.

She finally drove into it. It felt like a small piece of a city, oddly placed in a dip among the sand hills. A dozen massive factory buildings loomed over a line of two-story bunkhouses. Loaded wagons rattled down the street between them, and electric power lines crisscrossed above. On the hillside, there was a cluster of small cottages, their porches draped with drooping vines. After tying the horse in the shade, she paused for a moment, feeling her courage and strength building up inside her. Then she headed up the hill.

The screen doors of the cottages swung open for her. She heard herself chatting happily, knew she was smiling, and saw smiles in return. Tired women with lines on their tired faces tilted the clay pots to offer her a cool drink and pushed chairs forward for her. Brown-skinned kids approached her shyly, touching her dress with their sticky little fingers, giggling when she patted their cheeks and asked for their names. Mothers showed her their tiny white babies struggling in the heat, and she smiled at them, saying how cute they were. Underneath it all, she felt trapped and desperate.

It felt to her like these women should have recoiled at the sight of her, like they would at a skull. But all she saw in their eyes was friendly curiosity, and their ignorance provided her with the comfort that darkness brings to a tormented creature. Time was passing, steadily taking away her last hope.

"Do you own any land in California?"

"Yes." There would be a flicker of pride in tired eyes. "My husband just bought forty acres last week, near Merced. We're going to pay for it with his wages, and we'll have it one day!"

"Isn't that great! Oh yes, the land near Merced is really good land. Your husband has probably done very well. Do you know anyone else who's looking for a ranch?" No one did.

She kept pushing forward. Every time she left a cottage, a sense of desperation gripped her throat, and for a moment, she felt breathless. But she felt so hopeless that all she could do was grit her teeth and keep moving. At the next door, she smiled again and spoke in a cheerful tone. "Good afternoon! Can I ask you for a glass of water? Oh, thank you! Yes, it sure is hot! I'm selling farmland. Do you own a ranch in California?"

It was when she got close to the sixteenth cottage that the steps, the withered vine, and the small porch disappeared into darkness before her eyes. But she avoided disaster, and almost immediately saw them clearly again and felt the gatepost beneath her tight grip. There was a metallic taste in her mouth; she had bitten her lips pretty badly, but when she wiped her mouth with her handkerchief, she realized it wasn’t visible. She no longer cared about anything except finding someone who would buy land. All her thoughts had narrowed to that one thing and were focused on it like a bright light on a small area.

In the twentieth cottage, a woman mentioned that she had heard Mr. MacAdams, who worked at the boiler factory, had gone to Fresno to buy land but didn't end up buying it. Helen thanked her and headed to the boiler factory.

It was a big building, set high off the ground. As she walked around it, she saw a guy in overalls and a tank top lounging in a wide doorway above her. The loud roar and bang of machinery behind him drowned out her voice, and he looked at her like she was a ghost. When he jumped down next to her and got what she wanted— to see Mr. MacAdams—his confused expression turned into a big grin. He said MacAdams was in a boiler, and still smiling, he climbed back to the doorstep and pulled her up by one arm into a huge, noisy room. He guided her through the chaos and pointed out MacAdams with his pipe-stem.

MacAdams was squatting in a large steel cylinder. He held a vibrating riveter in his hand, and the boiler shook with its noise. His ears were filled with cotton, and he focused intently on his task. Without saying a word, Helen expressed her gratitude to the man next to her and got down on all fours to crawl into the boiler. When she touched MacAdams's shoulder, the riveter came to a halt.

"I’m sorry to interrupt," she said. "I heard you’re looking to buy a ranch."

MacAdams was deeply shocked. Automatically, he put a cold pipe in his mouth and then took it out again. She noticed that his mind was blank from the surprise. Sitting back on her heels, she opened the wallet and pulled out the pictures. Her voice felt weak in her ears.

"There's a lot of good land in California. I wouldn't try to convince you, Mr. MacAdams, that ours is the only land where a person can make money by buying. But what do you think of that alfalfa?"

She recognized it was alfalfa because the back of the picture was so clearly labeled. While he examined it, she observed him, and her life felt empty except for his square Scottish face, the thoughtful mind behind it, and her intense determination.

She realized she shouldn’t talk too much. His mind worked slowly, firmly processing each point one at a time. He probably thought he was making his own choices. She had to lead him with questions, not statements. He would be stubborn about clear statements. He was curious. He handed back the picture and asked a question. She answered based on the information in the ad, and while she let him reach for another picture, she quickly thought that she shouldn’t let him catch her in a lie. If he asked a question she didn’t know the answer to, she had to admit that. She was prepared when it happened.

"I’m not sure about that," she replied. "We can check it out on the property if you want to go take a look."

He was evasive. She didn’t press the issue. She felt like her entire life depended on his choices, and there was nothing she could do to speed them up. Her hands trembled, and she made herself calm down. She unfolded a map of Ripley Farmland Acres and highlighted the proposed railroad, the highway, the irrigation canals. She made him ask why a part of the map was colored red, and then explained that those farms had been sold. He was intrigued. She folded the map a moment too quickly, leaving him wanting more.

He said he thought the idea was worth considering. She didn’t respond because she was afraid her voice would shake. In the silence, he added that he would go check it out next Tuesday. She opened the map again. Her fingers were cold and stiff, and the paper crinkled between them, but the moment had come to see if she had succeeded, and she wouldn’t fool herself with false hopes.

She told him that she wanted to hold a particular farm for him to check out. She picked it randomly. It was a really great piece, she said, the best one still available. She worried it would be sold before Tuesday. It couldn't be reserved unless he paid a deposit on it. If he didn't buy it, the deposit would be refunded.

"You don't want to waste your time, Mr. MacAdams, and neither do I." She felt her self-control starting to crumble, but she continued, looking at him directly. "If this piece works for you, you'll buy it, right?"

He would, if it worked for him.

"Then please let me keep it until I can show it to you."

She waited as time passed slowly. Then he leaned to the side, putting his hand in his pocket. "How much will I need to contribute?"

When she came out of the boiler five minutes later, she had a twenty-dollar gold coin in her hand, and in her wallet was the yellow slip of paper with his signature on the dotted line. She stumbled down a path between buzzing machines and dropped over a doorframe into the hot dust of the road. Her grip on herself was slipping away, overwhelmed by powerful emotions. She ran blindly to the buggy, and once she managed to get inside, she heard herself laughing through the sobs in her throat. The horse trotted eagerly toward Coalinga.

During the long drive through the desert, she sat back, too exhausted to feel bothered or happy about anything. The sun slowly dipped below the cool blue hills, and darkness spread from them across the flat stretches of sand. A crescent of shimmering lights emerged on the lower slopes, where the western oil fields were located. The lower edge of it was Coalinga, and she thought about bed and sleep. Clutching the gold coin, she reminded herself that she needed to eat. She had to keep up her strength until she sold that piece of land. She was too tired to deal with that effort right now. The horse carried her swiftly past Whiskey Row and raced to the livery stable. She climbed down stiffly.

"Put it on my tab." Her voice was also formal. "Clark & Hayward, San Francisco. I'm their representative. H. D. Kennedy—I'm at the hotel."

Her body felt heavy as she made her way to the telegraph office. She had written a telegram to Clark & Hayward before she realized she couldn’t handle any questions until after Tuesday. It occurred to her then that she had done something wrong. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she thought it might be getting money under false pretenses. She tore up the telegram.

Later, when she placed the twenty-dollar gold coin on the check for her dinner, it felt to her like she was stealing. A nagging feeling bothered her. Could someone get money dishonestly and then steal it as well? She was too exhausted to care deeply, but as a theoretical issue, it frustrated her. The waitress stared at her intently, and she pondered if she had mentioned anything about it. In a daze, she made her way up the stairs and into bed.

Very early Tuesday morning, she drove to the Limited lease and picked up MacAdams. He looked intimidating in his nice clothes, and now that he had shaved off the scruffy gray beard, his chin had an even more stubborn line. She spoke to him in a casual and friendly way, without mentioning land. She couldn’t afford to waste her energy. There was a fight ahead of her and a threat behind. She had opened a livery-stable account under Clark & Hayward’s name, who didn’t know anything about her. She realized that the hotel had only let her leave because she had no luggage and had told the clerk casually that she would be back tomorrow. The ticket to Ripley had cost five dollars out of the twenty belonging to MacAdams. And every moment the sale was delayed could make it impossible to save Bert.

She sat smiling, listening to a story about MacAdams' youth, when he was a sailor.

The train arrived in Fresno, and MacAdams looked happily at the lush orchards, vineyards, and the cool green alfalfa fields. She noticed how the refreshing contrast with the dry desert was affecting him. By the time they got to Ripley, he would be accustomed to a green landscape with ditches full of flowing water. She had lost one point.

Her focus was on the thoughts slowly forming in his mind. Every word he said was a clue that she grabbed, thought about, examined from different angles, looking for its origins and the implications stemming from it.

The train was now traveling across a flat plain covered with dry grass. Despair was evident all around, and small, unpainted houses dotted the landscape like periods at the end of sentences, highlighting the futility of human hope. She smiled despite her sinking heart. They got off at Ripley.

She had never seen the town before, and she now noticed, through MacAdams's perspective, a yellow station, several large warehouses, and a wide, dusty road intersected by a street of two-story buildings. It was not much bigger than Coalinga. She anxiously searched for the agent from Ripley Farmland Acres. That morning, she had sent him a telegram asking him to meet her.

He walked over and shook MacAdams' hand warmly. His name was Nichols. He had an open, honest look in his eyes and a polished demeanor. He hurried them toward a dusty car, its sides covered with canvas ads for the development, and put MacAdams in the front seat next to him.

The machine kicked up a cloud of dust as it bumped down the road between fields of dried stubble. She was overlooked in the back seat. Nichols had taken control of the situation, and she didn't trust him. Still, she couldn't trust herself either, caught up in her doubts and lack of knowledge.

Nichols talked way too much and way too passionately. She was shocked by his lack of insight. To her, it was clear that his words didn’t really matter. What MacAdams said was what counted. He didn’t give MacAdams any pauses to speak, and he seemed completely unaware that MacAdams, looking thoughtfully at the skyline, wasn’t saying anything.

They drove under an ornate plaster gateway into the area. Seventy thousand acres of parched, dry grass stretched out before them, extending unbroken to a hazy, flat horizon. Above it was the vast expanse of a scorching sky.

The machine took them out into the waves of dry grass like a tiny boat heading into an ocean of dryness. When it stopped, the sun beat down on them, and dust settled on their sweaty hands and faces. Nichols unrolled a map and spoke with electrifying enthusiasm. He kept talking nonstop, and his words seemed old from being repeated too many times. MacAdams didn’t say anything, and Helen tried to think of a way to ask Nichols to be quiet.

His attitude had put her out of the picture, except as a woman for whom car doors needed to be opened. She noticed that he saw her presence as a disadvantage in this situation between men; he even apologized for saying "damn," and his apology had a hint of resentment. He was jeopardizing her chance to close the deal, and she couldn’t step in. Her only hope of saving Bert depended on this sale. She suppressed her growing desperation and smiled at him.

They got out of the machine and waded through dusty grass, looking for surveyor's posts. Nichols pointed out the lush growth of wild hay and asked MacAdams what he thought about it, then continued without a pause to bombard him with facts and figures, not caring that he didn’t get a response. They got back into the car, and Nichols, pulling out a pad of blanks from his pocket, tried to get MacAdams to buy a certain piece of land right then and there. He approached it indirectly, as if he was trying to catch MacAdams into signing his name, and MacAdams responded carefully. "Well, I’ve seen worse. And I've seen better." He lit his pipe and listened calmly. He did not sign his name.

They drove further down the road and got out again. Helen grabbed Nichols' sleeve, and even though he shook his arm impatiently, she held onto him until MacAdams had walked a bit away and picked up a clump of dirt.

"Just leave him to me, okay?" she said.

"What do you know about the area?"

"Still, I hope you'll give me a chance, please."

"Do you want to sell him or not? I know how to deal with potential buyers."

They spoke fast. MacAdams was already turning his head.

"He's my prospect. And, damn it! I'm going to sell him or lose him myself!" Her words hit her like a bolt of lightning, but the shock made her more determined. And Nichols' downfall was total. He barely said anything when they got to MacAdams.

Almost silently, they examined the piece of land. MacAdams walked to each corner; he studied the map for a while and asked questions that Nichols answered briefly. He pulled up clumps of grass and inspected the soil on their roots. Finally, he returned to the machine, leaned against it, lit his pipe slowly, and gazed out across the area. The silence was tense. When she noticed he wasn’t going to break it, Helen asked, "Should we check out another piece?"

"Nope. I've seen enough."

They got into the car, and this time Nichols was sitting alone in the front seat. They drove back toward the office. The sun was setting, and a gray light filled the empty fields. Helen felt connected to it. She had lost, and nothing mattered anymore. She had nothing left to lose. She continued to struggle hopelessly, but the approaching end felt like the thought of rest to a man who is drowning.

"What do you think of it, Mr. MacAdams?"

"Well, I've seen worse."

"Were you happy with the soil?"

"I wouldn't say anything bad about it."

"Do you want us to show you anything else about the water system?" What did she care about water systems!

"Nope."

The machine stopped in front of the tract office. They got out.

"Your guy's not worth it. He's eye candy, not someone who's serious about buying," Nichols said to her in a side comment.

"He has money and he wants land," she replied tiredly.

"We'll try again with him. But it won't help."

They entered the office. A smoky lamp was on a desk covered with papers. MacAdams asked when the train left Ripley. Nichols told him they had half an hour. They sat down, and Nichols, quickly pulling his chair up to the desk, began.

"Now, Mr. MacAdams, when buying land, you need to think about four things: land, water, climate, and markets. Our land—"

She couldn't return to Coalinga with him. There was probably a warrant for her arrest. Oh, Bert! She had tried her hardest, really put in all her effort. There were five dollars left, MacAdams's money. The whole situation felt unreal. She must be dreaming.

Nichols was guiding him toward the decision. MacAdams dodged it. Nichols started over. The blank form was out now, and the fountain pen was ready.

"You like the place, right? You're happy with it. Everything is exactly how we described it. It's the best deal in the area. Alright, now we'll just wrap it up."

MacAdams put his hands in his pockets and stared at the map on the wall. "I’m not saying it’s not a good idea."

Nichols started over. Was forty acres more than MacAdams wanted to handle? MacAdams wouldn't exactly say that. Would a change in the terms be easier for him? MacAdams had no issues with the terms. Did the idea of getting the land planted stress him out? No. Well, then let’s get to the point. The payments on this land would be—"I won’t miss my train, Mr. Nichols?"

Patiently, Nichols went back to the beginning. Land, water, transportation, and climate—Helen couldn't take it anymore. One straightforward question would put an end to it, would leave her with no doubts. She leaned forward and heard her own voice.

"Mr. MacAdams, you came to check out this land. You've seen it. Do you want it?"

There was one surprised, frozen gesture from Nichols. Then they stayed still. The clock ticked loudly. Slowly, MacAdams leaned back in his chair, straightened one leg, and put his hand into his pants pocket. He pulled out a dirty canvas bag.

"Yes. What’s the amount for the first payment?"

Deliberately, he dumped a pile of golden coins onto the desk. His thick fingers pulled out a bundle of banknotes from the bag. Nichols was calculating frantically. "Twelve hundred and seventy-three dollars and ninety cents," he declared in a trembling voice. MacAdams counted it meticulously. He signed the contract. Nichols counted the money again and placed it in an envelope. They stood up.

Helen found herself bumping against the side of the car and felt Nichols squeezing her arm excitedly while he helped her inside. They had arrived in Ripley before she could process everything. Then she said that she wouldn't go back to Coalinga with MacAdams. They put him on the train.

She told Nichols that she wanted the money and the contract. She was going to take the next train to San Francisco. He disagreed. She argued through a fog, and her biggest challenge was keeping her voice steady. But she stubbornly stuck to her goal. Later, she was on the train with the contract and Nichols' check made out to Clark & Hayward. She slept then and continued to sleep in the taxi on the way to a San Francisco hotel. She felt like she was asleep while she wrote her name in the register. Somehow, she closed a door behind a bellboy and finally could sleep peacefully.

At nine o'clock the next morning, she sat across from Mr. Clark at a large flat desk. The contract and Nichols' check were on it.

Mr. Clark was a thin, sharp-looking guy around forty-five years old. He seemed like he had been keeping his nerves on edge for so long that now he either had to push them even harder or let it all go. He would have called this disaster "losing his grip," and Helen sensed that he feared it as his worst nightmare. They had been chatting for a while. Mr. Clark didn’t know where Bert was.

"My dear young lady, if we had known—" he said, stopping short because finishing the sentence would be pointless cruelty. She believed he wouldn't be cruel unless it served some purpose. Sometimes, there was even a gentle look in his eyes.

He had clearly explained the situation her husband was in. Bert had convinced the company to give him an unlimited line of credit. "That young man has an incredible personality as a salesperson. He had us all excited." He suggested a massive sales campaign in the oil fields and had filled Clark & Hayward with his own enthusiasm to the point where they allowed him complete freedom.

The campaign had kicked off with every indication of massive success. He had attracted large crowds to hear speakers from the city; had collected thousands of potential leads; had brought in fifty salespeople to reach out to these leads and bring in potential buyers. Many of these had been taken to the land, and hundreds more were promised. Clark & Hayward were considering renting special trains for them.

But expenses were adding up to concerning amounts compared to the actual results achieved. Bert's checks kept coming in, and annoying rumors started circulating. The firm initiated a discreet investigation and concluded that he was spending too much of their money on personal expenses. Mr. Clark didn’t need to get into specifics. They had canceled the letter of credit and informed creditors in Bakersfield that the firm would no longer cover Mr. Kennedy's bills.

Mr. Kennedy had been told about this. He had taken one of the company cars and vanished. Later, his check arrived. Clark & Hayward couldn't cover that, along with their other losses. The situation was now completely beyond their control. Mr. Clark's action handed it over to unpredictable fate. He was more focused on the MacAdams sale and the unexpected arrival of Helen.

However, because she insisted, he admitted that if the check were made good, Clark & Hayward could convince the bank not to press the charge. Of course, the warrant was out, but there were ways around that. He promised to use those methods for her, thoughtfully handling Nichols' check. As for finding Bert—well, if the police had failed—

Helen asked how much Bert owed the company. Mr. Clark told her that the total was about five thousand dollars.

"In thirty days! But how is that even possible?"

The total included the cost of the car. The rest was Mr. Kennedy's personal expenses, which weren't part of his deal with the company. "Wine—ah—" Mr. Clark didn't finish his thought. "Mr. Kennedy's—hobbies were pricey?" He wanted the bill broken down?

"Oh, no. That's not needed," said Helen. She just wanted to know the exact amount. Mr. Clark pressed a button and asked the girl who answered to find out the amount. "And, by the way, make sure this sale is recorded in the books, and a check is made out to—?"

"H.D. Kennedy," said Helen.

"To H. D. Kennedy for the commissions. 7.5%."

"You were paying the other salespeople fifteen percent," Helen said.

That was arranged specially. The regular salespeople in the field earned seven and a half percent. Helen accepted this, unable to argue against it. She suggested that she should keep working for the company at twelve and a half percent, with five percent going toward the amount Bert owed them. Mr. Clark responded by offering her ten percent with the same deal. She stood her ground, and he conceded.

Helen came out of the office with three hundred dollars in her purse. She noticed the sun was shining, and as she walked through the bustling, familiar streets, passing colorful flower stands, feeling the cool breeze on her face, and seeing white clouds drifting over Twin Peaks, she felt that the bright day was mocking her. She understood why most suicides happen on sunny days.

Her life was starting over, in a different way, in unfamiliar surroundings. She thought it might be nice to be dead. Then she would feel like she did now—numb, without any emotions, interests, or worries, and she wouldn’t have to move or think. "Cheer up! What's the point of wishing you were dead? You will be one day!" she told herself, trying to be funny about it.

She believed she would head to the old apartment, pack up the things she had left behind, and take them with her. There was a tough bitterness in that thought that felt almost sweet to her. To stand still in that place where she had loved and suffered, to touch those items filled with memories with indifferent hands, would be a violation of the past that would show just how completely gone it was.

But she didn’t do it. She called from the station, giving up the apartment and leaving behind her personal belongings, making sure to leave her address for mail forwarding. Then she shut her mind off from memories and went back to the oil fields.

During the weeks that followed, she felt like she was living in a dream, a shadow among things that didn't feel real. She drove across endless yellow plains that shimmered in the heat. The steering wheel felt loose in her hands, and her mind barely engaged. Once more, she had the feeling of looking at herself from a great distance, seeing her entire life as tiny, far away, and insignificant.

It was strange that she was where she was.—They would get to the watering trough soon, and then the horse could drink.—The lake she saw shimmering on the hot sand was just a mirage.—The horse didn’t seem interested in it. Horses can sense water by its smell.—The sunlight hit her hands, and they were getting browner. Complexions.—How weird that women cared about them.—How weird that anyone cared about anything.

She arrived at an oil lease, and a part of her mind came alive. It functioned so effortlessly that she felt a detached sense of pride in it. It was solely focused on Ripley Farmland Acres. Its aim was to sell them. She tapped on screen doors and knew she was being charming to weary women worn out by the heat and children. She navigated around black pools of oil, climbed into rigs—she had learned to call them that—and heard herself chatting easily with dirty men next to a swaying steel cable that moved up and down, endlessly, in the well shaft.

Selling land, she realized, wasn’t the complicated and challenging task she thought it would be. California's vast estates, the massive Mexican land grants now owned by second and third generations, were being divided up due to the increasing population and rising land taxes; for the first time in the state's history, the land-hunger of the poor could be fulfilled. Deep inside every man trapped by those scorching deserts was the desire for a small piece of green land, a home surrounded by trees and vines. Her job was to find the worker who had saved enough for the down payment, the ten or twenty percent of the purchase price asked by the subdividing land companies, and once she found him, to tap into his longing and imagination until the visions she created meant more to him than his saved-up money.

Half of his first payment was hers; one sale could mean five hundred or even a thousand dollars for her. But while she spoke, she forgot this. She only thought about cool water flowing through fields of alfalfa, cows knee-deep in grass under the shade of oaks, and the rich earth bursting with harvests. Her ability to shape someone else's thoughts before they fully formed, combined with her life with Bert, allowed her to plant these images in her listener's mind so they felt like his own. Grimy men in oil-soaked overalls listened to her without resistance because she was a woman and not taken seriously in business; they felt compelled to buy the land she described so enticingly.

"I'm not really a land salesperson," she said, believing it. "I know I can't sell you this land. I can only tell you about it. And if you want to buy it, you will. Right?" She realized that she only needed to talk to enough men to find one who would buy, and each sale gave her enough money to spend weeks trudging from derrick to derrick looking for another buyer. Her whole life had come down to that search.

She gathered a bunch of information. Drillers were the best candidates because they had good salaries and were logical thinkers. Tool-dressers were younger guys, often a bit cocky and harder to manage. Pumpers were typically lonely and liked chatting; you shouldn’t spend too much time with them; they earned low wages but could give her tips on promising leads. A superintendent of a risky lease was a solid opportunity; approach him with a pitch about a safe investment. Shallow fields weren’t great to work in; there were longer jobs and more reliable pay in deeper wells. At a house, ask for a glass of water; on a rig, start by saying, "Getting pretty deep, isn't it?" She was known throughout the fields as the Real-Estate Lady.

At twilight, she drove back to the hotel. Her khaki skirt was splattered with crude oil; her pongee waist showed streaks of dirt where sweat had dried. There was sand in its folds, sand in her shoes, sand in her hair. Her body felt as lifeless as her emotions, and her mind had shut down again. She wouldn’t dream tonight.

She smiled again at the hotel clerk. Yes, thank you, business was going well! There were letters, but no word from Bert. Her mother wrote with puzzled and anxious questions. What was Helen doing in Coalinga? Was something wrong? What was her husband up to? Mrs. Updike mentioned that she had seen something in the paper—Helen folded the pages. There were a couple of thin envelopes from Clark & Hayward, announcements of sales, Farm 406—J. D. Hutchinson; Farms 915-917—H. D. Kennedy.

It felt great to be in bed, with the feeling of sleep washing over her like dark, cool water, rising higher and higher.

On her third trip to the area with buyers, she ran into Paul's mom on the main street in Ripley. Mrs. Masters seemed capable and confident, striding quickly from the butcher shop with some packages under her arm. She was without a hat, holding a parasol over her sleek, gray hair. Despite her small stature, there was something intimidating about the shape of her stocky figure and the crispness of her stiff white blouse. She looked at Helen with sharp, curious eyes, and Helen noticed that her hair was messy, that there was dirt on her shoes and her blue serge suit. It was dust from the property where she had just closed another sale. Helen guessed there was probably dust on her face too when she saw Mrs. Masters' eyes locked so intently on it.

They shook hands and talked about the heat. Helen mentioned that she was selling land. She had just sent one buyer off on the Coalinga train and was waiting in Ripley for another man to meet her the next day.

Mrs. Masters invited her to dinner. A thought that meeting her might make Paul uncomfortable crossed Helen's mind. She tried to come up with an excuse, but Mrs. Masters quickly dismissed it. The pressure of closing the deal had drained Helen's energy for resistance. She discovered they were walking down the street together, and she attempted to boost her spirits, like someone fighting against anesthesia. Mrs. Masters was the first person to whom she had attempted to talk about anything other than land, and that effort made her aware that she had been living in a sort of daze.

They arrived at the cottage Paul had written about long ago. There was the little white picket fence, the yard with rose bushes, and the peach tree. The gravel walkway led to a small porch adorned with wooden lacework, and they entered the parlor through a screen door. The shades were drawn to keep the afternoon sun off the flowered Brussels carpet; the room was cool, dim, and filled with the scent of roses. A crocheted mat rested on the oak coffee table, and the cushions on the sofa were stiff and plump. In one corner, an easel held an enlarged crayon portrait of Paul as a little boy.

There wasn't a single thing in the room that Helen wouldn't have changed, but as she looked around, tears suddenly filled her eyes. There was something here that she desired, something she had always longed for. Waves of unexplainable emotions surged within her. Her heart hurt, and all at once, she was overwhelmed by a feeling of irreversible loss.

"I—I'm really tired. You need to excuse me—it’s been a really tough day. If I could—just lie down for a minute?" She couldn’t help the trembling of her lips. Mrs. Masters looked at her with curiosity, guiding her to the bedroom and folding back a perfectly white blanket. Helen, loathing herself for her weakness, took off her hat and lay down. She would be fine in a minute; she felt bad for causing so much trouble; Mrs. Masters shouldn’t worry; she was just a bit tired.

She lay still, listening to the clanking of pans and the sizzle of meat from the kitchen where Mrs. Masters was making dinner. Voices drifted by outside; a dog barked happily; a high-pitched whistle came through, accompanied by the sound of a stick rattling against the picket fence. The sharp shadows of vine leaves on the shade blurred into the evening light. Mrs. Masters was singing heartily, "Rock of Ages, cleft for me-e-e," as she set the table.

It was peace, safety, and relaxation. It was everything Helen didn’t have. The crudely papered walls surrounded a refuge filled with countless simple joys. How lovely it was to have no worries except the freshness of the curtains, putting away the linens, and baking bread! She felt out of place here, with her throbbing head and heavy heart, her messy hair and dusty shoes. A tear rolled down her cheek and soaked into the white pillow.

She got up quickly, realizing she needed to be stronger than the desire that overwhelmed her. The towel draped over the water pitcher was embroidered. She had always wanted embroidered towels and had created dozens of them. They had been left in the apartment. She splashed cool water on her face for a long time, refreshing her eyelids.

The gate clicked, and Paul came whistling up the path. She stood there clutching the towel, shivering with panic. Had she been crazy to come to his house? Oh, for anything, anything that would erase the last hour and let her be anywhere but here! She heard his footsteps on the porch, the bang of the screen door, and his voice, "Hey, Mom? Is dinner ready?" At the same time, she pictured herself and Mrs. Masters on the sidewalk, recalled the polite excuse she could have made, and imagined herself heading back to the hotel. She could have easily done that. Why was her life nothing but a series of foolish mistakes? She waited until his mom had a chance to tell him she was there. Then she stepped out, smiling, and met him.

His hand was warm and strong, wrapping around her cold fingers. He couldn't hide the shock he felt from her pale and thin hands. He stammered something about it and turned red. She realized he thought he had brought up Bert and hurt her feelings. "Yeah," she said casually, "the heat in the oil fields is better than dieting." She actually enjoyed it, though. Selling land was really interesting work. She realized she was holding on to his hand, drawing strength from it, as if she couldn't let go. She quickly released her fingers, hoping he hadn't noticed that brief moment of hesitation, which meant nothing, nothing except that she was tired.

Mrs. Masters sat across from her at the dinner table, and with those polite, neutral eyes on her, it was tough to keep the conversation going. She shared the story of the MacAdams sale, making it funny instead of tragic, trying to steer the talk away from Masonville and its people. Paul only spoke to offer her food, suggest a small glass of his mother's blackberry cordial, and encourage her to drink it, and to recommend a cushion for her back. Tears threatened to fill her eyes again, but she fought them off with a laugh.

He went with her to the hotel. They walked silently through the moonlight and shadows on the tree-lined gravel sidewalk. Through the lit cottage windows, Helen saw women clearing dinner tables and men relaxing in armchairs with cigars and newspapers. They passed groups of girls, no hats or sleeves, chatting in the moonlight. They greeted Paul, and Helen felt their curious gazes on her. Kids were playing in the street; somewhere a baby cried softly, and further away, a piano played.

"It's really beautiful—all of this," she said.

"It’s fine with me," Paul said. A little later, he cleared his throat and added, "Helen—I—I'm really sorry."

"I'm fine," she said quickly. It was almost like she had slammed a door in his face, and she didn't want to be rude to him. "I mean—it's nice of you to care. I'd rather not discuss it."

"I—sometimes I think I could—I could commit murder!" he said heavily. "When I start thinking—"

"Don't," she said. It took him a while before he spoke again.

"Well, if I ever get the chance to do anything—I guess you know I'd be happy to."

She thanked him. When he dropped her off at the hotel door, she thanked him again, and he asked her not to forget. If he could help her with her sales, the bank people, or anything else—She said she would definitely let him know.

It was necessary to get some sleep because she had another tough sale to make the next day. But she just couldn’t do it. Long after midnight, she lay awake, pounding the pillows with her fists and biting her lips to keep from crying out loud. It felt like life was nothing but torture and that she couldn’t take it anymore.

Returning to Coalinga after the meeting with Paul, Helen felt exhausted. But she felt alive again. The fog she'd been living in was gone. She had woken up early that morning, met her potential land-buyer at the train, and made the sale. It had been even tougher because the salesman for Alfalfa Tracts had also met the train and nearly snatched the prospect away from her, thinking it would be easy to do since she was just a woman. There was a sense of hard-earned victory in her success. The sale had reduced Bert's debt by another four hundred dollars, since she could now put the whole commission towards it.

The jolt of the train shook her relaxed body. Her cheek rested against the rough fabric of the chair, as she was too exhausted to sit up straight. Outside the black rectangle of the window, her life unfolded in front of her. How many times had she envisioned her life laid out like a straight road, deciding its path and destination? But she was older now, wiser, and capable of shaping her own future.

She was a real estate agent; she was really good at it. This was the only thing she had salvaged from the chaos. At least she'd succeed at this. She would earn money; she would clear Bert's name, which was also hers; she would buy a small house and make it beautiful. Maybe Bert would want to come to it someday, and she would have it ready for him. She knew she'd never love him the way she used to, because she saw him too clearly now, but she felt that their lives were deeply connected and that the bond between them was stronger because he needed her.

A letter from Clark & Hayward was in her mailbox at the hotel. She opened it quickly. As usual, she had a fleeting hope that it contained news about Bert.

It was said that the company had assigned the oil field territory to two other salespeople, Hutchinson and Monroe. The oil fields had turned out to be a good area, and it was too big for her to manage on her own. She would pass along any leads she hadn't followed up on to Hutchinson and Monroe. Surely, she could make arrangements with them regarding commissions; the company wanted her to keep working in the fields; Hutchinson and Monroe would be expecting an uptick in her sales. Mr. Clark was confident they would collaborate well together and congratulated her on her success.

Her initial shock quickly turned into a cold fury. Did they really think they could take her space from her? Her space, which she had built all by herself? After all her hard, exhausting work for days and weeks, after hours spent talking, distributing ads, and making sales that would lead to more sales, they were swooping in and snatching the rewards from her? Oh, she was ready to fight!

The clerk informed her that Hutchinson and Monroe had arrived that afternoon. She asked him to let them know she would meet them in the parlor at nine o'clock. It would be slightly advantageous to make them come to her.

She was sitting in the small, cramped room, her eyes focused on a newspaper, when they walked in. She felt tough, like a steel machine, as she stood up smiling to greet them.

Hutchinson was a tall, lanky guy who moved in a relaxed manner as if his body had nothing to do with the loose-fitting gray clothes he wore. His eyes were open and had a funny look to them, but even though his face was thin, there were deep lines from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. When he smiled—which he did effortlessly—two more deep lines showed up in his cheeks.

Monroe was older, shorter, and stocky. He had a smooth charm from his neat, stylish appearance, his thick gold watch chain, and his eyeglasses. He took off his glasses from time to time, almost out of habit, wiping them with a silk handkerchief, and during those moments, his soothing, fatherly demeanor stood out even more. His eyes were too close together on the narrow bridge of his nose that had a slight droop at the tip, but his gray hair, the warm kindness of his smile, and his soft, deep voice were quite striking.

Helen realized that both of these men were great salesmen, and that their teamwork created a successful blend of different skills. She saw herself standing against them, an inexperienced girl, and felt that the odds were stacked against her. But her determination to fight remained strong.

Upright on a hard red couch, she argued. The territory was hers. She had gotten there first. She had developed it. She acknowledged their right to work there, but not the fairness of their asking for a share of the commissions she earned. The stuffy little room, filled with the smells of heat-damaged varnish and dusty fabric, turned into a battleground, and the high back of the couch was a wall she stood against, facing these men who had come to take what was hers.

But she was a woman. They made sure she remembered it. They asked her if it was okay to smoke, but they didn’t bother to get her approval for their business deals. They dismissed her arguments with a smile. After all, she belonged to the gender that needed to be coddled. "My dear Mrs. Kennedy," said Monroe, graciously. "Let’s try to be—ah—reasonable." Their politeness was flawless. They would let her speak as long as it made her happy. They would pick up her handkerchief if it fell from her lap. If she wanted to work in the oil fields, they would even let her have her way. But when it came to discussing commissions, she hit a wall. They planned to take two and a half percent from any sales she made.

It bored Hutchinson to explain the situation to her, but he did it politely. The company had assigned them the territory. They were seasoned salespeople. Naturally, Clark wouldn’t let a young saleswoman, no matter how charming, handle the territory on her own. This was business, he explained gently. They would take two and a half percent.

But she was a woman, and a charming one. Their tone suggested that there was some degree of sentimentality, even in business. For the sales they made from the leads she provided, they would be generous. They would give her two and a half percent on those.

At this point, there was a pause as she sat there smiling, speechless with anger. But she realized that the situation was hopeless. Each name on her list represented a potential sale that would have earned her twelve and a half percent. Anger surged within her, nearly beyond her control. However, she understood that there was no point in fighting when she had already lost.

They parted on good terms; she conceded every point; she would give them the leads in the morning. She left them feeling satisfied, thinking that women, while annoying, weren't too difficult to manage.

In her room, she stood shaken by her anger, resentment, and disgust. "Oh, how awful, awful!" she said through clenched teeth. Slamming her hand furiously against the edge of the dresser, she felt a physical pain that was a relief. She could even smile, ironically and tiredly. This was the game she had to play, right? Well—she had to play it.

She sat down and copied a list of names and addresses from her notebook. She only picked men she had spoken to who she was sure weren't looking to buy land. In the morning, she met Hutchinson in the lobby and handed him the list. She also insisted on a written agreement that guaranteed her a two and a half percent commission on any sales made to those men. Hutchinson provided it to her with a condescending smile.

Her carriage was waiting as usual in the shade of the hotel building. She felt a grim sense of satisfaction as she climbed in and drove away, heading toward the Limited lease. Hutchinson and Monroe would work diligently for a while before they caught on to her deception, and she didn’t care about their opinion when they ultimately figured it out. Her own conscience was tougher to deal with, but she realized that she would need to adjust her standards of honesty. "My dear Mrs. Kennedy—ah—really—this is business." She hoped, with a touch of malice, that Monroe would see that she fully understood his words. She made another good sale before they stopped pursuing the worthless leads. Their attitude toward her changed abruptly.

"You definitely tricked us," Hutchinson said playfully, and from that moment on, they saw her more as an equal than as a woman.

She was surprised to find the bitterness growing inside her.

Often in the evenings, she walked through the quiet streets lined with small houses. Women were watering their lawns. A cool, sweet scent rose from the freshly watered grass and clusters of dripping flowers. Here and there, a man leaned on the handle of a lawnmower, pipe in hand, chatting with a neighbor. Children were playing in the fading light. Their young voices rang out in cheerful shouts, and their feet padded on the pavement. Toughness and bitterness faded away, and Helen felt only a sense of longing.

Later, lights lit up the darkening night, and the houses turned into dark shapes surrounding bright squares. Through lace curtains, Helen noticed a woman rocking in a chair and a group of girls gathered around a piano. From dim porches, mothers called their kids to bed, and at an upstairs window, a shade closed like an eyelid. Helen felt isolated and very lonely. She realized she had been walking for a long time on tired feet. But she didn't want to head back to the hotel. She had to remind herself that tomorrow would bring another challenging day.

In the hotel lobby, she ran into Hutchinson or Monroe. The tension and toughness returned. Monroe knew how to deal with the savvy young tool-dressers; his easygoing, fatherly attitude intimidated them, making them acutely aware of their inexperience and awkwardness. He had snagged a tool-dresser she had approached and wanted to sell. That meant a battle over commissions, which of course, Hutchinson supported Monroe in. She was still alone, but now she was surrounded by adversaries.

"You have to fight!" she told herself. "Are you really going to let them get away with it just because you're a woman?" She lay awake thinking about sales pitches, talking points, and strategies for handling this opportunity and that one. Every sale brought her closer to freedom. One day, she'd have a house with a big gray living room, rose curtains, and dozens of nice embroidered towels and tablecloths. She snapped her thoughts back to her work, frustrated with herself for letting them wander. But when she finally closed her biggest sale yet—sixty acres!—she celebrated by buying a linen lunch cloth with a wild rose pattern. In the evenings, she sat in her room and beautifully embroidered it with fine, even stitches.

When it was done and cleaned, she folded it in tissue paper and carefully stored it in one of the cheap, warped drawers of her dresser. Often, she took it out, draping the shiny fabric over the foot of her bed and admiring it with joy. It rested in her mind like a core of future happiness. But when her sister Mabel wrote from Masonville saying she was going to marry the most amazing man in the world, Bob Mason, "Old Man" Mason's grandson, who was the head clerk at Robertson's store, the rose lunch cloth became something Helen could no longer keep. It represented everything she had missed and all that she wished for her little sister to have.

It arrived for Mabel in a white box lined with roses, along with a letter and a check. Mabel's letter, filled with happiness and awkwardly proud about the amazing match—"though of course it doesn't matter, because I would marry him if he were the poorest man on earth, because money isn't everything, right?"—had suggested that Helen come home for the wedding. But this would mean confronting curiosity and sympathy and whispered discussions about her own tragedy, which she knew was still remembered in Masonville. She replied that she couldn’t take time off from her job, and she could see Mabel's relief in the slight regrets sprinkled throughout her joyful thanks for the check. "And the tablecloth is beautiful too, one of the loveliest I have."

"After all, it's nice to think that it means so little to her," Helen thought quickly. But the letters had revealed the vast distance that time had created between her and her youth, and the awareness deepened her loneliness. Her life passed by. Work occupied it, and it felt empty.

One day late in the fall, she returned early from the oil fields. Over the flat yellow plains, there was a feeling of autumn in the air, an unnameable shift. She sensed another change too, a vague unease, something different and unsettled in the spirit of the men she had spoken with. For a week, she hadn't found a new prospect, and two sales had slipped away from her. She stopped by the hotel to grab a newspaper and check the financial news. Then she walked down Main Street to the small office that Hutchinson and Monroe had rented.

Hutchinson was there, leaning back in a chair, his feet crossed on the desk. He didn’t move when she walked in, except to glance up from the sports section and knock the ashes from his cigar. He regarded her as an equal in his own game now, and there was respect in his voice. “So, how’s it going?”

"I'm done with the fields," she said. She pushed her hat back with a weary movement and sat down in a chair.

"The hell you say! What's wrong?" Hutchinson sat up, dropping the paper, and leaned forward on the desk. His interest was almost alarmed. She was making him money.

"Territory's messed up. K. T. O. 25 is shutting down in two weeks. The Limited is going to stop drilling. I’m moving on to something else."

"What! Who said that?"

"Nobody. I just figured it out."

He felt relieved. He tried to cheer her up. She was exhausted, he said. She was going through a rough patch. Every salesperson faces that eventually. Look at him; he hadn’t made a sale in four weeks, and he didn’t lose his confidence. Stay positive!

She had been thinking about a plan and had chosen the right moment to share it with him. The twists and turns of real estate methods had shocked her. She had always believed that men thought and acted in straightforward, logical ways. She thought that was what made them superior to the irrational nature of women. But the waste and blindness of business, as she had witnessed, changed her view of them. Her plan was logical, but she didn’t expect its logic to impress Hutchinson. Instead, she counted on the emotional impact that her prophecy would have. With that prophecy in mind, she started to explain her plan.

The key to making a land sale was finding a good lead. That shouldn't be done through personal outreach; it was too time-consuming and tiring. It should be handled through advertising. Now, Clark & Hayward's advertising was all about the hype—"Get excited! Join us!" It aimed to attract naive buyers. Hutchinson smiled, but she continued.

Men who would fall for that advertising weren't the type who had bank accounts. Hutchinson had lost a lot of money trying to sell to the kind of guys who responded to those ads. She brought up some incidents, and Hutchinson's smile disappeared.

She suggested a new way to advertise real estate: using small text, informative content, and clear, straightforward arguments. She was entering an established farming community where land prices were high, and she planned to launch an ad campaign directed at farmers. It had been a good year for farming; farmers had cash and were smart. She was going to present them with affordable land, and she was determined to make the sale.

She had the funds to cover the advertising, but she needed someone to partner with her. She suggested that Hutchinson join her on a 50-50 basis. He could have his name on the door and make arrangements with the company for the territory. They would be reluctant to give it to her alone. But he knew she was capable of selling land. Together, they could profit.

Hutchinson didn't take the suggestion very seriously. She hadn't expected him to. He thought about it and smiled.

"I need to be really careful that my wife doesn't find out!" he said.

"Knock it off!" she said sharply. She unleashed her anger at him, at all men, and glared at him with fiery eyes. He stuttered—he didn't mean—"When I discuss business with you, remember that it's business," she said. She grabbed her map wallet and walked out of the office. As she left, she thought the plan would work out.

Ten days later, news spread through the oil fields that all the K. T. O. leases were laying off workers. Hutchinson's inquiries revealed that the Limited wasn’t starting any new wells. Monroe, who had saved his money, announced he would stop working for the winter. Hutchinson, recalling that Mrs. Kennedy had funds for an advertising campaign, decided that her proposal provided a safe option during tough times.

They discussed it again, going over the details, and Hutchinson headed to the city to meet Clark. He received a small advance on his commission and the Santa Clara Valley territory.

On the train, leaving the oil fields for the last time, Helen looked back at the small station, the sand hills dotted with black derricks, the vast, flat desert, and felt that she was leaving behind the chrysalis of the woman she had become.

On a hot July afternoon three years later, she drove a dusty car through the traffic on Santa Clara Street in San José and stopped at the curb. After jumping onto the sidewalk, she walked around the car and kicked a worn-out tire with her chunky boot. The tire had gone flat on the Cupertino road, and she was thinking about how she might have overinflated the patched tube. For two miles, she had been waiting to hear the sound of another blowout and had been too tired to stop the car and check the air valve.

"Darn thing's rim-cut, anyway," she muttered. "I’ll need to get a new one." She pulled out her notebook and wallet from the pile of dusty books in the backseat and headed into the building.

Hutchinson was on a call when she walked into their office on the fourth floor. A wisp of smoke rose from the end of his cigar on the flat-topped desk and floated through the large open window. There were dusty footprints on the rug, and the messy arrangement of the chairs indicated that clients had come in while she was away. Hutchinson chuckled as he hung up the phone.

"Ted's going to get in trouble when he gets home!" he said, picking up the cigar.

"Stalling his wife again?" Helen was going through her mail. "I guess there isn't a guy on the planet who won't happily lie to another guy's wife for him," she added, tearing open an envelope.

"Wow, Holy Mike! What would you say to her?"

Helen quickly looked up from the letter.

"I'd tell her the—" she started angrily, then paused. "Oh, I don't know. I guess he's with that red-headed girl in the car again? He just tires me out. Honestly, I think we should get rid of him. That kind of behavior isn’t helping our sales."

There was silence as she tore open the other letters and skimmed through them. Her brief anger faded. She thought about the men she could trust. Her mind went back to Paul as a source of comfort. His arrival in San José a few months earlier felt like finding a refreshing spring in the desert. She hadn’t recognized the disdain she had developed for all men until she saw him again and couldn’t feel that way about him.

She looked out the window at the clock in the tower of the Bank of San José building. It was 4:30. He would still be at the ice plant. This thought, suddenly coming to her mind, surprised her with the realization that all day she had been unknowingly thinking about the fact that it was the day he usually came to San José since his company had taken an interest there.

The clock triggered another thought, and she quickly grabbed the phone. "Am I too late for the afternoon delivery?" she nervously asked the grocer who picked up. "Oh, thank you. Two heads of lettuce, a dozen eggs, half a pound of butter. How much are tomatoes? Okay, send me a pound. Yes, H. D. Kennedy, 560 South Green Street. Thanks!" As she hung up the phone, she asked, "Any fresh ones today?"

"Six calls. Two solid leads and a couple that might turn into something," Hutchinson replied. "By the way, the Seals are definitely taking it to the Tigers. They won in the fifth inning."

"That's good," she said, distracted. "Have you closed the Haas sale yet?"

"Oh, he's fine. Tied up tight." Hutchinson yawned. "How's your guy?"

"Dated him for the land next Wednesday. He's alive, but tough to manage. Taking him down in the machine."

"Is the machine working?"

"Engine needs fixing, and we need to get a new rear tire and some tubes. Two blowouts today. Time is too precious to waste jacking up cars in this heat. I'm exhausted. But I can keep the engine running until I get back from this trip." She felt like each sentence was a weight she had to lift with her voice. "I'm exhausted," she repeated. "I guess I’ll call it a day."

However, she still sat comfortably in her chair, looking out at the charming old red-brick buildings across the street. San José, she thought playfully, was like a sturdy old geranium plant, with woody stems and roots that ran deep in every part of the Santa Clara Valley. She felt a fondness for the town, for the miles of orchards surrounding it, interwoven with trolley lines, and for the thousands of bungalows on ranches no bigger than gardens. Someday, she wanted to manage a subdivision of acre plots, she thought, and build a hundred bungalows herself.

She redirected her thoughts to the Haas sale and talked about it hesitantly. It was fine, Hutchinson told her with some irritation. The old man was completely committed. He'd sign the final contract as soon as he received his money, and he had requested it. Why did Helen want to complain about it?

"I don't want to be a downer," she smiled. "But do you know what a pessimist is? It's someone who's spent too much time with an optimist."

Hutchinson masked his confusion with a laugh.

"You know, I’ve often thought about looking up that word. I see it now and then. Pessimist. But what's the point? You don’t need words like that to sell land."

She had messed up again, aiming over his head. He was right. You didn’t need fancy words to sell land. You didn’t need any of the things she liked to sell land. She was a fool. She was tired. But she went back to the Haas sale. The topic had to be handled carefully because Hutchinson was too good of a salesman to upset, even though he was lazy. Where was Haas’s money? Hutchinson answered that it was saved in the old country, Germany.

"Germany! And he’s written for it? For the love of—! You take the machine and head out there and make him send a cable. Pay for the cable. Send it yourself. Tell them to wire the money. Haven’t you seen the news?"

Hutchinson, surrounded by crumpled sports papers, looked up at her in shock.

"Don't you know Austria sent an ultimatum to Serbia? Haven't you ever heard of the Balkan Wars? Don't you know if Russia—Good Lord, man! And you're just letting that money sit in Germany waiting for a letter? Get out there. Have him send a cable. I'll cover the cost myself. Good Lord, Hutchinson—a fifty-acre sale! Don't stop to chat. The cable office closes at six. Hurry! And watch that rear left tire!" she opened the door to call after him.

The brief moment of excitement had filled her with a thrill that quickly faded into a feeling of uselessness and shame. "I'm starting to swear like—like a real estate agent!" she thought to herself, adjusting her hat in front of the mirror. There was a smudge of dust on her nose, which she wiped away with a towel, and she tucked away some stray strands of hair. In the dark hair over one temple, a few gray strands glimmered like silver. "I’m wearing out," she said, looking at them and at her skin, which was tanned to a smooth brown. No one cared. Why should she bother to take care of herself? She shut the closet door on her reflection, locked the office door, and went home.

The small brown bungalow seemed to gaze at her with vacant eyes. The locked front door and the dried leaves scattered from the rose vines across the porch gave the house a deserted look. At all the other houses on the street, the doors were open; kids played on the lawns, wicker tables and rocking chairs, along with magazines left behind, made the porches feel inviting. She felt a surge of affection for the little house, almost like she would feel for a beloved pet waiting alone for her return to bring it joy.

The door swung open into the small square hallway, and a few rose petals floated down from the bowl of roses on the walnut table in the stirred air. She unlatched and pushed the casement windows in the living room wide. Then she tossed her hat and purse onto the cushions of the window seat, and after standing tall for a moment, she sank back into a long, satisfied sigh. A weight lifted from her spirit. She was home.

Her lingering gaze brushed over the rose-colored curtains gently swaying in the soft breeze, the cream walls, the brown rugs, and the brick hearth where sticks were stacked, waiting for a match. There was her wicker sewing basket, and beyond it, the overflowing bookshelves. Here was the charming walnut desk she had discovered at a thrift store, and the large, masculine chair with brown leather cushions. It was all hers, completely her own. She had created it. She felt at home and free. The silence surrounding her was like cool water on a hot face.

In the white-tiled bathroom, with its yellow curtains, yellow bath rug, and fluffy yellow-bordered towels, she washed away the last memories of the office. She enjoyed the delicacy of her sheer, hand-embroidered lingerie and the freshness of the white dress she pulled over her head. She slipped on the most playful slippers, adorned with beaded toes and high heels.

"You're a hedonist, that's what you are! You're a total sensualist!" she laughed at herself in the mirror. "And you're living a double life. 'Out, damned spot!'" she added, referring to the brown triangle of tan on her neck.

For an hour, she felt happy. Wearing a blue gingham apron, she watered the lawn and hosed off the last swirling leaf from the front porch. She exchanged a few words about roses with the woman next door. They weren't very friendly; all the women on that street looked at her from the distance between quiet, homemaking women and the uncertain world of business. They weren't sure how to relate to her; they found her strange. She sensed that their lives were cozy and secure, but also very limited.

Then she went into the kitchen. She made a salad, cracked the eggs for an omelet, and thought with her finger on her lip about whether to make popovers. They were fun to make because of the uncertainty about their puffing up, but somehow they were hard to eat while reading. You could handle bread-and-butter sandwiches without looking up from the page. It was strange that she felt lonely only while she ate. The moment she set her book down on the table, the silence of the house surrounded her coldly.

She wouldn’t have claimed she was waiting for anything, but an unclear tension made her pause over the insignificant question. When the phone rang unexpectedly through the silence, it felt like a long-anticipated call, and she rushed to answer it, confident about whose voice she would hear.

As always, there was some reason for Paul's call— a message from his mom, some news from Ripley Farmland Acres— something trivial that she heard without really paying attention, knowing it didn’t matter to either of them. The nickel mouthpiece showed a playful dimple in her cheek, and there was a cheerful tone in her voice when she thanked him. She invited him over for dinner. Her insistence tugged at his desire. When she finally hung up the phone, the house felt suddenly warm and bright.

She felt a fresh excitement as she took her prettiest lunch cloth from its lavender-scented drawer and brought in a bunch of roses, pausing to tuck one into her belt. She also sensed that she was shoving down a lot of thoughts and feelings that were trying to bubble up. She closed her eyes to them and resisted blindly. It was easier to focus on the calm surface of the moment. She concentrated on the popovers, and the egg-beater was humming in her hands when she heard his footsteps on the porch.

It was a fast, strong step, manly and resolute, but there was always something boyishly eager about it.

She called to him through the open doors, and when he came in, she greeted him with a flour-covered hand, pushing a lock of hair back from her eyes with the back of it before continuing to beat the popovers. He stood there awkwardly while she poured the mixture into the hot tins and quickly slid them into the oven, but she knew he liked being there.

The table was arranged on the screened porch. White passion flowers danced like moths among the green leaves that hung down, and in a clear spot, a big yellow rose brushed softly against the screen. The twilight was bathed in a warm orange light; above the gray rooftops, half of the sky was yellow, and the small clouds resembled shimmering flakes of gold.

There was a strange, eerie feeling that Helen had experienced this moment before, somewhere at some time. She brushed it off and smiled at Paul across the white tablecloth. She enjoyed seeing him sitting there, his strong square shoulders in the gray suit, his lips firm and tight at the corners, his eyes slightly stern but direct and genuine. He gave off a sense of stability and reliability; you would always know where to find him.

"You're really an amazing cook, Helen!" he said. The omelet was delicious, and the popovers were a huge success. She ate just one so he could have the rest, and seeing him enjoy them made her really happy.

Across the small table, a subtle energy flowed between them, captivating her and leaving her a bit dizzy with feelings she wouldn’t dissect.

"I definitely am!" she laughed. "The kitchen lost a genius when I became a real estate agent." She wasn't oblivious to the look of disappointment on his face, but part of her excitement was a mischievousness that enjoyed irritating him just a little.

"I really don’t want to think about it," he said. His seriousness broke the shimmering charm, making her serious as well, and the ordinary vibe of the office and its issues enveloped her.

"Well, you might not have to think about it for much longer. What do you think? Will there be real trouble in Europe?"

"What do you mean?"

"War?"

"Oh, I doubt it. Not in this day and age. I hope we've moved past that." His casual dismissal of the possibility was a relief to her, but not quite reassuring.

"I hope so." She stirred her coffee, thoughtfully watching the sparkle of the spoon in the rich brown depths. "I'll be glad when this blows over. That Balkan situation—if Austria sticks to her ultimatum, and Serbia does pull Russia into it, then there's Germany. I don’t know much about world politics, but one thing’s for sure. If there’s a war, my business is going to take a huge hit."

He was surprised.

"I don't know what it has to do with us here."

"It has nothing to do with you or your concerns. But farmers are the most cautious group on the planet. The moment there's a real storm cloud in Europe, every single one of them will pull their money and hold onto it. The land market is entirely about psychology. Let the news start shouting 'War!' even if it's eight thousand miles away, and every prospect I have will think that having cash in hand is better than a mortgage with him on the losing side. That means a thumbs down for me. It’s tough enough to cover office expenses and pay garage bills as it is."

Alarm disappeared from his face, replaced by a whirlwind of emotions. He blushed deeply, his gaze fixed on his plate. "You shouldn't have to worry about those things."

"Oh, I won't care if it happens," she said quickly. "In a way, I'd be glad. I'd be out of business anyway; I'd find something else to do. Nobody knows how much I hate business—it's just an exploitation of dumb people by people who are only slightly less dumb."

She noticed the detachment of the topic, attempting to manage the intoxication that surged in her again, fueled by his silence and the tension it stirred between them once more. She threw her words into it as if their straightforwardness could shatter the emerging spell.

"Sixty percent of our business could disappear without any consequences. A real estate agent doesn't really have a purpose. We're just a barrier between the land and the people who want it. We're not needed at all. The people would just take the land if they weren't like horses, too naïve to realize their own power, letting us benefit from their hard work. Hoffman owns the land and makes a hundred percent on its sale; Clark & Hayward take their fifty percent in expenses and commissions; I get my fifteen percent, and the agent under me—we're just a bunch of parasites living off the land without giving anything back. Oh, don't think I don't know how pointless these last three years have been—"

She realized he wasn't paying attention. Nothing she said made his cup rattle against the saucer when he set it down. The twilight stretched out under the first glow of the rising moon, and in the odd, silver-gray light, the white passion flowers and the green branches of the pepper tree on the lawn took on an otherworldly quality, like beauty in a dream. Her voice faded into silence. Through a haze, she sensed he was about to say something. Her own words interrupted him, still fittingly ordinary.

"It's getting dark, isn't it? Let's go inside and turn on the lights."

His footsteps trailed behind her in the eerie dimness of the house. The floor felt like it was miles below her feet, and a spark of amusement flickered through her nervous emotions. She felt like a teenage girl! Her hand reached for the light switch as if it were a lifeline.

"Helen, hold on a second!" She paused, stopped, her arm reaching out toward the wall. "I need to say something."

The strained determination in his voice made it clear to her that the moment ahead couldn't be avoided. A calm, familiar steadiness in her nerves and mind prepared to face it. She walked across the room and turned on the small desk lamp, the warm golden light barely pushing back the gloom. Yet, she didn’t say anything; she simply pointed to the large leather chair with a gesture, choosing to sit on the cushioned window seat instead. He stayed standing, hands in his coat pockets, staring at the fingers crossed on her knees.

"You're married."

A jolt went through her. She had worn those old ties for so long without noticing them that she had forgotten they existed. Why—why, she was herself, H. D. Kennedy, salesman, office manager, homeowner.

His voice kept going, gritty and rough.

"I don't have the right to talk like this. But, Helen, what are you going to do? Can't you see I need to know? Can't you see I can't keep going on like this? It's not fair." He hesitated, stretching out the words as if he were forcing them out. "It's not fair to—him. Or to me or you. Helen, if—if everything falls apart, like you said—can't you see I’ll—just have to be able to do something?"

The shaky high was gone. Her calm confidence from earlier felt superficial and arrogant. She saw a raw, troubled soul, and the silence in the room mirrored the silence inside her.

"What do you want me to do?" she finally asked.

He walked over to the cold fireplace and stood gazing at the stacked sticks. His voice, coming from the shadows, sounded almost muffled by them. "Tell me—do you still care about him?"

All the wasted love and broken dreams, the tangled mess of life, overwhelmed her, the pain that had been hidden for so long, the memories she had buried and tried to forget, Bert, and everything he had meant to her. And now she couldn’t remember his face. She couldn’t see him clearly in her mind; she didn’t know where he was. When had she last thought of him?

"No," she replied.

"Then—can’t you?"

"Are you talking about divorce?"

Paul came back to her, and she could see that he was even more shaken than she was. He spoke slowly and painfully. He had never imagined he would do something like this. God knew, and he wasn’t being disrespectful, that he didn’t usually believe in divorce. But in this situation—He had never thought he could love another man's wife. He had tried not to. But she was so alone. And he had loved her a long time ago. Hadn't she remembered that? It hadn’t been easy to get through all these years without her. And then when she had been treated so badly, and he couldn’t do anything to help.

But it wasn't just that. Not entirely unselfish, "I—I've wanted you so much! You have no idea how much I've wanted you. Nobody ever seems to think that a man wants to be loved and have someone who cares just about him, someone who's happy when he gets home, and that—that cares when he's feeling down. We're—we're not supposed to feel that way. But we do. I do—so much. Not just 'someone.' It's always been you I wanted. No one else. Oh, there were other girls. I even tried to convince myself that maybe—but somehow, none of them were you. I couldn't help but come back."

"Oh, my love, my love!" she said, with tears on her cheeks.

Perhaps, after all, if they could forget the past and everything that had happened between them, they could come together again and be happy. But he was tormented by the fear of being unfair to Bert. If she still had feelings for him, if he had any claims.—"Of course he has claims. He's your—I never thought I could talk like this to a woman who didn't have any right to listen to me."

"Hush! Of course I have the right to listen to you. I can do whatever I want with myself."

The tragedy that shook her was that it was true, that all the passion and beauty of her old love for Bert was dead, lying like a corpse in her heart, never to be awakened and never completely forgotten. "I will be free," she promised, knowing that she never would be. But in her deepest tenderness toward Paul, she could close her eyes to that.

The promise made him happy. Even with his doubts and his restless conscience not fully quieted, he was happy, and that happiness showed in her. There was something magical that revived, making the moment feel glamorous. She didn’t need to think about the future; she didn’t have to make any promises beyond that one. "I will be free." A year, at least a year. Then they would make plans.

For the moment, her tenderness wrapped around him, who loved her so deeply that she could never give him enough to make it even. In one of their silences, it struck her clearly that the nurturing aspect of a woman’s love comes less from the mother in her and more from the child in him.

"You, dear!" she said.

He had to leave eventually. The morning train to Ripley, but he would write to her every day. "And you'll see—about it—soon?"

"Sure, right away." The leaves of the rose vines over the porch rustled gently; a fragrant petal drifted down through the moonlight. "Goodbye, love."

"Goodbye." He paused, holding her hand. "Oh, Helen,— sweetheart—" Then, quickly, he left without kissing her.

She walked into a house wrapped in silence that seemed to focus on her many expressions, and after turning off the small lamp, she sat for a long time in the dark, gazing at the moonlit lawn. She felt exhausted. It was nice to be by herself in the calm, not thinking, just feeling herself slowly becoming quiet and composed again around a quietly happy heart.

Something of the glow went with her to the office the next morning and stayed with her all day as she talked about sub-soils, water depths, prices, and terms. She answered her letters, wrote next week's advertising, and corrected proofs. The news in the papers was unsettling; it seemed like the cloud over Europe was getting darker. How long would it be before war, if it did come, started affecting her territory, slowly cutting off her sales? Ted Collin's gas bill was outrageous; there was a heated debate in the office, and telephone messages to Clark in San Francisco. Business details consumed her.

On Wednesday, she took her challenging client to the Sacramento lands in the car. He was tough to work with; salespeople from other properties had complicated the situation. She relied on the old trick of showing him all those other properties herself, presenting an appearance of fairness that subtly discredited them. There was no time for daydreaming during those exhausting three days; she worked hard in dusty fields with a soil auger, skillfully countering objections before they even came up, keeping an engine running that sputtered on three cylinders, and finally, using sheer determination to get the guy to sign on the dotted line. She arrived exhausted at the Sacramento hotel late on the third night, only thinking about a bath and bed.

Stopping at the telegraph counter to message the company that the sale was finalized, she heard a familiar voice beside her and turned.

"Mr. Monroe! You're up here as well! How's it going?" She extended a hand covered in dust.

"Well, I'm not complaining, Mrs. Kennedy—not at all. Just closed on thirty-five acres. How about you? I hope fortune is smiling on you!"

"Just got back from the area. Sold a couple of twenty-acre parcels."

"Well, well, is that true? Great job, great job! Keep it going. It's nice to see a young woman succeeding. So, you’ve been out on the tract! I wonder if you’ve seen Gilbert yet?" His sharp, gossip-loving eyes were fixed on her. She turned to her message on the counter, and after staring blankly at it for a moment, she scribbled, "H. D. Kennedy," clearly below it. "Send collect," she told the girl, and then over her shoulder, "Gilbert who? Not my husband?"

Yes. Monroe had run into him in San Francisco, and he looked good, really good actually. He asked about her; Monroe said she was in San José. "But if you were on the estate, I guess he didn’t manage to find you?"

"Yeah," she said. "I've been out of touch for three days. I showed my prospect every bit of land between here and Patterson. You know how it is. I'm completely spent. Well, goodbye. Good luck." As she walked across the lobby to the elevator, she heard her heels clicking on the mosaic floor and realized she was walking with her usual quick, confident stride.

Sleep was out of the question. Helen's frazzled nerves reacted with intense tension to the shock of the unexpected news about Bert. From past experience, she knew that in this half-dazed state, she couldn't trust her judgment and shouldn't take its conclusions seriously, but she couldn't silence her thoughts. They raced chaotically through her mind as if they had a life of their own. She could only endure them until her exhausted body overwhelmed them with its fatigue. Tomorrow she would be able to think clearly.

In the small hotel room, under the harsh lighting that highlighted the unattractiveness of the red carpet and shiny mahogany furniture, she went about her routine, opening the windows, hanging up her hat and coat, and unfastening her bag. She remembered to say a friendly word to the bellboy who brought ice water, and he didn’t notice anything strange about her pale face and bright eyes. This hotel only saw her when she returned from the tract, and she was always worn out after making or losing a sale. She locked the door behind him and started to take off her clothes.

Paul can’t be involved. She has to keep him safe. A wave of nausea hit her. The crudeness of it all! But she couldn’t think. She was too exhausted. How did she end up in this mess? What had changed in Bert over the years? Her thoughts about him recoiled. She wouldn’t think about Paul. Having both of them in her mind at the same time was unbearable; it was the core of her humiliation. Married to one man, tied to him by countless memories flooding back, and in love with another, engaged to him! No decent, self-respecting woman would find herself in such a situation. But she did. She had to accept that. No, she couldn’t face it. Not until she felt rested and in control of herself.

She took a bath, scrubbing her skin until it hurt and glowed. Cold cream wasn’t enough for her face and hands. She used soap and rough towels on them. At midnight, she was washing her hair. If only she could escape her body, run away from herself into a new identity, and completely forget everything she was or had been!

This was panic, she reminded herself. "Just hang in there, be patient, wait. The days will pass you by. Life sorts itself out, like flowing water. It will be okay eventually. Don’t overthink it. You’re too exhausted."

At dawn, her eyelids finally felt heavy, and she dozed off. She intentionally extended her sleep, waking up a bit at times as the day got brighter, pulling the comfort of sleep over her face again to protect herself from reality, just like a child hides under a blanket to avoid the dark.

Outside, the world had come to life, busily going about its business as the day unfolded. The sounds of the streets—voices, car horns, rumbling wheels—filled the open windows along with the warm sunlight, flowing through her sleep like the sound of a river. She woke up in the late afternoon, her eyelids heavy and her cheeks creased, but once again quietly composed.

Refreshed by a cold plunge, sharply dressed, and composed, she had dinner in the large, softly lit dining room, nodding at the businesspeople she recognized across the white tables. Then, driven by an impulse she didn’t question, she stepped out into the bustling streets. Accompanying her was the ghost of the girl who had come down from Masonville, starry-eyed, so painfully confident, eager to learn how to telegraph.

Sacramento had changed. It used to be a big town; now it was a city, expanding its urban lines, pushing tall buildings into the sky, staining that sky with the smoke from factories and canneries. Its streets were sluggish streams of cars; its wharves were packed with boats; across the wide, yellow river, new bridges were stretching toward one another.

All the statistics about the city's growth, the major reclamation projects, and the prosperous farms covering the former grain fields were at Helen's fingertips. She had gone over them a hundred times, drawn conclusions, and reinforced her sales arguments with them since she added Sacramento Valley land to the San Joaquin properties she managed. But even more vividly, her resurfacing memories revealed the gap between the past and the present.

Mrs. Brown's little restaurant and the room where Helen had lived were gone. In their place, there was now a six-story office building made of unfinished brick. That impressive street where she had awkwardly walked after Mrs. Campbell was now lined with shabby boarding houses. Mrs. Campbell's house, which had once been so grand, had turned into a run-down building with peeling paint, sitting in a messy lawn, and across the porch where she and Paul had said goodbye at dawn, there was now a black and gold sign that read, "Ah Wong, Chinese Herb Doctor." She hurried past it.

For the first time in the fast-paced years, her thoughts turned inward, questioning herself, and she tried to track step by step the changes that had happened within her. But she couldn’t see them clearly because of the memory of the girl she used to be, a girl she now viewed as a sad, young thing completely separate from her—a beautiful, emotional, brave young fighter against unknown challenges. She felt a deep compassion, a desire to protect that girl from the life she had faced with such blind courage, to preserve her youth and sweetness. But that girl, of course, was gone, just like the room from which she had eagerly watched the automobile.

It was eleven o'clock when she walked briskly through the crowds in the hotel lobby, took her key from the desk clerk, and arranged for a wake-up call for the early San Francisco train. She would arrive in the city in time to get the final contracts for the sale she had made the day before, to take them to San José and get them signed later that day. The thought of Bert lingered menacingly in the back of her mind, but she kept it there. She couldn’t predict what would happen; she would deal with it when it came. In the meantime, she would go about her work as usual. Her outlook on the future, her perception of even herself, was one of waiting. She fell asleep quietly.

On the train the next morning, she picked up the San Francisco papers. The headlines shouted the news at her. It was war. She missed one train to San José so she could talk to Mr. Clark. The news hadn't changed the vibe in Clark & Hayward's spacious, clean-looking office, where salespeople leaned against the counters, their elbows resting on the glass that covered surveyor's maps and photos of alfalfa fields. The conversation, as she paused to chat with a few of them, was the usual mix of sales updates, arguments over commissions, and personal gossip. She waited her turn to enter Mr. Clark's office, and when it was her turn, she looked at him with an intensity hidden beneath the warmth in her eyes.

She enjoyed chatting with Mr. Clark. After three years of working together, she had come to understand this anxious, quick-witted, stressed-out man. There was a bond between them, a connection tempered by caution on both sides. Neither would sacrifice even the slightest business advantage for the other, but outside of that necessary tension, they were friends. She took pleasure in the swift movement of his thoughts, navigating hers as if he were addressing a buyer's ideas; she was aware that he recognized the reasons behind her strategy of counter-attack; a business meeting between them felt like a friendly sparring session between fencers. But sometimes he would talk to her about the wife and kids whose pictures were on his desk; she knew how deeply devoted he was to them. And once, during a relaxed evening in a Stockton hotel, he had captivated her with the whole story of his career, speaking to her as if he were reflecting on his own thoughts.

Today, she noticed an extra layer of effort in his normally cheerful demeanor. The lines around his sharp eyes had become more pronounced since she first met him, and as she settled into the chair facing him across the flat desk, she realized that his hair was mostly gray. Without the alert, sharp expression on his face, he would look like an old man.

This feeling grew stronger when she talked about the war and its impact on the business. He reassured her that it wouldn't affect anything. The future had never looked better; Sacramento land was thriving; fifty new settlers were moving into Ripley Farmland Acres that fall. The chaos in the stock market would only highlight the solid investment potential of land. If the war lasted a year or more, the prices of American crops would go up.

"I was thinking about the psychological impact," she said softly. Mr. Clark ran a shaky hand through his hair.

"Oh, that's fine. High prices will handle the buyer's mindset."

She chuckled.

"While you're taking care of the salesman's." A sparkle in his eyes matched her smile, but she spoke up again before he could respond. "Mr. Clark, I want to ask you something—pretty personal. What do you actually get from being in business?"

A curious smile made the lines around his mouth more pronounced.

"Well, I made two million dollars during the Portland boom! It’s just a game," he said after a moment. "Just a game. That’s all. I’ve made two fortunes—you know that—and lost them. And now I’m starting to climb back up again. Oh, if I could do it all over again, I—" He changed his words, "I’d do the same thing. No doubt about it. We all think we wouldn’t, but we would. We don't create our lives. They create us."

"Are you a fatalist?"

"Fatalist." They exchanged another smile as she stood up and extended her hand. He held it for a moment in a supportive grip. "By the way, have you heard that your husband's in town?"

"Yes." She thanked him with her gaze. "Goodbye."

She felt overwhelmed by a sense of futility, the hopeless mess of life, as the train took her down the peninsula toward San José. To distract herself from it, she focused on the afternoon newspapers.

They were packed with wild rumors, mentioning odd towns in Belgium, a flurry of noisy updates, confusing yet somehow forming a clear image of gray crowds advancing, unstoppable like a monstrous machine, toward France, toward Paris. She was taken aback by her strong feelings of resistance. It was unbearable that the Germans should march into Paris! Why did she care so intensely, she who knew nothing about Paris, just random bits of information about Europe?

"I need to learn French," she told herself, and was shocked by the many things she didn't know, both about the world and about herself.

The unsigned contracts in their big manila envelope felt like an anchor in a choppy sea. She had to get them signed that night. It was something to do, a clear action. She called from the station, setting up a meeting with the buyer, and felt the familiar routine wrapping around her again as the streetcar took her down First Street to her office.

Bert was sitting in her chair, smoking and chatting excitedly with Hutchinson when she opened the door. The shock left them all speechless. The two men stared at her, Hutchinson's cheerful expression frozen on his face; Bert's hand, raised in the familiar, lively gesture, halted in midair. The door closed behind her.

Later she recalled Hutchinson's bright red face, his awkward, almost funny attempts to mumble that he hadn't expected her, that he had to leave, his frantic search for his hat, his disoriented exit. Right then, it felt like she was moving to meet Bert in an otherwise empty room, and even though she felt herself shaking all over, her hands and voice were completely steady.

"How's it going?" she said, starting to unbutton her gloves:

Though she couldn't recall his face, it felt as familiar as if she had seen it every day; the low, white forehead with a lock of fair hair across it, the bright eyes, the hooked nose, the rather shapeless mouth—No, she hadn't remembered that his mouth looked like that. Her experienced eye detected self-indulgence and excess in the soft flesh of his cheeks and the slight puffiness of his eyelids. Her trembling was growing, but it didn't impact her. She remained calm and composed.

She listened without reacting to his persuasive, confident complaints. It was a strange way to meet someone when he arrived—she shrugged off his arm that tried to pull her in. "We should sit down. Excuse me." She took the chair he'd vacated, her own chair, from which she had dealt with so many land buyers.

"You're really tough, you know!" His accusation was laced with a grudging respect. She realized that the way to push this man away was to hold onto him; he wanted her now because she was no longer dependent on him. Memories of all the love she had wasted, the devotion and trust she had shown him—none of which he had appreciated or even recognized—washed over her in a wave of sorrow. Her lips pressed together, and as she looked at him across the desk, she said:

"Do you really think so? I'm sorry. But—what exactly do you want?"

He locked eyes with her for a moment, and she noticed him trying to readjust himself, relying on his old self-confidence to manipulate others to his will. He couldn’t fathom that anyone could truly resist him, that any woman was immune to his charm. In that instant, she felt a coldness wash over her, hard and unyielding. She wanted to hurt him deeply; she wanted to cut through his selfish ego, to find some soft spot within him and strike.

He wanted her, he said. He wanted his wife. She recognized a familiar tone in his voice, the deep, soothing way he spoke to women, and she noticed how he skillfully used it, fully aware of its impact.

He had been through hell. "Through hell," he said emphatically. He didn’t expect her to get it. She was a woman. She couldn’t grasp the pain of regret, the agony of his soul, the misery of those years without her. He painted a picture for her with his voice and gestures, trying to reach her compassion. He had treated her badly; he had been a coward to abandon her like that. He acknowledged it, incredibly humble.

He had promised himself that he wouldn't return to her until he got back on his feet. He had changed for the better. He was going to work. He was going to quit drinking. He already had some amazing opportunities lined up. Fer de Leon, the top guy in the patent medicine industry, was planning a huge campaign in Australia. Fer de Leon had complete confidence in him; he could sign a contract at any moment for fifteen thousand a year.

He wanted her to come with him. He needed her. With her by his side, he could resist any temptation. She was like an angel; she was the only woman he had ever truly loved and respected. With her, he could accomplish anything. Without her, he would feel lost and heartbroken. Only God knew what would happen. "You'll forgive me, right? You won't reject me. You'll give me another chance?"

She was staring at her hands, no longer able to interpret what her eyes saw in him. Her hands rested neatly on the edge of the desk, calm and still, completely unaffected by the sick trembling that shook her. The urge to hurt him had faded. His plea for her sympathy had turned into contempt.

"I'm sorry," she said with difficulty. "I hope you will continue on and succeed in everything. I know you will, of course." She said it with strong belief, trying to protect his pride. She didn't want to hurt him. "I know you've done your best. It's okay. It’s not your fault. I don’t hold you responsible for it. But it seems to me—"

"Good God! How can you be so heartless?" he exclaimed.

Even her hands were shaking now, and she calmed them by clasping them together. "Maybe I’m just cold," she said. "You can see that we couldn't—make it work. It's not your fault. We just don’t—fit together. We never really did. It was all a mistake." Her throat tightened.

"So, it's another guy!" he said. "I should have guessed."

"No." She remained calm despite the mockery. "That's not it. But there was never anything solid between us. You think you want me now just because you can’t have me. So it won’t really affect you if I get a divorce. I’d prefer to do that. Then we can both have a fresh start—with clean slates. I hope you find success and get everything you desire." She stood up, resting one hand heavily on the desk, and extended the other. "Goodbye."

Her attempt to finish the moment with honesty and grace didn’t work. He couldn’t believe he had lost something he had tried so hard to get. His bruised ego insisted that he break through her stubbornness. He remembered their happy moments, tried to persuade her with visions of the future he could offer her, and appealed to her kindness, compassion, and admiration. He tugged at every emotion of the female heart that he understood.

She stood still, overwhelmed with sadness, and saw behind his words the reasons that fueled them: self-love, confidence, and confused opposition. She felt again, as if it were separate from her, the magnetism, the energy like an electric current, that had once captivated her.

"I really wish you would leave," she said. "This isn't helping either of us." Finally, he left.

"You women are all the same. Don’t think you’ve tricked me. It’s another guy with more cash. If I weren’t a gentleman, you wouldn’t be getting off so easily with this divorce talk. But I am. Go get it!" The door slammed behind him.

She stayed still for a moment. Then she walked into the inner office, locked the door behind her, and sat down. She looked at her clenched hands. She hadn't worn her wedding ring for a while, but her finger was still slightly shaped by it, and a smooth, white mark was visible on the inside where it used to be. Slowly, she folded her arms on the desk and buried her face in them. After a little while, she started to cry, harsh, painful sobs that strained her throat and brought a few burning tears to her eyes.

An hour passed, then another. She was stirred awake by the sound of footsteps in the outer office. Surely a client had arrived. She lifted her head and stayed still, waiting until the footsteps walked away again. The usual noise from the streets filtered in; streetcars clanged by, and a newsboy shouted about an extra edition. Across the corner, the hands of the clock on the Bank of San José building ticked away the minutes with little jerks.

It was six o'clock. An urgent call tapped at a closed door in her mind. Six o'clock. She glanced at her watch, and memories stirred. She had an appointment at six-thirty to finalize the contracts on the forty-acre sale. Hutchinson was counting on her to take care of it. Below the window, the newsboy shouted "War!" again.

Wearily, she splashed her face with cold water, combed her hair, and fixed her hat. With the contracts in hand, she locked the office door behind her, putting on the necessary friendly, calm expression. The buyer's wife was charmed by her smile, and even though the man was already a bit on edge because of the war news, Helen managed to convince them to sign the contracts.

A week later, she told Hutchinson that she was going to stop selling land. She couldn’t provide any reasons that satisfied his surprised curiosity. She was just quitting; that was it. He could run the office himself or find another partner; her departure wouldn’t make much difference.

He protested, trying weakly to shake her resolve. The disruption of his familiar and comfortable routine shocked him; he felt like a man suddenly thrown from a boat into turbulent waters.

"But why do you want to do that? What's the idea? Aren't we doing fine?" He really wanted to ask if she was going to see Bert, whose arrival and quick exit hadn’t been explained to him. She knew the whole group was talking about it, and Hutchinson, right there at their meeting spot, was in the awkward position of not being able to share any juicy details. But he didn’t quite feel brave enough to directly ask her about it. He dismissed her comment that the war would affect business. "Honestly, things have never looked better! We just made a sale of forty acres. Sacramento is thriving, and so is the San Joaquin. Fifty new settlers are moving into Farmland Acres this fall. There’s going to be a boom in land. People are going to realize what a solid investment it is, especially with stocks crashing. And the farmers are going to rake in money if the war lasts a couple of years."

"Oh, well, maybe you're right," she admitted, recalling the spark in Mr. Clark's eye when she had accused him of understanding the salesman's mentality. She still believed that spring would bring a decline in the real estate market. She had learned too well that men didn’t approach their decisions with pure logic; too often in her own work, she had capitalized on their impulsive feelings and irrational emotions. There would be a time when they would feel fearful; no facts or reasoning would convince them to trade actual cash for heavily mortgaged property. But that point didn’t matter to her anymore.

She felt an intense exhaustion, a restlessness that was like the pain of being still for too long. Work had pressed down on her like a heavy burden for almost four years. She couldn't take it any longer. She needed to loosen the tight grip of self-control that kept her feelings and desires in check. The urge was too powerful to ignore, too ingrained in her to fully comprehend. "I'm tired," she said. "I'm going to quit."

An agreement to split their deferred commissions needs to be created and submitted to the San Francisco office. Hutchinson took over her share of the car she had left for repairs in Sacramento. His mind was already occupied with new ideas. Since she wouldn't be writing the ads anymore, he decided to eliminate them. "Classified ads will be cheaper and good enough," he said.

Thus simply the connections were severed between her and everything that had occupied her days and thoughts. She went home to the small bungalow, hid the files of her land advertisements away, and hung her hat and coat in the closet.

The house felt odd, with the afternoon sun pouring through the living-room windows. It was pleasantly quiet and vacant. Long hours, weeks, and months lay ahead like blank pages where she could write whatever she wanted.

She walked through the rooms, straightening a picture, moving a chair, and picking up a vase of wilting flowers. The curtains fluttered in a cool breeze that flowed through the open windows and tousled her hair. It felt like it was blowing through her thoughts, too; she felt refreshed and revitalized. With a sense of simple joy, she started to think about little things. She would let go of the woman who came to clean; she would clean the windows, dust the furniture, and wash the dishes herself. Tomorrow, she would buy some gingham and make aprons. Maybe Mabel and the baby would come down for a visit; she would write and invite them.

She was cutting roses to fill the empty vase when she thought of Paul. He popped into her mind quite naturally, just like he had before Bert got back. With a warmth in her heart and a smile on her face, she decided she would call him to come over next Sunday, and she would make a peach shortcake for him.

The shortcake was a success when she set it down, steaming hot and oozing golden juice, on the table between them. "You really are amazing, Helen!" Paul said, impressed by its crumbling perfection. "We’ve barely been in the house an hour, and with just a simple twist of the wrist, you whip up a dinner like this! Good thing we’re not living a couple of centuries ago; you’d have been burned as a witch." His eyes, focused on her, were filled with warmth.

Already he seemed to radiate a glow of happiness; the hint of seriousness in his face had melted into a joy that was almost youthful, and all day he had a touch of possessive pride while looking at her. It thrilled her; she felt the excitement of winning in her acceptance of it, and knowing she had power over him added a spark to her joy in being close to him.

Her bubbly spirit was unstoppable; she had burst into playful antics, laughed at him, teased him, and suddenly become tender. Together, they played with light-hearted silliness, chattering nonsense while exploring a rocky canyon in Alumn Rock Park, a canyon filled only with bright-eyed, sneaky forest creatures darting through the tangled underbrush and over fallen logs. They exchanged glances filled with joy, stifling fits of laughter like kids hiding a hilarious secret, as they stepped into the holiday crowd around the hot-dog stands at the park entrance. Next to Portuguese and Italians, they bought ice cream cones from a music machine and listened to the band.

Now she looked at him across her dinner table and felt that the last touch of perfection had been added to a wonderful day. She laughed happily.

"It's a strange thing when you think about it," he continued, pouring cream over the fruity slices. "Here you are working all week in an office—pretty much as good of a businesswoman as they come, I suppose—and then on top of that, you come home and cook like your mom never did. It puzzles me."

"Well—you see I enjoy cooking," she said. "It’s a way to relax. A lot of successful businesspeople are pretty good at golf. Plus, I’m not a businesswoman anymore. I’ve left the office. Should I pour your coffee now?"

"Left the office!" he said. "Why? When?"

"The other day. I don't know why. I felt—oh, I don't know. I just quit. Why, Paul!" She was taken aback by his expression.

"Well—it would really surprise anyone," he said. "A sudden change like this. You didn't give me any clues—" There was a hint of accusation in his tone, which quickly changed to aggression. "That partner of yours—what's his name? He hasn't been pulling anything over on you?"

"Why, no, of course not! I just decided to stop selling land. I'm done with it. Plus, it seems like there’s going to be a downturn in the business."

"Well, you can't really say. But you might be right," he admitted. He smiled with a hint of regret. "It’s going to be tough for me, though—since you’re quitting. It's a long trip to Masonville."

"To Masonville?" she echoed in surprise.

"Aren't you heading there?"

"Why would I even go to Masonville?" She grabbed onto the words, not quite fast enough to stop them. "Oh, I know—my mom. Of course. But honestly, Paul, I care about her and all that, and you know I've visited her quite a few times—but still, we’ve been apart for a long time, and my life has changed so much. She doesn’t really know what to think of me. I honestly don’t think either of us would be very happy if I went back there now. She has Mabel and the baby. It’s not like—" Struggling with her words, she broke through with a smile to be honest. "Actually, I never even thought about going back there."

There was confusion in his eyes, but he held back a question.

"Of course, as you wish. I figured that, but I'm happy you're not going. Two lumps, please."

"As if I wouldn't remember!" she laughed. But as she poured the sugar into his cup and tilted the percolator, a memory shot through her mind. She pictured him sitting at a small table in a diner, trying to hide his embarrassment while carefully scooping two spoonfuls of sugar from the chipped white bowl, and that memory brought back many others.

The colorful vibe of the afternoon had faded, and trying to tap into the deeper and more solid feelings between them, she prepared herself to talk about something else she hadn't shared with him.

Constraint had fallen on them; they were separated by their different thoughts, and awkwardly, with difficulty, they broke the silence with random snippets of conversation. Time was passing; twilight was already creeping into the room, and looking at his watch, Paul mentioned his train. Helen led the way to the porch, where the shade of climbing rose vines softened the last clear gray light of the day. There was a sadness in this pale reflection of the fading sunlight; the air was still, and the creaking of the wicker chair as Helen settled into it, and the sharp crack of Paul's match as he lit his after-dinner cigar, felt inappropriately loud. With a sudden strong need to be closer to him, Helen took a deep breath, getting ready to speak and finally eliminate the last barrier between them.

But his words encountered hers before they were spoken.

"What are you going to do, then, Helen?—If you aren't going home?" he added, seeing her confusion.

"Oh, that! Well—I haven't really thought about it. I'd like to stay home, stay here in my own house. There's so much to do in a house," she said, somewhat uncertainly. "I've never had the time to do it before."

His voice was understanding.

"That sounds great! It’s exactly what you deserve a chance to do. But, listen, Helen, I know it’s not really my place to say this, but I can’t help but worry about it. You need an income to maintain a house, you know. I’d like to—well, everything I have is equal to yours, already."

"Paul, you sweet thing! Don't stress about that at all. If I needed any help, I'd ask you, seriously. But I really don't."

"Well, we might as well look at this practically," he insisted. "It's probably going to cost more than you think to keep this house running. Not that I want you to give it up if you'd prefer to stay here," he added quickly. "I'd rather have you here than in Masonville, and honestly, I'd rather have you in Ripley than here, anyway. Hey, why couldn't you come down there? I could get that little bungalow on Harper Street ready for you. And everyone knows you're an old friend of my mom's."

"I might do something like that," she said randomly. She was worried that their time was running out and the conversation was heading in the wrong direction.

"It would cost you almost nothing to live there. And we could—"

"Yes," she said. "I'd love that. You know I want to see you all the time. But there's plenty of time. I'll think it over, dear."

"That’s exactly the point. There’s plenty of time. A whole year and more before I can—and it would be just like you to barely eat and never mention it to me."

"O Paul!" she laughed, "you’re so funny! And I love you for it. So, listen up. I have a little over twelve hundred dollars in the bank. Not much, right, after all the years I've been working? But it’ll keep me from getting thin and hollow-eyed from lack of food, for a little while at least. And if I really did need more, there’s a whole world of money all around me, you know. So please don’t worry. I promise to eat and eat. I promise I’ll never stop eating as long as I live. Regularly, three times a day, every single day!"

"Okay," he said. The end of his cigar glowed red for a moment in the fading light. She placed her hand on his sleeve, and it moved under her fingers until his strong, warm grip closed around them. With their palms together and fingers intertwined, they sat in silence. "It's going to be a long time," he said. After a pause, he added gruffly, "I guess you've—started the process—seen a lawyer?"

"I'm going to do it this week. I really hate to, but I have to somehow. It's just so—"

"You poor thing! I really wish you didn't have to deal with this. But I guess it won't be—there won't be any issues. Tell me, Helen, honestly. Do you want to go through with it? You're not hiding anything from me, right?"

"No. I want to. But there's something I need to tell you. He's back." He suddenly became so still that his silence was more shocking than a scream. When his hand slightly relaxed, hers pulled away and gripped the arm of her chair. Quietly, in a voice that was strained from holding it together, she shared part of her conversation with Bert. "I thought you should know. I didn't want you to find out from someone else."

"I'm really glad you told me. But—let's not ever talk about him again." His disgust made him throw the cigar in a fiery arc over the porch railing, and it landed as a red ember in the grass.

"I don't want to." She stood up to face him, placing her hands on his shoulders. "But, Paul, I need you to understand. He never really meant anything to me. Not anything real, I mean. I was just a foolish girl, lonely and exhausted from working—and I didn't get it. We were never really married." She struggled to find the right words, trying to convey her feelings to him. "There was no reality between us, no real love, nothing solid to build a marriage on. But I think there is between you and me."

"The only thing I want," he said, holding her close, "the only thing I want in the world is to take you home and look after you."

She kissed him, a quiet seriousness in her heart. He was so good, so nice and strong. With all her soul, she yearned to be deserving of him, to make him happy, and to be able to create a calm and beautiful life together.

The days passed by surprisingly slowly. In the mornings, waking up to the first chirps of the birds in the vines over the sleeping porch, she sat up suddenly, only to relax again on the pillows and stretch luxuriously between the cool sheets, with the delightful realization that the entire day was hers. But her body, filled with energy, resisted doing nothing. She got up, keeping her mind busy with small plans while she got dressed and had breakfast. By ten o'clock, she could think of nothing else to do with the house or the garden, and still time loomed ahead of her, stretching out indefinitely, empty.

The house, sadly failing as a place to live, turned into a prison. She escaped to the streets. She shopped at her own pace, comparing colors, fabrics, and prices, looking for deals she had missed out on while she was working. Spending an afternoon like this might save her a dollar, and her business sense mocked her for it. She might run into someone she knew, a woman who lived nearby, and over fancy icy treats topped with syrups and nuts, they could chat about movies, the weather, and the foolishness of their household staff. Time had become an enemy to be passed as enjoyably as possible. During the long, lazy afternoons, she would sit on a nearby porch, listening to conversations about mundane details, exaggerated and twisted, repeated over and over again. While her fingers busied themselves with an embroidery hoop, stitching bits of thread back and forth through fabric, her mind yawned in boredom.

At night, as she let her hair down, she reflected on a day that was now behind her, a day spent cleaning and tidying up a house that would need the same tomorrow, a day that had seen some progress in scalloping a tablecloth, and she felt a wave of futility wash over her. "Honestly, I've kind of enjoyed it," she said. "What more can you do with a day than enjoy it?" The reasoning felt empty in her mind, met only with a tense silence.

If she were with Paul, the days would feel more meaningful, she told herself. But it seemed better to stay in San José until the initial legal formalities were completed. Her lawyer informed her that the case would be on the court calendar in four or five weeks. She wouldn’t have any trouble getting a decree. "But can’t you bring up something to make it more significant? No abuse? He never hit you or threw anything at you?" The lawyer's eyes brightened with a certain eagerness. Wincing, she coldly replied that she would only cite desertion. No, she didn’t want any alimony. When he, disappointed, jotted these details down on a notepad and tried to lighten the mood with a professional joke to make her smile, she quickly left, filled with disgust.

Something like this she would have to go through again, sitting on the witness stand in open court. It was better to face it alone, to get it over with, and put it behind her before heading to Ripley to deal with the sharp interest of Mrs. Masters and the comfort of Paul's support. In the meantime, her life felt as stuck as a treadmill, and a vague irritation gnawed at her nerves.

She started to visit the public library often. In a locked room, where the librarian gave her the key after a hesitant look, she found a history of marriage on forbidden shelves. Curling up among the cushions on her window seat, she spent an afternoon deeply engaged in tracing that institution from the first slight awareness of the economic value of women into the complex web of customs and morals it created. She became interested in marriage laws and was amazed to discover the contracts that men and women happily entered into, which they wouldn’t casually agree to for any other legal matter. Once she got tired of that topic, she moved on to others and, fueled by European news, devoured history and struggled with economics. She bought a French dictionary and grammar book, and finding them only mildly interesting, she boldly tackled La Livre de Mon Ami, eagerly extracting meaning from its delightful pages like a miner panning for gold. But at night, she still felt a restlessness as miserable and unclear as unused muscles. "I wish I were doing something!" she exclaimed.

Two weeks after she left the office, her feet brought her back, as if they had a mind of their own. The familiar walls, covered with photos of alfalfa fields and maps marked in red ink, surrounded her like the walls of home. Hutchinson was sitting at his desk, smoking; nothing had changed. She mentioned that she had just dropped by for a moment. How's business? Her eye instinctively caught the red squares on the maps. "Hey! That three-cornered piece by Sycamore Slough is gone! Who sold it?"

"Watson," said Hutchinson. "He’s found a gold mine in the Healdsburg area, selling to the farmers like crazy. Last week he brought down a prospect who—" She listened to the rest of the story, added one of her own, and two hours went by before she even noticed.

In a week, it became her routine to stop by the office whenever she came downtown, to talk about Hutchinson's struggles with him, and even sometimes to help him with a sale. The business outlook wasn’t improving; the prune market was messed up because of the European War, and orchard owners were in a state of panic; a vague, dark shadow was already looming over people's thoughts. Regardless, she had no plans to go back into business; she kept telling herself that she hated it. Yet, she kept visiting the office.

Hutchinson waited for her one day with some news. A guy named MacAdams had been calling; he was coming to the office; he wanted to see her. "MacAdams?" she echoed. "That's strange—I feel like I remember that name."

MacAdams walked in five minutes later, and the sight of his square, deeply lined face and the sunken eyes beneath his bushy gray brows brought back all the details of her first sale. She reached out to shake his hand, but MacAdams didn’t acknowledge it. "I'd like to have a word with you, miss."

She brought him into the inner office, closed the door, and made him sit down. He sat up straight, rough hands resting on his knees, and simply explained his situation to her. The land she had sold him was worthless. It was hard-pan land. After buying it, he saved up for a year and moved there. “They told me I could make the payments from the crops.” He had leveled the forty acres, prepared it, and seeded it with alfalfa. The alfalfa started dying in the second year. That fall, he plowed it up and planted grain. He made just enough from that to cover the seed and pay the water tax. In the spring, he and his son planted beans. The boy took care of them while he worked, making just enough for food. Then the irrigation ditch broke, and they couldn’t get water for the beans when they needed it. The beans died. He was two years behind on his payments, couldn’t cover the interest, and owed a hundred dollars in grocery bills.

"I invested three thousand dollars in that land. I went to your company about it. They said they would give me more time to pay the rest if I kept up with the interest. But I don't want to farm anymore; I'm done. They can have the land. It's worthless. I'm not blaming anyone, miss. A fool is a fool. But I want some of my money back so I can move my family to the city and get by until I find a job. It's only fair, and I'm here to ask you for it."

She listened to him until he finished, one hand cradling her cheek while the other absentmindedly sketched on the desk blotter. She knew his request was futile; even if Clark had wanted to give the money back, it had already been spent on expenses and payments to the landowners. No one could be forced to return any part of the payment MacAdams had made on the contract he signed. Right in front of her, she could visualize the small tract office, the dim smoky oil lamp, Nichols in his chair, and herself waiting for the words from MacAdams that would determine her and Bert's fate. The words echoed in her mind, reiterated many times. "I’m sorry. Of course, you know that in any large tract of land there will be a few poor pieces. I acted in perfectly good faith; you saw the land, examined it—" She met MacAdams's gaze. "I’ll give back all the money I made on it," she said.

She wrote a check for six hundred dollars, blotted it carefully, and handed it to him. His serious face was as unsteady as water disturbed by the wind, but he didn’t say anything, shaking her hand so hard it hurt and quickly leaving with the check. After he closed the door behind him, she remembered that she had only received three hundred dollars from the sale. The rest had gone to pay off Bert's debts. Feeling overwhelmed by her emotions, she laughed out loud.

"Well, anyway, now you’ll have plenty to do!" she said to herself. "Now you’ll have to get out and hustle for money to live on!" She felt a brief wave of panic, but there was excitement in it.

She would not go back to selling land. Her determination was strengthened by the thought that if she did, she might end up broke before she made a sale. No, she needed to find another way to earn money. She walked slowly home, lost in thought, searching her mind for an idea. It was like staring at the emptiness of a clear sky, but her self-confidence didn't falter. All around her, men just as clueless and unprepared as she was were making money.

Sitting at the walnut desk in her sunny living room, she pulled a sheet of paper toward her and got ready to assess her tools. Her thoughts became clearer when she wrote them down. But after staring at the blank page for a while, she started to carefully sketch interlocking circles on it. There didn't seem to be anything to write.

She was twenty-six years old and had been working for eight years. Going back to telegraphing was not an option; she wouldn’t do that. Her four years of selling land had given her nothing but an understanding of people, a certain knack for dealing with them, and a dislike for the whole process. As for advertising, she could write ads; she had records in dollars and cents to prove it. What she needed was an idea—something new, eye-catching, and truly valuable, to pitch to an advertiser. Her mind was completely blank. Against the backdrop of swaying rose-colored curtains, images flickered in her mind, but no idea.

Suddenly, she thought of Paul and her plan to go to Ripley, which was now ruined. She couldn’t work there; if Paul sensed her struggle, he would insist on helping her. He would feel hurt by her refusal, no matter how careful she was to avoid hurting him. "Oh, you little idiot! You’ve made a mess of things!” she said.

Half-formed thoughts started racing through her mind. She knew this wasn’t how to deal with a problem. She decided to think about it no more until tomorrow. Smiling a bit, she began writing a letter to Paul, a long, playful letter filled with warmth, saying nothing but saying it beautifully. An hour later, after rereading it and finding it good, she folded it into its envelope and placed a tiny kiss on the flap, smiling at herself.

Lest her worries ruin her good mood, she shielded herself from the quiet of the house with a magazine. It was the "Pacific Coast," a San Francisco publication that fascinated her due to its articles about California land. She had once wanted to create a series of reading ads to feature in it, but Clark had dismissed her idea, preferring bold type instead.

She was lost in a story about the western mining camps when suddenly, from the blank depths of her mind, the idea she had been hoping for burst forth like an explosion. She couldn’t figure out what chance connection of forgotten memories had triggered it, but there it was. As she thought about it, it seemed at times ordinary and worthless, and at other times, sparkling with exciting possibilities. In the end, as she settled down to sleep on the star-lit porch, she decided to give it a try.

Early the next afternoon, she arrived at the San Francisco offices of the "Pacific Coast" and asked to talk to the circulation manager.

She felt amazed by the atmosphere of dignity and restraint in the large, plain offices. Sunlight poured in through big windows onto neat desks and filing cabinets; employees moved quietly, carrying stacks of typewritten papers in their smooth, ringless hands; even the sound of typewriters was soft, like the tone of well-mannered voices. Her experiences in newspaper offices hadn’t prepared her for this, and her heart raced at this peek into a strange, uncharted world.

The circulation manager was a letdown. He was young and tried hard to hide it. His attitude, just a bit too pushy, showed his hidden insecurities; unsure of his own skills, he tried to boost his confidence by convincing others of it. If she had been selling him land, she could have exploited this shaky ego, but here it backfired on her. He was ready to prove his competence by quickly getting rid of her.

Drawing on all her sales skills, she presented her plan. She wanted to organize a team of subscription solicitors and cover the state one section at a time. She would interview chambers of commerce, boards of trade, businesspeople, and farmers, gathering information for an article on local conditions; she would get free publicity from the newspapers; she would spark interest in the "Pacific Coast."

"Everyone enjoys reading about themselves, and next, they want to read about their town. I will make sure every man and woman in the area knows that the "Pacific Coast" will publish articles about their local interests. Then the solicitors will come around and get their subscriptions. The solicitors will work on commission; the only expenses will be my salary and the cost of writing the articles. And the articles will be great magazine features, in addition to being valuable for circulation."

His smile was condescendingly superior.

"My dear young lady, if I used our columns for schemes like that!" She realized that she had come across a set of ethics she wasn't familiar with. "We aren't running a cheap promotional magazine, trying to get subscriptions." And he emphasized that every article needs to interest a hundred thousand subscribers, whereas an article about one part of the state only appeals to local interest. The conversation shifted into a debate about this.

"But towns have personalities, just like people. Every town in California is packed with stories, vibes, romance, and color. Honestly, you couldn't write about the character of one without captivating every reader of your magazine!"

He wrapped up the interview with a challenge.

"Well, bring me an article that will impress one of our readers, and I might think about the plan." He turned to a stack of letters, and his gesture showed that he was pleased to dismiss her so cleanly and conclusively.

It left a sting that pricked her pride and made her nerves tingle. She was guided through the smooth atmosphere of the offices, and every glossy wooden surface felt to her like a smile of self-assured superiority.

She went to see Mr. Clark, who welcomed her with regrets that she had left the organization, and at her suggestion readily promised her a position in his office at a reasonable salary. But accepting it felt like admitting failure. Mr. Clark's offer was left open, and she returned to San José feeling hurt and humiliated.

The sun was setting when she got off at the station. Amber light spread over the green of St. James Park, and the long street beyond radiated the soft, warm hue of weathered brick. The tall windows and gabled roofs of the old business buildings reflected the bright rays of the sun. In the dim light below them, the bell of El Camino Real stood silent at the corner of the old Alameda next to a red fire-alarm box, and around it, rows of farmers' cars lined the wide cement sidewalks.

Here, within the memories of people still alive, fields of wild mustard had concealed hundreds of grazing cattle, and cowboys, riding down from the foothills, had disappeared into seas of yellow blooms; here the padres had walked patiently along the road from Santa Clara to Mission San José; here pioneers had tilled the untamed soil and filled the valley with golden wheat fields, and Blaine had arrived during the peak of his popularity, advising on orchards.

Now, mile after mile to the edge of the blue hills, prune trees, apricots, and cherries lined up in neat rows, smooth boulevards buzzed with the flow of cars, and where the cowboys had cleared the wild mustard, San José stood, the pulsating heart of all these routes connecting the past, present, and future.

"And he says there's nothing interesting here!" she exclaimed. "Oh, if only I could write it! If I could write even a fraction of it!"

Midnight found her sitting in front of her typewriter, looking disheveled and feverish, surrounded by crumpled sheets of paper, mulling over sentences, tossing out paragraphs, feeling both satisfaction and despair. "I could write an ad for it," she thought. "I could get someone interested. Magazine articles are different. But people are all the same. I have to grab their attention. If I can just make it relatable, make them notice—Oh, what an idiot that guy was!" Focused on capturing the essence of San José, she still felt a burning rage towards him. "I'll show him, anyway, that there are things he doesn't understand!"

Next morning, she read her work and thought it was worthless.

"I'll write it like a letter," she thought, and pages flowed effortlessly from the typewriter. She spent the next day striking through paragraphs with a black pencil, rearranging sentences, and changing words. The complexity of the work intrigued her; it was as captivating as an embroidery design, as challenging as a land deal, and stirred all her energies.

When she could do no more, she read and re-read the finished article. She thought it was hopelessly stupid; she thought it was as good as some she had read; a sentence glimmered at her like a ray of light, and then it faded into insignificance. She didn't know what she really felt about it. The memory of that irritating young man made up her mind. "It might be absurd, but it will make my point. There’s something here to write about." She sent it to him.

After five unproductive days, during which she wrestled with a mess of uncertainties, she ripped open an envelope marked "Pacific Coast." "Maybe that plan will actually happen," she thought. She read a note asking her to call, which was signed "A. C. Hayden, Editor."

The next afternoon, she was in his office. It was a quiet room, lined with full bookshelves, furnished with comfortable chairs and a big table piled with proofs and manuscripts in an organized mess. Mr. Hayden himself gave off the same vibe of relaxed efficiency; Helen felt like he got a lot done without rushing, always smiling. He wasn’t in a hurry; he was more than happy to talk about her circulation plan, listening thoughtfully and pointing out why it wasn’t a good idea. Her article lay on the desk. It had led to a pleasant meeting. After all, there was no reason for her not to accept Clark's offer.

"Now this," Mr. Hayden said, unfolding her manuscript. "We can use this as a story if you want to sell it to us. With the right illustrations and a few changes, it’ll make a great feature. Our rates, of course—" Helen hadn’t said anything, but something about her breathless silence stopped him. He looked at her, questioning.

"You’re saying—I can write?"

He found it funny.

"People really do, you know. In fact, most people do—or at least try. You'd get that if you were a magazine editor. Haven't you ever written anything before?"

"Well—reader ads and letters, of course. I haven't considered actually writing, not since I was in school." She was amazed.

"Advertisement! That's what it is. You hold back your style a bit. But you can write. You have a unique perspective; you write with purpose, and you include human interest—human interest is always a plus. And you understand the power of words."

"When you're paying three dollars and eighty cents an inch for space, you definitely think about them!" she laughed. His words showed just how unaware she was in this new area, but her temples throbbed with excitement. Her mind spun with ideas; she viewed the world as a gold mine full of things to write about. Eagerly, she listened to Mr. Hayden's feedback on the manuscript.

Her lead was too long. "You dance around before you get to the point. The story actually starts here." His pencil hovered over the page. "If you don't mind us making changes?"

"Oh, yes, I really want to learn."

An hour passed, and then another. Mr. Hayden was curious about her thoughts on various topics; he encouraged her to discuss real estate, marketing, and the different areas of California that she was familiar with. He proposed a series of articles like the one he was holding. He would be happy to consider them if she wrote them. If she had other ideas, would she share them?

She left the office with a check in her purse, and her mind was filled with colorful dreams. She saw a story in every newsboy she encountered, ideas wrapped in romance and color competing for attention in her mind, and the world felt like a dizzying spin beneath her feet. For the first time since her meeting with MacAdams, she wanted to rush to Paul to share her exciting visions with him.

Paul was upset. He stood in the torn-up living room of the small bungalow, torn between patience and feeling that he had a valid complaint. "But seriously!" he said for the hundredth time, "why couldn't you just let me know? If I’d had a chance to explain how unreasonable and unnecessary this is—" He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and walked back and forth moodily between the large trunk and the two stuffed suitcases that were on the bare floor.

Helen, tired and slumped on one of the suitcases, searched her mind for a response but couldn't find one, which left her confused. On every other topic in their discussion, her reasons were clear and convincing to her. But she definitely should have told him about her plans. She had never forgotten about him; the thought of him was always in her heart, keeping her warm even when her mind was on other things.

She couldn't grasp the disconnect of ideas that had led to this seeming neglect of him. There was no way to defend herself against her self-blame.

"I'm really sorry," she said awkwardly. He had already moved past that, starting up the same circular argument that had been going on since he showed up unexpectedly.

"Can't you see, babe, there's no reason at all for a move like this? You’ll barely get settled in the city before—” His moodiness disappeared. “Oh, come on, sweetheart! Forget the whole thing. Come down to Ripley. It’s just for a little while. Why do you care so much about a little money? You’ll have to get used to me handling the bills eventually; it might as well be now. No? Yes!” His arm was around her shoulders, and she smiled up into his playful, warm eyes.

"You're so sweet! But seriously, Paul, not yet. Everything's arranged—the 'Pacific Coast' is relying on me, and I've started the new series in the 'Post.' Just think of all the working girls you'd deprive of tons of good advice they won't actually take! Please don't feel too bad, dear." Her voice became more serious. "I'll tell you the real reason I want to go. If I can get really going, if I can get my name out there—A name in this writing world, you know, is just like a brand. It's built through promotion. Well, if I can do that, I can keep writing no matter where I am, even in Ripley. And then I'll have something to do and a little bit of income. I—I would love that. Don't you see how wonderful it would be?"

"It might be your idea of beauty, but I can't say I'm a fan of it," he replied. He sat on the suitcase, his hands clasped between his knees, and stared moodily at his boots. "Why do you want an income? I can take care of you."

"Of course!" she reassured him quickly. "I didn't mean—"

"And when it comes to finding something to do—you’re going to have me around, you know!" he continued, with a worried smile.

"I really think he's jealous!" She laughed playfully, sliding her hand through the bend of his stiff arm. "Are you jealous? As jealous as you can be? Jealous of my typewriter?" She gave him a mock frown. "Answer me, sir! Do you love that electric plant? How dare you look at dynamos!"

He gave in, laughing with her.

"You little fool! Whatever—oh, what’s the point? As long as you're happy."

It was the first time there was a feeling of hesitation behind their kiss. But he seemed unaware of it, radiating happiness.

"Okay, go ahead and play in San Francisco. I don’t mind. I really do care. I care a lot. But it won't be long. Just a heads up, I won't be called Mr. Helen Davies!"

She laughed too, getting up and putting her hair up.

"As if I wanted you to be! I'll never be that well-known, don’t worry! Now if I were a real writer—" The hint of longing in her voice was quickly pushed aside. "Then, young man, you'd have a reason to be concerned! But I'm not. I wonder if that delivery guy is ever going to show up!"

"You shouldn't be trying to handle all this on your own," he said. "I wish I had known sooner. I could have come up and taken care of it for you."

She was moved by his complete acceptance of her plans, and she felt a pang of regret, a desire to agree with his. But a strong force inside her wouldn't allow it. She couldn't rely on him, not yet. Later—later she would feel differently.

There were six months left until her final legal freedom. The awful half hour that had resulted in her temporary divorce was now lost in the whirlwind of new events; the routine completion of the court's actions held no real significance for her. She had essentially been divorced from the past she wanted to forget for a long time. The date six months away only marked when she would have to deal with the details of a new life. Until then, she didn’t need to think about them too much. It was enough to know that she and Paul loved each other. They would overcome any challenges when they arrived, thanks to that love.

She smiled at him brightly.

"Let's go outside and walk in the sunshine. An empty house feels so sad. And I have so much to tell you."

They strolled leisurely along the nice, tree-lined street, moving past the cozy porches she no longer gazed at with longing. Her thoughts were consumed with the exciting, immediate future, and she shared all her hopes with Paul for him to see.

Mr. Hayden had turned down her last story about immigration conditions on Angel Island, so she sent it to an Eastern weekly. Wouldn't it be great if they accepted it! And wasn’t it lucky to get the city editor of the "Post" to consider her idea for a section on working-girls' issues?

And the new series—the series that was taking her to San Francisco. "O Paul, if I can just do it even half as well as I hope to! I know Mr. Hayden would love it. 'San Francisco Nights.' It’s got that Bagdad vibe, you know, like Arabian Nights. You have no idea how captivating San Francisco is at night. The fishing fleet leaving from Fisherman's Wharf over the dark water, with Alcatraz Light flashing over the colorful boats, and the fishermen singing 'Il Trovatore.' Honestly, Paul, they do. And the vegetable markets down in the quiet, eerie wholesale district at three in the morning, filled with bright colors and lights, the Italian farmers in their blue jackets and red caps, the big, sleepy horses, and the Chinese vendors sorting through the vegetables with their long, yellow fingers."

"At three in the morning! You're not actually thinking about going down there, are you?"

"I've already been," she said, feeling guilty. "With one of the girls, Marian Marcy. I told you about her last week. The girl from the 'Post,' you know?"

"Well, I hope you had a police officer with you."

"Of course, you would have," she responded carefully. Caught up in the excitement of these new experiences, she hadn’t thought about being scared; without really reflecting on it, she felt completely able to handle whatever might come her way. But she realized that she was scaring Paul.

It felt better to talk about the small house she had rented, the little house that perched like a bird's nest on the steep slopes of Russian Hill, looking out over the bay islands and the blue Marin hills. Wanting to spark Paul's imagination, she described it in detail: its wooden walls, large windows, the fireplace, and the kitchenette where they would cook dinner together when he visited her.

"And will you come often? Every week?" she asked eagerly.

"You'll see me using the new parlor wallpaper to pay for train tickets!" he promised.

"That's fine. I don't want wallpaper there, anyway!"

When the delivery guy had come and gone, she locked the door of the bungalow for the last time, feeling a sense of efficient accomplishment.

"Now!" she said, "We'll play until it's time for the last train to San Francisco."

Their happiness with each other felt even stronger after the brief disagreement, like the sun breaking through after a cloudy morning. Her heart hurt when the evening came to an end and he had to put her on the train.

"I'll be glad when I don't have to say goodbye to you all the time!" he told her almost fiercely.

"Me too!"

She quickly stepped up onto the train, noticing too late his attempt to assist her, and her gratitude deepened with a hint of regret as he placed her bags in the overhead compartment, hung up her coat, and adjusted the footrest for her. These unexpected acts of service made her feel a bit uncomfortable. She sensed the awkwardness in accepting them, but for a little while longer, they kept him close to her.

He stayed until the very last moment, leaning over the red plush seat, bumped by arriving passengers, looking at her with eyes that conveyed more than words or touches could reveal under the bright lights and stares of travelers.

"Well—goodbye."

"Goodbye. Will you come to see the new house soon?"

She saw his strong back vanish through the car door. Her imagination pictured how he would confidently leap from the moving train, and with her face pressed against the rattling window, she caught one last look at his excited face and waving hat under the station lights.

Smiling, she watched the streetlights zip by and disappear. In the rushing darkness, the glowing window reflected her confident smile, the strong curve of her cheek, and the sharp line of her small hat. The gentle swaying of the train always made her happy; she enjoyed the feeling of leaving, and the countless little creaks and the fast click-click-click of the wheels made her feel like she was being thrown through space toward an uncertain future. With her cheek against the cool glass, she blocked out the shimmering lights and stared into the dim abyss.

Her heart felt warm with happiness; her love for Paul was like a hidden warmth within her. She thought about the articles she planned to write, the brown cottage on Russian Hill, and the small group of women she might invite there, Marian Marcy's friends. With a touch of wistful envy, she considered the affection that connected them; she hoped they would like her too. The friendship of women was a new experience for her, and the bond she had seen among these girls seemed special and beautiful to her.

Wondering, she thought about each of them individually, so different in personality and character, yet so in sync under their heated debates. It seemed like they fought at the lunch table where they gathered every day, tossing sharp comments and witty comebacks at one another, getting worked up over the most random topics—like the war, poetry, biology, and hairdressers—arguing, laughing, and teasing each other all at once. But their good humor never wavered, and their affection for one another glowed like a steady candle flame amid all their arguments.

"It's a great group," Marian Marcy had said warmly, and Helen knew that her invitation to join them for lunch showed real affection. Feeling like an outsider among them, she sensed she was being evaluated, and the hope of bringing them all to her home and possibly becoming part of their close-knit circle had been her main reason for renting the cottage.

Her days were packed with work. With fierce determination, she threw herself into tackling the unfamiliar world ahead of her. There was so much to learn and too little time. Her six months turned into a small treasure of hours, with every minute being valuable. In the earliest morning light, as the sky over the Berkeley hills turned a soft pink and long silver lines stretched across the gray waters of the bay, she was jumping into her cold bath, lighting the gas under the coffee pot, and tidying up the little house. The morning papers inspired her story ideas—she had already started calling everything written "a story"—and she rode down the hill on the early cable car with stenographers and shopgirls, thinking about interviews.

Her business sense, sharply focused on magazine pages and Sunday papers, revealed an ever-expanding market. She saw countless stories on various subjects; they came to her mind bursting with color, perfect, clear-cut, and full of interest. Then at her typewriter, she set out to bring them to life with words, and through long afternoons, she worked hard, struggling and feeling discouraged, watching countless hours slip away, ultimately realizing that she had created a flawed, incomplete piece. Her bookcases now filled her with awe. All those volumes, which seemed so easy to read and apparently produced so effortlessly, appeared in this new light as tremendous, almost miraculous accomplishments.

"I can never write real books," she said. "I'm not an artist."

She wasn't starting an artistic career; she was learning a skill. But with so many newspapers, magazines, and carloads of books in the stores around her, she realized it was a valuable trade. All this printed material provided refreshment and a broader perspective to millions. "If I can just be a good worker, creating sound, wholesome, true things, then I'll be doing something worthwhile," she reassured herself.

Mr. Hayden accepted the first story in the "San Francisco Nights" series but turned down the second. She started on a third, and when her article on immigration came back from the East, she sent it out again. She had more luck with a story about California farming conditions, which sold to a national farm magazine. Establishing a market for her writing was her hope for the future; if she succeeded, she could still work in Ripley, and the work would be something entirely her own.

She didn't think too much about her need to have a part of her life just for herself, but she clearly saw the value of having her own little income. Her relationship with Paul had nothing to do with money; in their love, they were equals, and if Paul added what he earned to the mix, it would tip the scales. She understood too well the difference between making money and taking care of a home to believe that her responsibilities would be worth what he would provide for her.

Working against the clock, she devoted her efforts to getting to know editors and understanding what they needed. Meanwhile, her job at the "Post" provided her with a small income to cover her expenses. Late at night, she would sit opening letters and typing careful responses for its columns.

"And the unions are on strike for an eight-hour day!" she said to Marian, running into her among the clattering typewriters in the "Post's" local room. "As for me, I’d strike for a straight forty-eight hours from sunrise to sunset!"

"'The best way to make your days longer is to borrow a few hours from the night, my dear!'" Marian said cheerfully. Her cute, kitten-like face, with its pointed chin and wide gray eyes beneath a mess of black hair, looked pale from exhaustion. She adjusted her hat and touched her nose with a powder puff. "The crowd’s heading to the beach at Tiburon for a picnic dinner. Want to join?"

"I'd love to!"

"Then go out and grab some pickles and stuff while I finish this story. Mother of Pearl! If those club women knew what I really thought of most of them!" The typewriter keys clacked forcefully under her speeding fingers.

Smiling, Helen did as she was told, and while she checked out a deli and loaded her arms with packages, she felt a tingle of happy anticipation. It would be great to lie on the beach under the stars and listen to more of the interesting conversations these girls were having. "But I have to add something," she thought. "I need to make them like me if I can."

When they gathered at the ferry, she noticed that they weren't in the mood to chat. Almost quietly, they waited for the large gates to open, pushed forward with the crowd onto the gangplank, and found seats outside where the salty winds blew over them.

"Tired, Marian?" Anne Lester asked.

"Dead!" Marian replied. She shifted the packages, took off her coat, put it back on, and started pacing restlessly up and down the deck.

"She runs on pure adrenaline," Anne said. "She never takes a break." Her own long, sleek figure was the perfect image of calm lines. She didn't say anything else.

"How beautifully they let each other be!" Helen thought, and in the peaceful silence, she also relaxed, casually observing the others. They all worked. Beyond that, she couldn't see anything in common; even their jobs varied greatly. She noted them, a bit surprised by the contrast.

Anne, refined and commanding, with an air of untamed freedom in every movement—Anne was an economics teacher! Next to her, Willetta, shy, with brown eyes and brown hair, was knitting diligently after coming from her work in social service. Across the aisle, Sara and Mrs. Austin, who they called Dodo, were discussing silk samples. Sara was a miniature painter, and Dodo was the executive secretary of a significant commission in California.

"I give up!" Helen said to herself, marveling once more at the clear affection that connected them. Turning her face to the sharp, cool wind coming in through the Golden Gate, she watched the thousand white-capped waves on the bay and the flight of silvery-gray seagulls against a glowing sunset sky, soaking in the beauty of it all without thinking, allowing the day's weight of effort to slip away from her.

Around the campfire on the white crescent beach beyond the fisherman's village of Tiburon, the conversation sparked up again—casual chatter, lighthearted, serious, playful, occasionally falling into silence.

Sara sat on a piece of driftwood, her long, sensitive hands wrapped around her knees, her eyes filled with dreams. "It's so beautiful!" she said from time to time, tilting her face to the dark sky full of stars, or nodding toward the lights scattered over the Berkeley hills like handfuls of jewels. Anne, lying on the sand, passionately talked about labor unions and I.W.W.s, strikes and lockouts, and the red glow of her cigarette traced her gestures against the darkness. An argument heated up between her and Dodo, who was sitting cross-legged like a boy, her fine, soft hair flowing down her shoulders. Hot words were exchanged. "Oh, you don't know what you're—" "If you’d read the reports from your own commission!" "Let me tell you, Anne Lester—where are the matches?" The flickering flame lit up Dodo's calm, unruffled brow as a thin curl of smoke escaped from her serious lips. "Just let me tell you, Anne Lester—" In the circle of firelight, Marian was busy picking up paper napkins, bits of string, and wrapping paper. "Marian's going to clean up the whole shoreline!" they laughed, reaching out lazily to help her. After a long pause, they began talking about the war.

"It didn’t hit me hard at first—it felt like a jolt from an earthquake. But lately—" "You feel the urge to take action. I get it. What does a bit of Red Cross work at home mean when you think about—"

"Oh, it's just awful!" Sara exclaimed.

"Yes. But a lot of things are terrible. War isn’t the worst of them. You have to—" "Yes, stand up and confront them. And take action. As much as you can."

The words reflected Helen's own feelings. Wrapped in her coat, curled up against a drift log, she listened quietly, chiming in with a word now and then. She felt the warmth of this companionship, which asked for nothing, was relaxed, and full of understanding. It was freedom, a chance to unwind, without feeling lonely. Like a plant that had been stuck in tight soil for too long and was now moved to more welcoming ground, she felt countless impulses awakening inside her, reaching out for nourishment.

"You know," Dodo suddenly said, placing a warm hand over Helen's. "I like you."

Helen blushed with joy.

"Same here, I like you."

She remembered the words for many months, remembered the warm glow of the firelight, the white, curling line of foam on the sand, the distant lights scattered over a dozen hills, and the cool darkness over the bay. That evening had made her part of the group, granted her the freedom of the lunch table set aside for them in the quiet little restaurant, and opened the door to a new and fulfilling relationship.

She could usually find one or two of the girls at the table, but rarely all of them. They came around whenever they wanted, knowing they would find a friend and some understanding conversation. When she had a free half hour after lunch, she might go shopping with Willetta, who was always on the lookout for bargains in cute things for her little daughter in the convent. She learned about the tragedy that had broken Willetta's home and the reason for the cynicism that sometimes made Dodo's remarks sharp. If they were curious about her own life, they didn’t ask any questions, and they accepted Paul's Sunday visits without saying anything.

Any other evening of the week would have Willetta rushing up the steps, knitting in hand, to spend an hour curled up among the cushions by the fire, or she’d leave cheerfully if Helen was occupied. Dodo might call on the phone. "Tickets for the concert! Want to come down?" The crackling fire might warm them all as they gathered, chatting like schoolgirls while Marian poked marshmallows with a hat pin, toasting them and her tired, sparkling face at the same time. But on Sunday, Helen was quietly left to Paul.

His unexpected arrival among the group slightly disrupted their bond. She had felt the same way when she walked into her office and found all the salesmen there. Some invisible connection of sympathy was interrupted, and an outsider was introduced. One hesitated before speaking, as if talking to someone who didn’t fully understand the language.

"There’s a subtle divide between men and women," she thought, chatting animatedly with Paul as they climbed Tamalpais together or strolled through Golden Gate Park. "Each of us has our own world." After a moment of silence, as they passed some strange person on the trail or were momentarily stunned by a breathtaking view, she looked for his eyes, hoping for the spark of mutual understanding she anticipated, but found only admiration or surprise.

She sensed that the summer was quickly coming to an end, pushing her toward a destiny that some unexplainable part of her resisted. Paul's excited happiness, his plans, his confident influence on her life were things she tried to embrace with a smile. She kept telling herself she should be happy; in fact, she was happy. Deep down, she knew she loved Paul. His presence felt like sunshine to her; she adored his honesty, his pure, kind spirit, the sparkle in his eyes, the warmth of his hand. When he left, her heart followed him like a bird, and at the same time, an almost unnoticeable pressure within her disappeared. Alone in her quiet home, she felt herself becoming whole again and free.

"You're feeling like a girl again!" she told herself. The watch on her wrist ticked off the night hours while she sat still, staring at the red embers of the fire crumbling to ashes. She saw the twilight of a long-gone summer day and a girl swept away by waves of emotion, blindly fighting against them.

But it wasn’t Paul’s kisses that she pulled away from now. She wanted them. She was no longer a girl caught off guard by love’s intense power and beauty. She was a woman, clear-eyed, making a deliberate choice. So why did she feel like she was forcing herself to do something she actually wanted? “It’s late, and I’m tired. I’m getting all sorts of crazy ideas,” she said, rising wearily, feeling cold.

With passionate intensity, she squeezed every bit of joy from every moment of these happy days. She loved the changing colors of the bay, the crisp, cool dawns when she had breakfast alone on her balcony with the morning papers spread beside her plate and an unknown day ahead of her. She cherished her encounters with various aspects of life; the conversation with the Italian waiter at a charming café in the Latin Quarter; her unique friendship with a tiny Chinese mother who lived in the Wong "family house," whose shadowy corridors were filled with a constant soft shuffle of sandaled feet; the groups of ragged, adorable Spanish children who ran to her for treats when she climbed the steep, winding stairs that made up the streets of Telegraph Hill.

And there were evenings at the Radical Club, where she heard unusual, exciting theories clashing with even stranger ones, and met Russian revolutionaries, single-tax advocates, committed Marxian socialists, and thrill-seekers of all kinds. The next day, at a proper lunch table, she might listen to a respectable, successful businessman seriously stating, "All these people talking about violence—all those anarchists, laborers, and criminals—should be dealt with by a good old-fashioned vigilance committee! I'm not a fan of violence and never have been, and they deserve worse than hanging." The excitement of life captivated her, and she felt like she could never get enough of it.

Best of all, she loved the girls, that "amazing group" that always showed up when she wanted company and never overstepped when she needed time alone. In the evenings, when they gathered around her fireplace, unwinding from the day’s stress, among her cushions in the soft glow of the flickering flames, chatting a bit and sometimes just being quiet, she felt so happy that it made her heart ache.

Sitting on a cushion, she sewed quietly by the light of a candle next to her. Willetta's knitting needles clicked rhythmically as she talked about the department-store girls' picnic; Anne, gracefully sprawled on the hearth rug, held her place in a "History of the Warfare of Science and Religion in Christendom," listening attentively. On the other side of the candle, Dodo, resting her chin on her hands with her feet in the air, was engrossed in Dowson, occasionally reaching out for a piece of orange that Sara was peeling with her slender, precise fingers.

"Orange, Helen?" She shook her head.

"Girls, check out what Helen's doing! Isn't it beautiful?"

"Too gorgeous for anything but a bridal outfit," Marian said. "One of us will have to get married. I’m telling you, Helen, make it a consolation prize! The first one of us—"

"No fair. You've picked your Russian," Dodo said, turning a page.

"Mother-of-pearl! I definitely should say not! I don't know why I can never find a guy I want to marry—" she continued, sadly. "One shows up, and I think,—well, maybe this one,—and then—"

They laughed.

"No, I'm serious." She sat up, the firelight glowing on her pretty, serious face and fluffy hair. "I'd love to get married. I want a nice home and kids, just like anyone else. And there’ve been—well, you girls know. But there’s always something I can’t stand about them. Nicolai, for instance—he has just the kind of mind I like. He’s brilliant and witty, and he’s a radical. But I couldn’t handle his table manners! Oh, I know I should be above that. But when I think about it—three times a day, listening to him eat his soup—Oh, why do radical guys never have good table manners? I’m radical, and I do."

"Oh, Marian, you're hilarious!"

"The real reason you're not getting married is the same reason none of us will marry, except maybe Sara," Anne said.

Sara's defensive shout was drowned out by Helen's, "What’s that, Anne?"

"Well, what's the point? We don't need husbands. We need wives. Someone to stay home and do the dishes, fluff the pillows, and hold our hands when we come home tired. And you wouldn't marry a man who'd do that, so there you go."

"Oh no, Anne!"

"Okay, Dodo dear. But I can't see you marrying Jim."

Dodo sat up, brushing her long, fine hair back over her shoulders.

"Of course not. Jim's fine to mess around with—"

"But when it comes to marrying him—exactly. There are only two types of men, strong and weak. You can't stand the weak ones, and you won't marry the strong ones."

"Hold on a second!" she insisted, in a mix of protest. "The one thing a true man wants is to protect his wife; they're really passionate about it. But what do we need protection for? Any weaknesses we had, we've dealt with long ago. You can't take on life when you're giving it leverage over you. We've been facing challenges head-on for so long that we're used to it—we actually enjoy it. We—"

"Love it!" exclaimed Willetta. "Oh, just introduce me to a nice, wealthy millionaire and give me a shot at being a freeloader. Just give me a shot!"

"Willetta's right, just the same," Dodo said through their laughter. "It's really about the money. You don't want to marry a guy you’d have to support—not that you'd mind doing it, but his self-respect would be shot if you did. And still, you can't find a man who makes as much money as you do and also cares about music and poetry and stuff. I'm saving money and reading Masefield. I don't see why a guy can't do that too. But somehow, I've never met a guy who does."

"Well, that's exactly what I'm getting at, just from a different perspective." Anne continued. "The problem is that we're well-rounded; both sides of us are pretty much developed. It all boils down to the fact that we're self-sufficient. We provide ourselves with everything we need."

"You really aren't trying to flatter us, are you?" said Marian. "I just wish I could give myself everything I want."

"I have no idea what you all are discussing," Sara said quietly. "I would think—love—would be the most important thing."

"We're not discussing love, honey. We're discussing marriage."

"But aren't they kind of the same thing?"

"You won't think that way after being married for three years, kid," Dodo said, her bitterness bringing back memories of her eight-year-old divorce.

"Not exactly the same things, I guess," Helen said quickly. "Marriage, I'd say, is a partnership. It's almost that way legally in California. You couldn't just base it on emotions—like love. You'd need more than that. But Anne, why can't you create a marriage between two 'complete' personalities?"

"Because you can’t create a complete whole from two smaller ones. They don’t fit into—Look, back when I was a kid in Santa Clara, we had two little pine trees in our yard. I was totally in love then—with the music teacher! Anyway, I used to watch those trees. They grew really close together, with not an inch between their little stems, and their branches formed one perfect pine tree. I was such a naive romantic. These trees were my idea of a perfect marriage. I fell out of love with the music teacher because he was so unreasonable about scales, I remember! But that’s still my idea of marriage, the ideal of the old, close, conventional married life. And—well, you can’t achieve that with two fully grown and separate trees, no matter how you try to transplant them."

"Well, maybe—" The fire crackled happily in the silence.

"But if you split it up—free love and all that—what are you going to do about kids?" said Marian.

"Good Lord, I’m not going to do anything about anything! I’m just telling you—"

"Any one of us would make a great mom, honestly. We have so much to offer—"

"Going to waste. When you think about the thousands of women—"

"Just killing their babies!" Willetta exclaimed. "And they don't even provide any inspiration or a proper environment."

"I'm not so sure we’d be good moms. Just loving kids and wanting them doesn’t cut it. There were six of us at home, and I know. I’m telling you, it’s about immersing yourself in someone else’s identity, first your partner and then the child. There’s something in us that pushes back. We’ve been ourselves for too long. We want to hold on to our individuality. No, it’s not so much that we want to—it’s more that we can’t help it."

"If you're right, Anne, the future doesn't look good for our kind. Think of all the women like us—thousands more each year—who don't have kids. We're truly the best kind of women. We're the ones who should be having children."

"We're not!" said Dodo. "We're just weird. We don’t represent most women. We keep spinning in our little circles and think we’re modern women because we make a lot of noise. But we aren’t. We don’t matter at all, with our charity boards and our social surveys and our offices. It’s the girls who get married in their teens—millions of them, in millions of little homes all over America—that really matter."

"In America!" Anne shot back. "You won't find them at home anymore in France or England. The girls aren't getting married in their teens over there, not since the war. They're going to work—just like we did. They're starting businesses. Already, French women are boosting France's exports—boosting them! We may be unusual, Dodo, but we're going to have plenty of company."