The Open Window

Veda moved Roscoe’s book off her chair and sat down with the last of the strawberries.

“That was marking my place,” he said.

“Your place is the other chair.”

“I meant in the book.”

“Then this is a particularly inefficient system.”

He came behind her, put his hands lightly on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. She tipped her face up for a better kiss. Four weeks of Thursdays had not made wanting him less immediate. It had made more parts of the house available to it.

The kitchen window was open. August air moved through the room, carrying the smell of somebody’s supper from across the yard. Her alarm clock waited upstairs beside his work clothes. There were two mugs on the table, a bowl of strawberries, and the shallow scratch she had noticed when he first offered her the repaired chair.

“How was the shore?” he asked.

“Stationary. I continue to approve.”

She told him about a dispatch error she had caught before the van left, and the one she had made herself before lunch. He laughed at the first and asked how she had fixed the second. It was good to bring him an ordinary account of competence without needing the day to be either triumph or defeat.

The new work was work. Some hours she liked it; some she watched the clock. Her reduced fishing receipts so far were close to the cautious plan, with a poor week already recorded and one better catch that had not been allowed to rewrite the year. The twelve-week review remained in the calendar. Insurance still cost what insurance cost. She was not secretly prosperous because she had fallen in love.

Arden had sent a photograph of a perfectly labelled storage bay that morning. Veda had replied with a photograph of the drill charger still tied to its handle. They were meeting for lunch next Sunday, and neither would be paid to attend.

Roscoe sat opposite her. His phone lit with the public update they had both subscribed to.

“Authority?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Read it.”

He did. The evidence review continued. The proposals and responses were still under consideration. There was no new restriction announced, no rejection of the recovery area, no unexpected grant that would make all alternatives fair.

Veda took the phone and read the short notice herself, then put it on the sideboard.

“Still waiting,” she said.

“Yes.”

She looked towards the open window. She could remember the first time his campaign badge had hurt her after a night together. It could still hurt. She could also tell him when it did, without either of them turning it into a referendum on whether the night should have happened.

“If it goes through,” she said, “there will be days I’m angry with you.”

“I know.”

“And if it doesn’t, you’ll be angry about that.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want us to live in advance inside either of those days.”

He reached across the table. “Neither do I.”

She took his hand. It was warm, rough where the work made it rough, familiar now in ways that still gave her pleasure. She could know a person intimately and continue to learn where he needed her attention.

“I want a life with you,” she said. “A lasting one. I don’t mean until this is decided.”

Roscoe’s fingers closed around hers.

“I want that too.”

“Two houses for now.”

“Yes.”

“Not because we’re keeping somewhere to retreat to after every disagreement. Because I like mine and you like yours, and we don’t need to make moving in prove something.”

He smiled. “You also dislike my book storage.”

“It remains a significant concern.”

“I’ll address it before we merge assets.”

She laughed. He stood and drew her up with him, then held her close beside the table. When he kissed her, she felt the steady happiness of being answered, and the still-unsteady pleasure of his mouth.

“I love you,” he said against her cheek.

“I love you too.”

They remained there until the strawberries became a matter requiring attention. Veda ate the last one and refused to apologise, then kissed him so he could taste it too.

· · ·Scene break

After supper they planned the holiday they had been talking about without booking.

Three nights inland, outside the busiest weeks. Walking, a bakery, somewhere they could sit without having to justify why they were not going on to the next attraction. Veda had put aside her share from the personal budget, a small amount each week. It would not come out of the boat’s working reserve.

Roscoe opened the accommodation page they had saved. The room they had first liked cost more than she wanted to spend.

“I can cover the difference,” he said.

“I know. I’d rather choose the other place.”

He looked at her, then at the screen. “The one with the slightly alarming curtains?”

“They’re only alarming if you’re awake.”

“What about breakfast?”

“We can face them together.”

He grinned and changed the dates to the ones she had agreed with the cold store. She checked the cancellation terms, confirmed the fishing arrangements and entered her half into their little shared note. It was not an elegant fantasy of being swept away. It was a trip they could afford and had made room to take.

When the confirmation arrived, Roscoe turned the screen towards her.

“There.”

Veda looked at their names together. Nothing in the booking knew what they had argued about or what each had given up to sit here. It required only that they arrive.

“Three nights,” she said.

“With you.”

“Don’t sound surprised.”

“I intend to remain pleased.”

She moved onto his lap, asking with a look he answered by opening his arms. The chair was his old sound one; she told him she was not giving the repair a stress test for sentimental reasons. He laughed and held her, and she kissed away the rest of his answer.

Later they walked to the upper harbour. The evening light had thinned over the water. Morrow was beyond the buildings, secured at her berth after the previous day’s trip, with the paint along the lower wheelhouse finally touched in. Veda had done it herself on the maintenance day she had once regarded as a wasted opportunity to earn more.

She told Roscoe about it. He asked whether she had followed the paint instructions.

“Mostly.”

“Veda.”

“Entirely. I wanted to hear you worry.”

He squeezed her hand. “Unkind woman.”

“Very.”

They stopped at the wall where they had sat after the public session. Back then she had told him she could be hurt without regretting their night. She had not known how much life could grow from that distinction: imperfect suppers, difficult phone calls, a shirt in a drawer, mornings in which she kissed him before the alarm had finished insisting.

A bird called from the darkening margin. Veda turned towards the sound. Roscoe waited beside her, not filling the moment with a question.

After a while she said, “Ready?”

“Yes.”

They walked home to his house. Tomorrow she would leave early and let him sleep until his own alarm. Tomorrow evening they might be in separate rooms, doing separate work. The following Thursday was already theirs, and the days between did not have to become tests of it.

In the kitchen, Roscoe closed the window halfway against the cooling air. Veda switched off the lamp, then took his hand before he could go upstairs ahead of her.

“No speeches tonight,” she said.

He smiled. “What would you prefer?”

She drew him down and showed him. He answered with the same delighted willingness that had undone her on the quay, and with all the knowledge they had earned since.

When they finally went upstairs, she left her keys in the bowl by the door. There was work in the morning, love in the room ahead, and no part of her that needed to apologise for wanting both.