The words were so unexpected that Ruth did not move.
He looked almost startled by his own confession, as if it had escaped before he could stop it.
“I loved the way you wrote,” he continued. “I loved your questions. I loved that you never pretended to know what you didn’t know. I loved how you spoke about your students, and how you told me the truth even when it was uncomfortable. I loved the way you described the sea. I wanted to hear you talk about everything I had never seen.”
Ruth’s eyes shone.
“Then why did you not say so?”
“Because I was afraid that loving you meant I was leaving Anne behind.”
Ruth’s expression changed, not with anger but with a deep, weary sadness.
“Jonah, you are not leaving Anne behind. She is already part of your life. She will always be part of Clara’s life. But I cannot spend the rest of mine standing in the doorway, waiting for you to decide whether you are allowed to be happy.”
He lowered his head.
“I don’t want that for you.”
“Then you must stop doing it.”
He nodded.
“I will try.”
Ruth looked at him steadily.
“I do not need you to be perfect. I need you to be present.”
“I can do that.”
“Can you?”
He lifted his eyes.
“Yes.”
She seemed to search his face for some sign of evasion. Whatever she saw there, it did not fully reassure her, but she gave a small nod.
“Then begin by telling me the truth about tonight.”
Jonah’s shoulders rose with a breath.
“The truth?”
“Yes. Not the answer you think will protect me. The truth.”
He looked at her for a long time.
“I wanted to stay.”
Her lips parted slightly.
“I wanted to take your hand when we came upstairs. I wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked. I wanted to kiss you, and I wanted to know whether you would let me. I wanted to be close to you, Ruth, but I was afraid that if I did, I would be asking too much of you. I thought you might feel obligated because we had married.”
Ruth’s cheeks warmed.
“I married you because I wanted to.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He gave a small, rueful smile.
“I’m beginning to understand that I should believe you when you tell me what you want.”
“Yes. You should.”
He looked at her hands, still folded in her lap.
“May I hold your hand?”
The question was so careful, so unlike the confident man who had stood beside her at the altar, that Ruth felt a tenderness rise through her hurt.
She held out her hand.
Jonah crossed the space between their chairs and took it gently. His palm was warm and rough, his fingers calloused from work. He held her hand as if it were something precious and easily broken.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Ruth said, “I was frightened you would never touch me.”
His thumb moved slowly over her knuckles.