By the fourth morning, the sea had mostly settled, though the clouds had not lifted. In the afternoon, she found a seat at a small table in the ladies’ lounge to avoid Barclay, who had mostly recovered from his seasickness but not his wounded pride. She had a pen and several sheets of the ship’s stationery and was planning to write to Jamie. Dear Jamie, she wrote and stopped. She’d never written him a letter before. There had never been any need.
When he’d finally come back to Missoula, he’d seemed older, melancholy about something but also more assured, more firmly himself. He appeared at the airfield one day in late August, fresh off the train. As she drove them home, he told her he’d gone to Seattle, drawn portraits in parks, found a job with a rich family. “I met a girl,” he said. “It was her family.”
“Oh? And?”
“It turned out we didn’t understand each other.”
“In what way?”
“We were just too different. It doesn’t matter—maybe it was only puppy love.”
She had smiled grimly. He didn’t know about her betrothal. “I’m glad you’re back.”
At the house, Wallace had been sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket. At first Jamie was occupied in greeting the dogs, but Marian saw his shock when Wallace rose and came unsteadily toward him.
“Are you ill, Wallace? You’re too thin.”
“I am ill,” Wallace said. “But it’s been my own making. Too much drink for too long, Jamie. I’ve made a mess of things, but Marian and Mr. Macqueen have found a doctor who will help me. I’m going to Denver soon to stay with him.”
Jamie stiffened. “What does Barclay Macqueen have to do with it?”
To Marian, Wallace said, “You haven’t told him.”
“Told me what?”
Marian couldn’t summon the words.
“Your sister is getting married,” Wallace said.
Jamie looked at Marian. “To Barclay Macqueen?”
She lifted her chin. “That’s right.”
“Why? What did he buy for you?”
She had turned and gone into the cottage, slamming the door.
Some time later, Jamie knocked. “Do you have anything to drink in here?” he asked.
“Whiskey or gin?”
“Whiskey.”
She took a bottle from a cupboard, poured two glasses.
“The real stuff,” he observed. “Not easy to come by.”
“I’ve been flying to Canada for Barclay.”
“Glad he’s willing to let you get arrested.”
“He’d rather I didn’t fly at all.”
“Why did he buy you an airplane, then?”
“Because he knew I wanted one.”
They sat, Jamie in the armchair and Marian on the bed. Jamie said, “Wallace told me Barclay paid off his debts. Is that why you’re marrying him?”
Marian had expected the question, but still it wearied her. What could she say? That she had been outmaneuvered into a state of exhaustion. That Barclay was more determined to marry her than she was to avoid marrying him. That there was nothing to do now but go forward. “Not entirely,” she said.
“Marian.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and peered at her searchingly. “No amount of money is worth marrying a man like him. We’ll find another way. There has to be one.”
Looking at Jamie was like seeing a vision of herself as a man, full of certainty that things could be set right, full of faith that new possibilities would always arise. “There’s no other way,” she said. “Believe me.”
“There is. There must be. I can’t stand to see you give up so easily.”
Easily. The weariness grew heavier. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“Tell me, then. Tell me everything so we can sort out a solution.”
How she wished there were a solution. Speaking each word slowly and clearly, she said, “Did Wallace tell you how much he owed? We could sell the house—sell everything—and still not have enough to pay it and no way ever to pay it.”
“So you’re selling yourself instead.”
She was so tired. Her voice creaked as though she were on the verge of sleep. “It’s more of a trade. Me for Wallace. And for you. If I had turned my back on Wallace, you would have been next. He wasn’t going to give up. You’d think one of you would thank me sometime.”
“No one’s asking you to be a martyr, Marian. It’s lunacy.”
“All he wants is for me to love him. He’ll be happy if he thinks I do.”