“We could have arrived earlier,” Quentin returned, “if I had known you were so interested. I’m sure there was some sort of affair they put on to mark the closing of another season.” It came out calm and steady, but on the inside he was slightly annoyed at her voicing such a tangible desire when it was too late to realize it. “I’m sure we could have made an arrangement with management, or scraped a little something together to afford it.” If you were still writing, still contributing it never would have been outside of our reach in the first place. He tried not to look at her, sure his expression was soured with the envy and disapproval of those still able to work turning it down as a matter of pride after profiting so long off of a lack of principals. He would never understand why a sense of artistic morality kicked in so late in her career.
Quentin shrugged his shoulders in the practiced way of a man who spent half his time feeling defeated by the attitudes of his wife and the other half too exhausted to give a shit what she though. “I thought it was cozy,” he offered. “Exactly enough room for you and the typewriter. Like writing in a cave.” Maybe the spot would better serve him as reserve from the crushing weight of trying to make a relationship work—because they were walled into the effort to save the marriage now. Winter wouldn’t leave much space for failure.
“Perhaps the next space will be better,” he offered, putting the notion that their marriage would ultimately fail despite this last ditch effort behind him for the moment. He closed the compartment as they turned away, and instead rounded the wide set of stairs. There was something about a grand staircase that read as ethereal to Quentin. He took the sinking of the Titanic and the dismal waste of such a fine artifact personally. Even so, he had to admit that no other staircase known to him compared with the sprawling set in front of the two. He held a hand up gesturing for her to head up the stair case before him.
“I could set something up toward the top, unlock one of the offices and relocate a desk and chair for the winter, whatever other supplies your writing might demand.” It was an offering, but it was Violet he anticipated would lay out the demands, not her writing. Toward the top of the stairs he nodded across the way, a near wall of windows overlooking the courtyard across from them. “Or perhaps over there?”
Scraped a little something together to afford it. The words were a neatly-coded fuck you, and Violet curled her fingers and squeezed in an effort to stave off the burn. They’d never really had to worry about money – had perhaps even lived on the edge of lavish when the books sold well. But their financial constraints always seemed to be the entire result of her desire to not want to write the shitty Cedar Falls books anymore, rather than the disappearance of his own job. When she finished choking this last book up, she hoped the money that came through would be as much as she’d been promised. It could shut up one thing, at least. “Maybe fifty years earlier,” she replied with a tight-lipped smile, choosing not to ruminate any longer. It wasn’t helpful. This was supposed to be good. “I’d like to see girls in flapper dresses and pearls out here, with a full orchestra playing – Mr. Stern trying to do the hustle, on the other hand…” she shrugged her shoulders and pursed her lips, “not so much.”
She had to hunch her shoulders and bow her head slightly to stand in the tiny closet, but she made no quick move to depart. Maybe if she played along, she could see the slightest hint of a smirk curl round his lips. She didn’t hold her breath on it. As her eyes moved about the tiny space, she considered that it might be a good place to go and scream when the combination of wanting to drink and wanting her husband to show emotion bubbled over. Violet pressed her lips together as she forcefully tried to shove the thought away, and nodded as he suggested an alternative location, quickly filing out of the tiny room.
The writer might’ve lacked the same appreciative eye that her husband possessed, but she had a mind to at least be aware of it. Drawing her hand across the bannister as she ascended, she commented offhandedly: “you think that this is original to the hotel?” She recalled that there’d been fires in the hotel – fires, plural – and considered that it might be unlikely. Still, she stuck to it. If he wanted to tell her that she was wrong, he’d at least have to talk long enough to explain it. “Sort of looks like it could be.”
“That sounds good.” She’d thought about putting herself squarely in the middle of things: in a place that couldn’t be shuffled away and overlooked, in a place where he’d have to acknowledge her. This wasn’t half-bad, but she wondered how often he’d frequent the area. Venturing over to the other space he’d considered, she hummed appreciatively at the sight. “This is nice,” she commented. The window provided something to look at when she inevitably could no longer look at the blank page sticking out of her typewriter, anyway. “I think this could be perfect.” Glancing back at him, she tried for a crooked smile. “Are you going to give yourself an office to care-take from?”
