Free Heart Troubles by Stephen; Birmingham

with hers. “I love you,” she said.
    â€œAnd I you.”
    â€œI was thinking,” she said. “About—oh, about things like the stair carpet. I’ve been wrong to insist that you walk up the edges of the stairs. I admit that now. I’m sorry for making you do it.”
    â€œI sometimes forget, I know,” he said.
    â€œBut my point is, it’s all right if you forget, Justin. After all, it’s only a piece of carpet. It’s not as important as—us, for instance.”
    â€œI agree,” he said.
    â€œAnd—about making you put on your slippers the minute you come in the door. You don’t have to do that, either, if you don’t want to.”
    â€œIt’s easier on the rugs with slippers.”
    â€œBut I don’t care! And you can smoke in the dining room, darling, from now on!”
    He smiled still. “You have changed,” he said.
    â€œYes,” she laughed, “I know!”
    It was the happiest conversation they had had in months.
    â€œIt’s your turn,” she said.
    They returned to the game.
    A little later she said, “Justin, what was it that first made you think you loved me?”
    He held the dice cup in his hand, gently rattling the dice, and frowned, as he tried to think of the answer. “Do you mean what quality in you I admired most?”
    â€œYes,” she said.
    â€œWell, I guess it would be your executive ability,” he said.
    She very briefly closed her eyes. “Is that all?”
    â€œWell, let’s see—let me think.”
    â€œIn the beginning, I mean,” she said.
    â€œWell—”
    â€œNever mind. It was a silly question,” she said.
    â€œNo. Wait,” he said eagerly. “Remember, before we were married? We were at the Colsons’ party in Englewood? I’d never danced with you before, and that night I did—I danced with you—and I thought, Irene is one of the best dancers in the world! I thought you were a wonderful dancer, considering you were such a little thing.”
    â€œOh. Well, thank you, Justin.”
    â€œAnd what about you?” he asked.
    â€œMe?”
    â€œYes—you, Irene.”
    She thought about it for a moment. “Oh, I know what it was—what I first loved about you,” she said softly.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBefore the Colsons’ party. We were at my mother’s place. There was a cherry tree in the garden and you took me out there, under it, and it was—oh, April, I guess, or early May, and you said—you said …”
    â€œWhat did I say?”
    â€œNothing. Nothing.”
    â€œTell me, Irene.”
    â€œWell, we were there, under the tree, and it was just beginning to flower. It was all pink, and I remember we both looked up at the blue sky between the branches of pink flowers and you took my hand in yours and you said—”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat I was beautiful, that’s all.”
    â€œI remember now,” he said.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI said you were beautiful—but then you denied it.”
    â€œDid I?”
    â€œYes. You said that you weren’t beautiful. You said that beauty wasn’t as important as common sense, and you said that partnership and a mutual give-and-take were the important things in a marriage.”
    â€œWhat I said was true.”
    â€œSo was what I said.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou were beautiful.”
    â€œOh!” It came out as a gasp. She hated to have him see her cry—even tears of joy. To keep the tears back she opened her eyes very wide and stared hard, straight down, at the backgammon board. And, staring at it wide-eyed, she felt herself lifted into it, into the pink-lighted countryside, felt herself borne coolly down among the smooth mountains and all about her felt sunshine filtering as if through cherry blossoms.
    â€œYou’ve made your bar point,” he said to her.
    The