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close. She could never quite get over the fact that handsome, bright, successful Harold Mitchell had chosen her for his wife.
    She had been in awe of him from the first day they’d met—and she was still in awe of him, even though she knew all of his faults after eleven years of marriage. Her love for him had grown steadily over the years, undiminished. She felt it now as she gazed at him, a relentless ache deep in her chest. The fear of losing his love choked off her words, making it impossible to ask him about the ticket stubs or tell him about her new job.
    He was examining the shirt she’d chosen for him, holding it out in front of him with a look of displeasure. He carried it over to the bed, offering it for her inspection.
    “Did you starch this?”
    “Yes, of course I starched it.”
    “It doesn’t feel as stiff as it should. Did you use the right amount?”
    Her mistake sprang immediately to mind. “I bought a different brand last week. It was ten cents cheaper. I’ll switch back to the old brand, if you’d like.”
    “It isn’t worth saving a few cents if this is the result. It isn’t stiff enough. Can’t you feel the difference? Feel it.” She obliged, pulling her arm from beneath the covers and nodding her head as she rubbed the fabric between her fingers. But to be honest, she couldn’t feel any difference at all.
    Was she really that stupid? And if men could perceive minute differences that she was incapable of detecting, how would she ever survive in a man’s world down at the shipyard? Anxiety swelled inside her like soap bubbles in an overflowing tub. What had ever possessed her to hop on the bus this morning and ride over there? At the time, she had liked the feeling of independence, as terrifying as it had been. For once in her life she was doing something on her own, with no one to answer to, no one to order her around.
    “Can’t you feel that? The shirt isn’t stiff enough,” Harold insisted. “I don’t care for it at all.” Ginny hoped he wouldn’t ask her to rewash all of his shirts. She didn’t want to point out that he’d worn improperly starched shirts all last week.
    He finally hung it up again and walked over to the bed, pulling the blankets all the way back as if throwing open a door. His frown of disapproval worried her. If this shirt annoyed him, what would he say about her taking a job? Maybe it would be better to delay telling him until she was certain that she really wanted to work—or that she was capable of doing the work. She had never held a real job in her life.
    She wondered if what she’d done had been injudicious . That was her new word this week. It meant, “showing lack of judgment, unwise.” She whispered the word a few times, enjoying the rustling sound of it, if not the meaning.
    “Buying a cheap brand of starch was injudicious ,” she said. “Do you want me to throw it out or use it up?” It should have been a simple decision, but she couldn’t seem to make it. It was Harold’s money she was wasting, after all.
    “Buy a new bottle of the regular brand,” he said with exaggerated patience, “and save the cheaper brand for emergencies—in case you run out.” He sounded irritated with her. She felt stupid for not thinking of it.
    “Oh … of course.” Then the full weight of today’s decision struck her: She’d accepted a job at the shipyard, building boats for the war effort. What on earth would Harold say when he found out? Would he lose his temper? Rant and rave? No, he would probably respond with that quiet, deadly anger of his that reminded Ginny of banked coals—innocent looking, yet filled with heat, capable of deep burns. He would speak slowly, pronouncing each word carefully as if she were too slow-witted to comprehend if he spoke any faster.
    What if he ordered her to quit?
    I won’t do it, she thought with a burst of daring. He could hardly tie her to a chair all day to keep her at home, could he? What if he took away all of